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How to cite this thesis

Surname, Initial(s). (2012). Title of the thesis or dissertation (Doctoral Thesis / Master’s Dissertation). Johannesburg: University of Johannesburg. Available from: http://hdl.handle.net/102000/0002 (Accessed: 22 August 2017).

The Technobody: Posthumanism as a utopian/dystopian enclave in cyberpunk and postcyberpunk science fiction

Stefan Kriek

200612822

Dissertation submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree

MASTER OF ARTS

in the

Department of English

of the

Faculty of Humanities

at the

University of Johannesburg

supervised by

Dalene Labuschagne

Date of Submission

January 2018

Acknowledgements Seldom, if ever, is a dissertation completed by the sheer will of one person alone. Therefore I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to those who supported me during this longer-than-intended undertaking.

Naturally, I would like to start with my supervisor, Ms Dalene Labuschagne, whose passion for science fiction and genuine commitment to me and my topic helped me to maintain my focus on the task at hand. Thank you for having a seemingly immeasurable amount of patience for my dallying, and my propensity for delivering first drafts that resembled the writings of a man midway through a stroke.

Also, I would like to thank Professor Karen Scherzinger, who, despite my constant bouts of radio silence, never gave up on me. Your willingness to support me, and field any questions regardless of when I asked them, was a tremendous boon.

Then, I would like to thank my father, Johan Kriek, who phoned me incessantly to ask how far I was from completion. Regardless of my answer, he was always adamant that I should be much further. Thanks dad, for believing in me and motivating me. I’m done now. You can stop phoning.

My mother, Minnie Kriek, passed away in 2013, but I am forever grateful for the role she had in shaping me as a person. She was instrumental in moulding the way I think, and had a profound impact in helping me to get where I am today. While it saddens me that she cannot see all my hard work come to fruition, I know that she would have been immensely proud of me.

Abstract

This dissertation intends to illustrate the ways in which postcyberpunk – the often ignored offshoot of the short-lived science fiction (SF) subgenre, cyberpunk – revises the technophobic preoccupations that usually characterise cyberpunk’s depictions of the posthuman. Posthumanism – understood here as a merging of biology and technology to a point where the human becomes something other than human – is frequently envisioned by cyberpunk as a dystopian condition in which the human/machine merger is a negative transformation that does irreparable harm to the human subject. I argue that postcyberpunk, on the other hand, depicts posthumanism as a potentially positive transformation that offers humanity an opportunity to redesign and reimagine itself. To this end I rely on Fredric Jameson’s concept of the utopian enclave, which he defines in Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions (2007), as a space wherein both utopian and dystopian fantasies can take shape. I posit that posthumanism is one such an enclave, in demonstration of which I offer a reading of William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984) – considered by a number of scholars to be the seminal cyberpunk novel – comparing it to Mamoru Oshii’s 1995 postcyberpunk animated film Kôkaku kidôtai (Ghost in the Shell). In so doing I illustrate how each text offers differing views on posthumanism, as envisioned in the figure of the cyborg, as well as in disembodied cyberspace consciousnesses, as a transformation that either threatens humanity, as in Neuromancer, or, as in Ghost in the Shell, one that offers exciting new possibilities for human existence.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Page

1. Introduction and historiography: The birth of cyberpunk 1

2. Utopia, dystopia, and posthumanism as a utopian enclave 24

3. Neuromancer and posthuman dread 54

4. Ghost in the Shell and posthuman potential 85

5. Conclusion 109

Bibliography 119

CHAPTER 1 Introduction and historiography: The birth of Cyberpunk

Utopian imaginings are often confined to a space which Fredric Jameson calls “the utopian enclave”. In Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions, Jameson defines this space as an “imaginary enclave within real social space” (2007: 15). These are static enclosures that act as conceptual zones in which utopian fantasy and imaginings can operate. Significantly, although these enclaves remain static spaces within the social, the utopian fantasies which inhabit such a space are forever changing. As such, an enclave can play host to both utopian and dystopian speculations. Examples of utopian enclaves are varied, and Jameson finds such examples throughout history: from the emergence of money as a payment form to the possibilities offered by monastic life (2007: 16). These, and other, instances serve to illustrate that both tangible and conceptual space can represent a utopian enclave. What these various enclaves have in common is that they are “something like a foreign body within the social: in them the differentiation process has momentarily been arrested, so they remain as it were momentarily beyond the reach of the social” (16). These enclaves, and the utopian possibilities that inhabit them, remain on the horizon of the social: visible, yet just beyond our reach, offering both the allure of utopia and the threat of dystopia. It could be argued that one such enclave is posthumanism. In her essay on posthumanism, Veronica Hollinger (2009: 269) argues that as “a cultural signifier, ‘posthuman’ faces a number of diverse directions”. It can, for example, be understood as a “perspective from which (philosophical) humanism can question itself” (2009: 270). However, this study is primarily concerned with posthumanism as defined by Robert Pepperell, author of The Posthuman Condition: Consciousness Beyond the Brain (2003). Pepperell, like Hollinger, notes that posthumanism can indicate a move away from humanism, but that it, more often than not, refers to a hybridisation, “a general convergence of biology and technology to the point where they are increasingly becoming indistinguishable” (2003: iv). A posthuman is therefore an individual that incorporates technology into the body, making it an inseparable part of its physical and mental identity. Posthumanism offers a space rich in utopian speculations, its imaginative possibilities going beyond contemporary innovations, such as pacemakers and prosthetic limbs, becoming a playground for 1 hyper-advanced man/machine hybrids far beyond current scientific possibilities. Moreover, as David Bell argues in An Introduction to Cybercultures (2003), while some visions regarding posthumanism are “apocalyptic and antihuman, other formulations of human-machine interfacing are conjured that have potentially productive outcomes” (2003: 142-143). Posthumanism is a key feature in the Science Fiction (SF) subgenre called cyberpunk, where it is usually depicted in two ways: the mind/machine merger in cyberspace and the body/machine merger in the figure of the cyborg. Although this kind of utopian enclave allows for the play of both utopian and dystopian possibilities, SF, especially cyberpunk, often views posthumanism as a dangerous trap, one that threatens to distort the human body and mind. Yet, regardless of, or due to, cyberpunk’s preference for high-tech, dystopian narratives, the subgenre was met with praise when it exploded onto the 1980s SF scene. For a time, it was the next ‘big thing’, influencing novels, film and even fashion. However, its popularity soon waned and, in his essay “After the Deluge: Cyberpunk in the 80’s and 90’s,” Tom Maddox argues that, as the 1980s neared its end, so too did cyberpunk. He contends that the genre had taken “its canonical fifteen minutes of fame and now should move over and let something else take the stage” (Maddox, 1992: para. 16). A similar sentiment is echoed by Lawrence Person in his essay “Notes towards a Postcyberpunk Manifesto” (1999). Nevertheless, although both agree that cyberpunk experienced diminishing popularity and appeal, they also find that the subgenre itself did not so much disappear as take on a new shape: postcyberpunk. Owing to the stylistic similarities between cyberpunk and postcyberpunk, the term ‘postcyberpunk’ is seldom used, and the differences between the two subgenres are often disregarded. Yet, a key difference between the two is their perceptions of technology, in particular the way in which each narrates their theorisation of posthumanism. Where cyberpunk authors traditionally view posthumanism as a dystopian enclave, a technological merging of man and machine that threatens to dehumanise its subject, little attention is given to how postcyberpunk treats the posthumanist enclave as a utopian space where the human can be reimagined. The purpose of this dissertation is to show how, with the transition to postcyberpunk, the posthumanist enclave, a space previously inhabited in cyberpunk predominantly by dire dystopian prophecies, has now become a site open to more optimistic possibilities. As a case study I provide a close reading of 2

William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984) — the text that arguably inaugurated the cyberpunk genre1 — comparing it with Japanese director Mamoru Oshii’s 1995 postcyberpunk animated film Kôkaku kidôtai (Ghost in the Shell).2 I will show how Neuromancer depicts posthuman figures, specifically cyborgs and disembodied consciousnesses, as outwardly superior to normal flesh and blood human bodies and minds, but also ones who end up losing their identities, free will, empathy and innate humanness. In contrast, I will illustrate how postcyberpunk, specifically Ghost in the Shell, envisions a more optimistic version of posthumanism; one that does not necessarily see it as a space of loss, but rather as a space that invites change, and a chance to reinvent what it means to be human. Since this dissertation is primarily concerned with how Neuromancer and Ghost in the Shell approach posthumanism thematically, the difference in medium is inconsequential. My focus will not be on narrative techniques (barring perhaps Ghost in the Shell’s use of music), the transition from text to film, or film theory, but on the ideas explored within both texts. The cyberpunk and postcyberpunk subgenres have been translated into numerous media, from books, films and even games (board and video games) and although these media offer a different way to interact with the subgenre, the ideas explored within remain consistent. Nevertheless, both these subgenres, with their predilection for either pessimism or optimism, did not evolve in a vacuum. Both were the result of evolutions and coalescence within the subgenre-rich strata that is SF, necessitating a historical breakdown of the genre. To that end, this chapter will serve as a historiography, examining how cyberpunk was shaped by the utopian hard SF subgenre of the 1950s and early 1960s, and the dystopian narratives of the New Wave movement that were popular during the 1960s and early 1970s. In doing so, I intend to show not only where cyberpunk gained its preferences for narratives that are rich with technological excess and a dystopian outlook, but also how utopia and dystopia are constantly in flux. This utopian/dystopian fluctuation will be demonstrated when illustrating hard SF’s optimism and belief in the utopian potential of science and technology, and again when discussing how the New Wave

1 While Philip K. Dick’s 1968 SF novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep is considered highly influential on cyberpunk, Dani Cavallaro considers it more a novel that “anticipated cyberpunk in important ways” (2000: 13), rather than actually inaugurating the subgenre. 2 Currently, there is also a 2017 live-action remake of Ghost in the Shell, which, while visually true to the anime, is thematically much less complex. 3 undermined this optimism with its own brand of dystopian cynicism. The ensuing discussion on cyberpunk and postcyberpunk will again highlight this flux when exploring cyberpunk’s tendency to view posthumanism as dystopian and postcyberpunk’s preference for a more utopian interpretation of posthumanism.

As a point of departure, this first chapter will establish the thematic and narrative building blocks of cyberpunk and postcyberpunk, after which the second chapter will serve as a literature review, unpacking the key concepts of theories on utopia and posthumanism. The discussion on utopia will be both historical and theoretical, examining the rise of both utopian and dystopian narratives before and during the 20th century respectively. Supporting this historical overview will be Fredric Jameson’s writings on the ‘utopian impulse’, a concept first formulated by German philosopher Ernst Bloch, which attempts to describe humanity’s innate longing for, and belief in, a better future. At this point Jameson’s idea of the utopian enclave comes to the fore, serving to illustrate the potential of certain conceptual (and sometimes physical) spaces in cultivating utopian fantasies. I intend to argue that posthumanism is such a space, allowing for the proliferation of both utopian and dystopian fantasies. To that end I will make use of the writings of Jean-François Lyotard, Francis Fukuyama, Max More, Donna Haraway and Margaret Wertheim, a collection of authors whose views on posthumanism range from being sceptical to optimistic. Chapter three will present a close reading of William Gibson’s Neuromancer and serve to illustrate how the text depicts posthumanism as a dystopian space where the human loses the sense of self, empathy and autonomy. Here the ideas of Lyotard and Fukuyama will serve as the analytical framework, since their theorisations on posthumanism reveal a dystopian undertone similar to that of Neuromancer. But since there are multiple figurations that the posthuman can assume, I will focus predominantly on two key conceptualisations of posthumanism: the cyborg and the disembodied consciousness, both of which feature prominently in Neuromancer. Chapter four will offer a detailed analysis of Mamoru Oshii’s postcyberpunk animated film Kôkaku kidôtai (Ghost in the Shell). This chapter serves to illustrate how, with the transformation of cyberpunk to postcyberpunk, posthumanism becomes a more utopian space where conventional ideas of the human can be

4 renegotiated. The ideas of More, Haraway and Wertheim will serve as the analytical framework, as they display a more positive outlook on posthumanism and its transformative potential. As in chapter three, I will focus predominantly on the cyborg and the disembodied consciousness.

At the outset of this historiography it is pertinent to state that this chapter does not intend to give an overview of the entire SF genre. In his essay on how to approach SF, David Seed (2005: 6) argues that the two obstacles which make such a venture a thesis in its own right are the facts that SF is highly mutable, often straying into the terrain of other genres such as fantasy. The other obstacle, as Farah Mendlesohn (2003: 1) argues in her breakdown of the genre, is that SF is often “less a genre – a body of writing from which one can expect certain plot elements and specific tropes – than an ongoing discussion”. SF, at its core, deals in alternate realities; some recognisable yet slightly jarred, others comprehensible only to the mind’s eye. SF thus presents a continuous interrogation of different concepts, fuelled by both real world innovations and the limits of the imagination. In “Feminist Fabulations”, Marleen S. Barr notes how it is perhaps because of this genre’s flexible nature and its penchant for alternate realities that some authors, such as Margaret Atwood, have insisted on the term “speculative fiction” rather than SF (2005: 148). But the term ‘speculative fiction’, while useful, is problematic in that it is too broad, encompassing SF, fantasy, horror and any other narrative with a slightly futuristic or supernatural slant. Instead, SF resorts to the inclusion of subgenres. This allows some differentiation (and often, contestation) within a genre which is constantly evolving. What an SF subgenre represents, then, is usually subtle: a focus on a specific concept or a fixation with a specific theme within the broader scope of the genre. Hard SF, space opera, New Wave, superhero fiction, cyberpunk, and so forth are all examples of subgenres. Nevertheless, one particular subgenre rarely stands completely distinct from the others, and texts bound to one might also be classified as another. Indeed, this historiography aims to show that cyberpunk, like other SF subgenres, is not a product of overnight inspiration but a coalescence of different ideas, movements and subgenres, which in themselves still continue to evolve. In the case of cyberpunk, two formative concepts contributed to its evolution, namely hard SF and the New Wave movements of the 1960s and 1970s. In essence,

5 cyberpunk represents a cross-pollination between hard SF’s devotion to scientific plausibility and the New Wave’s rebellion against the traditional SF narrative of the 1950s and 1960s. So, in order to give an overview of cyberpunk’s history, I will provide a brief description of the ways in which both hard SF and the New Wave influenced SF as a whole.

As its name suggests, SF announces a special concern with science, and it is here that hard SF flourishes. Tracing the history of hard SF, Gary Westfahl (2005: 196) discusses how the term originated in the late 1950s to classify stories that broke away from popular SF models which often displayed stronger connections to fantasy than actual science. The origin of the term is usually attributed to P. Schuyler Miller, regular book reviewer for the popular SF magazine Astounding (later Analog), who took notice of stories that displayed an acute awareness of science and felt the need to distinguish these books from mainstream SF. Thus, at its core, hard SF concerns itself not just with telling a story, but telling one that has a firm grounding in scientific plausibility. In her discussion of hard SF, Kathryn Cramer points out that this does not mean that hard SF is slavishly devoted to infallible accuracy since, as SF author Gregory Benford remarks: “hard sf sticks to facts…but can play fast and loose with theory as it likes” (quoted by Cramer, 2003: 188). Often authors had nothing else to go by except speculation, but still attempted to anchor this speculation in some form of scientific plausibility. Cramer (2003, 188) quotes David Hartwell, who in his essay “Hard Science Fiction”, enumerates certain criteria for the classification and recognition of this sub-genre: (1) Hard SF is about the beauty of truth … about the emotional experience of describing and confronting what is scientifically true. (2) Hard SF feels authentic to the experienced reader when the way things work in the story is scientifically plausible. (3) Hard SF relies, at some point in the story, on expository prose rather than literary prose, prose aimed at describing the nature of its particular reality. (4) Hard SF relies on scientific knowledge external to the story. And (5) Hard SF achieves its characteristic effect essentially through informing, by being, in fact, didactic.

So regardless of what themes and motifs a hard SF text chooses to explore, writers, pundits, and fans of the subgenre insist that the science behind these ideas should be plausible to some extent. In fact, aficionados of hard SF would often compare the reading to a game: authors would write what they perceived to be experimental yet scientifically probable scenarios and readers would then spend time

6 not just engaging with the story, but also critiquing the scientific viability of the scenario presented to them (Westfahl, 2005: 188). It was not uncommon for a story, regardless of how well it was written, to receive scathing criticism based on its scientific implausibility. On the other hand, others, like the then editor of Analog, Stanley Schmidt, objected to the term ‘hard SF’, claiming that if the speculative elements in a SF text cannot withstand scrutiny based on their scientific merit, then the story cannot be considered SF. The term ‘hard SF’ is, by his definition, redundant, as the ‘science’ in SF is all the criteria one needs. In any event, hard SF’s close relationship with science would, in turn, often entail a close relationship with technology and technological developments. Such attention to contemporary technological progress and how it might possibly advance formed another cornerstone of hard SF. As an example, the development of the American space programme after the Second World War suddenly made space travel a viable scientific possibility, and afforded SF writers an opportunity to use this development as a springboard for ideas far beyond what was possible at the time: habitable space stations, moon colonies, expeditions to Mars, alien planets, and so forth (Westfahl, 2005: 190, 193). This interest in space travel is often tied in with hard SF’s receptiveness to both astronomy and physics, two broad disciplines operating on a grand scale that allows an author more room in which to play with scientific theory (Cramer, 2003: 192). If the stories do centre on Earth, they often depict grandiose scenarios revolving around alien intelligences that interact with earth (Westfahl, 2005: 196). So although such texts may not directly include travel to space, the mysteries that outer space holds (such as other lifeforms and more advanced technology) would then come to Earth. Any new technology or scientific theory would be hard SF’s cue to launch the possibilities into the very distant future, often ignoring the near future possibilities that the technology could present. A rocket seldom stopped at the moon (if it did, it was to help build a moon city) but would go on to explore the farthest reaches of space, something that even by the standards of modern science is still impossible. For instance, James Blish’s short story “Surface Tension” (1952) demonstrates hard SF’s tendency to push the boundaries of technology. The US was still seventeen years away from the first moon landing, but that did not stop Blish from writing a story about planetary colonisation, microscopic aquatic humanoids and distant planets. In this spirit, cyberpunk would adopt hard SF’s appreciation of technology and draw from the rising computer technology of the 7

1980s to influence its stories. What cyberpunk avoided, however, was hard SF’s tendency not just to emphasise scientific accuracy or plausibility, but to exalt science. Hard SF saw the scientist as the man (seldom, if ever, a woman) that held the key to solving all social ills, whereas cyberpunk typically depicts the human/technology relationship as one of human subservience and technological dominance. A term often used in describing hard SF is ‘Campbellian’, referring to the SF mould popularised by Astounding magazine editor John W. Campbell. In “The New Wave”, Rob Latham summarises the Campbellian tradition as “the school of science fiction which takes hope in science and in Man,” (2005: 212) and Brian Attebery, in his analysis of popular SF magazines from the 1920s to the 1960s (2003: 37) mentions how the period that began with Campbell at the editorial helm is often referred to as the ‘Golden Age’ of SF. Campbell brought a new agenda to Astounding that excluded mysticism, which by Campbell’s definition meant anything that stood opposed to pure science. He also held the perception that his audience was an elite caste of scientifically minded men who could order the universe in accordance with science, and thus included mostly stories that were about big ideas and about problems being solved. The writers that Campbell supported wrote about taciturn heroes who could resolve seemingly impossible dilemmas by applying reason and scientific know-how (Attebery 2003: 38). The heroes in these stories were often faced with difficult moral choices, such as in Tom Godwin’s 1954 short story “The Cold Equations”, for example, where a spacecraft pilot has to choose between the life of a stowaway on his ship and the success of an important mission. Logical reasoning prevails in the end: the stowaway is sacrificed, and the mission is a success, reaffirming the idea that science, although cruel at times, is essentially aimed at bettering mankind (Attebery, 2003: 38, 39). Cramer (2003: 188) sums up this attitude towards progress when she states that the “Campbellian moral is that the universe does not furnish happy endings because we want them. This attitude is embodied by a tough, pragmatic (usually) masculine voice. But it is also futuristic and often utopian and therefore a bit fanciful”. In other words, hard SF often idealises science as some utopian cure for all social evils. Politics and politicians would be vilified, while the scientist would produce a technological solution for almost everything, especially war and nuclear arms (Cramer, 2003: 192). It is this idealism, and the glorification of technology and 8 the scientific man, that the New Wave movement would undermine in its stark dystopian and ‘amoral’ approach to SF.

As stated above, SF as a genre is malleable enough that it often slips through the boundaries of what could be called ‘genrefication’. Certain themes, tropes, and traditional plot structures often undergo a metamorphosis, erupting later to form a new subgenre that runs coterminously with other themes or subgenres. In exploring the New Wave movement, it is important to remember that the radical stylistic and thematic changes brought about by this movement did not spell the end of hard SF, which was still alive, well, and popular during the rise of the New Wave. Instead, the New Wave movement introduced a different way of approaching SF that often placed proponents of this radical style at odds with the ‘Old Guard’ of writers still adhering to the Campbellian tradition. Hence several writers, fans and critics agree that the 1960s ushered in a radical shift in the predominantly Campbellian SF narrative, prompting the term ‘New Wave’ to signify a re-examination of the genre (Latham, 2005: 202). However, there is still a lack of widespread agreement on the influence brought about by the movement. Latham illustrates this by quoting SF writers Christopher Priest, who called it “the single most important development in science fiction”, and Ken MacLeod, who referred to it as “boring miserabilist, depressing crap” (202). The movement has been both praised for its innovative approach to SF content and lambasted for crippling the field with a morbid pessimism (202). Regardless of these differing perspectives, what the New Wave movement did bring to the table is a discussion about the potential of SF as serious literature capable of exploring more than just the depths of space. It is thus no accident that the movement called itself the New Wave. Damien Broderick’s discussion of SF writing from the sixties through to the eighties (2003:50) shows how the term ‘New Wave’ was adopted from French cinema’s nouvelle vague (the French New Wave), which came to prominence in the 1960s. The auteurs of nouvelle vague dealt with film in particular, feeling, just like many soon-to-be followers of New Wave SF, that cinema was chafing under thematic exhaustion. A staleness had overtaken film, so new directors, such as Jean-Luc Godard and Francois Truffaut, broke with standard narrative traditions and presented audiences with strange experimental films often devoid of clear plot or 9 structure. This iconoclastic gesture was popular among likeminded thinkers in certain SF circles, who felt a need to move away from the stale Campbellian model more preoccupied with scientific rigour than actual thematic depth. Among the proponents of this new shift was Alfred Bester, fiction reviewer for the popular The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, who summarised this dissatisfaction with SF’s staleness when he wrote: “‘the average quality of writing in the field today is extraordinarily low’” (1961, quoted by Broderick, 2003: 50). As Broderick then points out: “He meant not stylistic competence – ‘it’s astonishing how well amateurs and professionals alike can handle words’ – but thought, theme and drama” (50) Soon there was a rise of SF writing that disrupted standard narratives, was fraught with existential tension, as well as being formally daring. The similarities between the French cinematic movement and this genre experimentation prompted SF author Christopher Priest to appropriate the term ‘New Wave’ for this radical new SF (Broderick, 2003: 49-50). Therefore, whereas popular Golden Age hard SF took science and scientific papers as a foundation on which to build its stories, New Wave SF took as their inspiration “narratives drenched in artful subjectivity” (Broderick, 2003: 56). A story such as Thomas M. Disch’s darkly comedic Camp Concentration (1968) is a good example of New Wave’s tendency to emphasise style, theme and philosophical musings above scientific accuracy and technology-driven narratives. In her summary of the novel (2009: para. 1-5), Jo Walton describes the story as set in the near future, focusing on Louis Sachetti, a poet and conscientious objector against a war that is very similar to the real world Vietnam War raging at the time. He finds himself imprisoned in a facility where individuals are given a genetically modified version of syphilis that increases their intelligence but decreases their life span. The novel has elements common in SF: near future events, scientific experiments, super intelligence, and so forth, but it uses this as a basis to question social order, ethics, germ warfare and other issues arising from America’s involvement in Vietnam. With this in mind, the novel was not really interested in the scientific validity of some of its outlandish ideas. But New Wave authors were not solely focused on writing SF that merely departed from the bland technophilic hard SF narrative that characterised most of the Golden Age. Many of them wrote stories that actively undermined this technological optimism, and that would peel away the “ideological myth of supreme scientific competence and galactic manifest destiny” (Broderick, 2003: 52). The 10

Campbell-inspired scientist/engineer/astronaut heroes suddenly found themselves crippled by cynicism, pessimism, paranoia and debilitating angst in numerous New Wave stories that seemed to deliberately target these faultless Campbellian paragons. This move from the endless possibilities of outer space to the murky depths of ‘inner space’ – that is, the psyche – was a frequent theme in New Wave texts, which sought to unpack and explore the hero and his faults, something that was seldom, if ever, seen in more traditional SF (Latham, 2005: 208). The ‘science towards utopia’ model that Campbell had enshrined in his magazine and novels was slowly being chiselled away by New Wave dystopia and its throng of anti-heroes. This obviously did not sit well with many of the old guard writers, who saw this radical departure from what they perceived to be the ‘pure’ SF narrative as doing a disservice to the genre. Influential author and old guard staple writer Isaac Asimov expressed the old guard’s antagonism towards this ‘renegade’ movement when he remarked: “I hope that when the New Wave has deposited its froth, the vast and solid shore of science fiction will appear once more” (quoted by Broderick, 2003: 54). Regardless of the mark left by the New Wave, it never truly deposed the hard SF narrative, and by the mid-1970s the ‘battle’ that raged between the New and the Old had settled down, leaving neither side the complete victor. Helen Merrick’s summary of SF-writing during the 1960s up to the late 1970s (2009: 107) mentions how the booming voice of the eager New Wave died down to a whimper in the 1970s as it was systematically absorbed into mainstream SF. Latham (2005: 214) notes how, “as with so many rebellions, the New Wave was partially rejected and partially assimilated by the genre”. It seemed that, as Asimov had wished, the shore of SF was recovered; nevertheless, its landscape had been transformed. The struggle between the new and the old left the genre battle-scarred (or changed, depending on one’s perspective). So, even while Golden Age heroes like Asimov enjoyed an era of bestsellers during the 1970s and 1980s, many new younger writers appeared on the scene, with much less bravado than New Wave rebels, although their works displayed evidence of the New Wave influence (214). Thus SF during the 1970s can, according to Sterling (quoted by Merrick, 2009: 107), be summarised as “confused, self-involved and stale”3 but also “as an ‘interregnum’ between the New Wave and

3 It would of course be unfair to dismiss the entirety of 70s SF as “confused, self-involved and stale”. The decade produced several works that received both the Hugo and Nebula awards, such as Ursula Le Guin’s The Dispossessed (1974) and Joe Haldeman’s The Forever War (1974). Sterling’s 11 cyberpunk movement” The 1970s would produce very little in terms of groundbreaking SF literature, but the New Wave’s predilection for dystopia, cynicism and entropy would find a popular resurgence in the 1980s with the rise of cyberpunk.

The 1970s showed that although the New Wave movement flung itself against the walls of the Golden Age enclave with great fervour, it did not amount to a complete restructuring of the SF landscape. The cracks in the wall were visible but the “old story”, as John Clute calls it in his discussion of SF during the 1980s (2003: 66), still stood undaunted. This story involved the American Dream and Clute argues that this utopian tale was still popular in SF, despite New Wave cynicism. This dream was one of galactic exploration, alien contact, interstellar governments and scientific progress, but above all it was one of conquest (66), a clear indication of Campbell’s enduring legacy. Clute (66) also notes how “[e]ven as late as the twenty-first century, much routine SF assumed without argument that this form of progress remained storyable, that its fascination as a big story about visible triumphs overrode its implausibility as prophecy”. The most commercially successful model was still grounded in the Golden Age triumphalist vision of technological salvation. Notwithstanding the fact that there were, during the late 1970s and early 1980s, celebrated texts, such as Gregory Benford’s Timescape (1980), that merged the New Wave’s rich characterisation and hard SF’s fondness for science (Broderick, 2003: 60), nothing emerged that could be considered the next “big thing”. It is not surprising then that during the early 1980s, there was a prevailing sense that SF was “running on inertia” (Clute, 2003: 67). Space was still the predominant destination for most texts, strengthened by a rise in SF popularity owing to films such as the Star Wars and Star Trek series. Here, as in the traditional hard SF model, technological development was noted by SF only if it in some way facilitated space travel. The rise in information and communication technologies, such as the internet, was largely overlooked by the genre. According to Clute (2003: 67) “the only form of SF to grapple imaginatively with at least some aspects of this dizzying new order was Cyberpunk”. Initially cyberpunk was simply called “radical hard SF”, a term coined by David Pringle and Colin Greenland in an Interzone editorial, and was an attempt to seize the creative potential offered by technological comment is simply suggesting that among certain SF writers, himself included, there was the view that the genre was in need of some reinvigoration. 12 advancements made during the 1980s, specifically cybernetics. The movement was popularised by author Bruce Sterling, who at the time felt that SF was in a state of torpor. What inspired Sterling was Pringle and Greenland’s editorial, which read: Last issue we described Interzone as a magazine of radical science fiction and fantasy. Now we should like to go further and outline (however hazily) a type of story that we want to see much more of in this magazine: the radical, hard SF story. We wish to publish more fiction which takes its inspiration from science, and which uses the language of science in a creative way. It may be fantastic, surrealistic, ‘illogical’, but in order to be radical hard SF it should explore in some fashion the perspectives opened up by contemporary science and technology. Some would argue that the new electronic gadgetry is displacing the printed word – if so, writers should fight back, using guerrilla tactics as necessary and infiltrating the territory of the enemy.

(Pringle & Greenland quoted by Cramer, 2003: 194).

This movement to reinvent hard SF was later christened ‘cyberpunk’ and was characterised by its own unique style, thematic mode and a fetish for new technology. Sterling would be responsible for spreading this ‘gospel’ to the US with his magazine Cheap Truth. What placed the subgenre firmly on the map would be William Gibson’s Neuromancer, considered by most to be the seminal cyberpunk text. In his essay “Cyberpunk” (2005), Mark Bould notes how the term was derived from the words cybernetics and ‘punk’, and coined by author Bruce Bethke. Bethke said that he wanted to “invent a new term that grokked [understood empathically] the juxtaposition of punk attitudes and high technology” (quoted by Bould, 2005: 218). The term ‘punk’ originated from punk rock and usually referred to outcasts, hooliganism, marginality, criminality, a counterculture on the fringes of society, all characteristics often found in cyberpunk protagonists (218). The term cybernetics was coined in 1948 by Norbert Weiner, and was used to describe a new science that devoted itself to the study of communication and control systems in animals and machines (218). It was often synonymous with new computer technologies that rose in prominence during the 1980s. Unlike more standard hard SF, which invokes technology merely as a gateway to space, cyberpunk focuses on the development of cybernetic technology throughout the 1980s. But in cyberpunk, aspects of cybernetics are usually represented in the advanced communication technologies, human-machine hybrids, virtual reality interfaces, and so forth. Much like hard SF, cyberpunk also chose the development of new technology as its inspiration on which

13 to base fantastical narratives anchored loosely in actual science. But where writers of hard SF saw rockets, space programs and astronauts as an inspirational passport to distant planets and alien civilisations, cyberpunk writers saw burgeoning new communication technologies and biotechnologies as a portal to intoxicating virtual realities and advanced body modifications. Outer space had lost its status as the supreme SF destination and was soon to be replaced by a new space: cyberspace. In An Introduction to Cybercultures, David Bell discusses possible definitions of cyberspace. He states (2003: 7) that we can “define cyberspace in terms of hardware, for example – as a global network of computers, linked through communications infrastructures, that facilitate forms of interaction between remote actors”. From a purely technological perspective this definition is sufficient since it describes the nature of communication technologies such as the internet, an innovation which emerged during the 1980s. But just as hard SF took space travel, an idea still in its infancy during the 1950s, and elevated it to spectacular heights, so too did cyberpunk rely on a more symbolic definition of cyberspace, namely “an imagined space between computers in which people might build new selves and new worlds” (7). In this sense, cyberpunk fiction is often focused on vast virtual landscapes accessible only by individuals willing to completely separate mind from body. A whole new space is created, a virtual reality where the hacker or ‘console cowboy’ commands great power. Cybernetics also encompasses bioengineering and the possibilities of augmenting the human body with technology. In Technophobia! Science Fiction Visions of Posthuman Technology, Daniel Dinello (2005: 115) remarks how pacemakers, cochlear implants, synthetic skin and artificial limbs all exist outside the realm of fiction and are clear examples of how technology is being used to directly influence, assist, and even enhance the body. In cyberpunk fiction this idea is taken to extremes, introducing the cyborg: an advanced human/machine hybrid that is often superior to its purely human counterpart. In cyborgs, technology is not simply a tool to assist bodily shortcomings but a way to greatly enhance strength, intelligence and, all too often, killing power. In cyberpunk fiction, cyborgs range from humans with slight modifications, such as ocular implants, hidden weapons, robotic limbs and so forth, to extreme cases where they are wholly machine except for a few vestiges of the human body such as a brain or human heart. What both cyberspace and cyborg modifications offer in cyberpunk fiction is an opportunity for the human 14 characters to transcend their bodily limitations and become something else: posthuman. The idea of posthumanism is of particular importance in this study, especially the multiple interpretations inherent in the term. In The Posthuman Condition: Consciousness Beyond the Brain, Robert Pepperell unpacks the term, illuminating the multiple meanings inherent within: First, it is used to mark the end of that period of social development known as humanism, and so in this sense it means ‘after humanism’. Second, it refers to the fact that our traditional view of what constitutes a human being is now undergoing a profound transformation. It is argued that we can no longer think about being human in the same way we used to. Third, the term refers to the general convergence of biology and technology to the point where they are increasingly becoming indistinguishable.

(Pepperell, 2003: iv)

So at its core, posthumanism is about change: changing perspectives on what it means to be human or physical change by merging the body with technology. But, as subsequent chapters will show, while it is possible to be in favour of posthumanism without advocating a merging of flesh and machine, the term has become inextricably linked with technology. Thus for the purpose of this dissertation Pepperell’s third definition of posthumanism, as referring to the “general convergence of biology and technology” (iv) will be used.

As noted earlier, posthumanism, cybernetics and cyberspace are all tied to the ‘cyber’ in cyberpunk, which in turn is indicative of the genre’s close ties with hard SF. ‘Cyber’ represents the technological focal point for the subgenre at its inception; hence cybernetics was the scientific basis to which cyberpunk could anchor itself. However, as Bould (2005: 219) mentions, cyberpunk was not only characterised by a preference for cybernetic technologies, but also a narrative style presenting a bleak outlook on life and society, and a generally anarchic attitude towards authority and global corporations. This attitude is encompassed in the ‘punk’ aspect of the subgenre, a mark left by the New Wave. The ‘punk’ aspect was most often epitomised by the standard cyberpunk hero (or rather, anti-hero) who, much like the protagonists in numerous New Wave stories, was a far cry from the standard hard SF Campbellian superman. So while ‘cyber’ represented radically new technology, ‘punk’ represented the radically anti-social attitude, and the interplay of these two

15 forces became fertile ground where themes of dystopia and bodily disintegration could grow. But while the term cyberpunk gives some indication of the subgenre’s conceptual preferences, there needs to be a clearer discussion about the themes and ideas it often explores. Cyberpunk narratives usually focus on and around a futuristic earth, anti-social hackers, megacorporations and advanced cybernetic technologies. Shorthand definitions of the genre, such as the one found in Tom Henthorne’s William Gibson: A Literary Companion, range from the commonly found “high tech and low life” (2011: 133), to the slightly more expansive Concise Oxford English Dictionary version, which defines cyberpunk as a “genre of SF set in a lawless subculture of an oppressive society dominated by computer technology.” (2011, sv. ‘cyberpunk’). Then there is also Dinello’s definition of cyberpunk as SF that “elaborated alternative visualizations of cyberspace, explored the posthuman figure of the cyborg, and influenced pop culture in the late 1980s and early 1990s” (2005: 13). Although these definitions are simple enough for a quick reference, they do little more than scratch the surface of cyberpunk. In “Towards a Poetics of Cyberpunk”, Brian McHale resists any idea of a catch-all definition for cyberpunk, and argues that asking the question ‘what is cyberpunk?’ is, by his summation, “wrong-headed, presupposing as it does that cyberpunk ‘is’ some one thing or other, that it is some kind of ‘object’ about which demonstrably true or false statements could be made” (2010: 3). Instead, McHale suggests that there is a shared cyberpunk poetics, sets of ideas and themes not necessarily new to SF, but appropriated and redesigned by the subgenre to fit its particular brand of pessimism. While McHale does list several themes and characteristics, the most relevant to this study are cyberpunk’s relationship with technology — specifically as it relates to posthumanism — and dystopia. Central to understanding cyberpunk’s relationship with technology is the SF figure of the robot. The SF robot is often used to convey ideas and themes relating to what defines the human by asking whether a machine can ever become human. These same questions are also raised, “but in inverted form, by the cyberpunk motif of prosthesis: at what point does a human being cease to be a human being and begin to count as a machine?” (McHale, 2010: 15). Such tension between man and machine is a key motif in several cyberpunk narratives, and is also the site where the subgenre’s penchant for dystopia emerges. The dystopian tradition laid down by SF 16 authors such as Ray Bradbury, Kurt Vonnegut, Margaret Atwood and others undoubtedly fed into cyberpunk poetics, while the ‘cyber’ in cyberpunk indicates a close tie with technology. Also, in his analysis of Gibson’s writing, Tom Moylan quotes David Porush, who notes how the ‘cyber’ denotes “the dystopian postfordist apparatus of control: ‘growing feedback loops of self-organization and complexity’ that allow the ‘human-nerve net’ to ‘imperialize nature through artifice, appropriating what it can’ in its pressing, inclusive logic” (Moylan, 2010: 85). In other words, from Porush’s perspective, the ‘cyber’ aspect of cyberpunk represents a move away from early twentieth century Fordist mass production to more specialised small scale production of new communication technologies. This could potentially mean that technology could advance at such a pace as to not only improve our mental and physical capabilities, but to eventually exceed them. When this point is reached, machine logic could potentially be imposed on humanity, paving the way for a future where human autonomy is deemed ineffective. So the more this new cybernetic technology becomes a part of daily life, the greater is the risk of humanity being absorbed by its creation. The ‘cyber’ thus denotes both technology and its potential to exert control over humanity. It also serves the purpose of asking: At what point does the human disintegrate and the machine take over? Hence cyberpunk displays, in many ways, an anti-technocratic outlook which separates it from the technophilic optimism often found in hard SF (Latham, 2005: 107). This almost technophobic outlook manifests in several themes found in cyberpunk, and in Cyberpunkreview.com’s article “What is Cyberpunk?” (2007), they characterise the subgenre as one that frequently explores the negative impact of technology on humanity, as well as the danger of fusing man and machine (2007: para. 2). The latter is usually closely linked with the former, since the man/machine hybridisation is frequently represented as a dehumanising process, stripping individuals of their humanity, and creating a dystopian scenario where the human loses empathy and agency. In fact, as Sharon Stockton points out in her essay “The Self Regained: Cyberpunk’s Retreat to the Imperium” (1995), when citing Hollinger, the overwhelming presence of technology in every aspect of cyberpunk narratives has led to some critics calling cyberpunk anti-humanist (1995: 588). This ‘technological invasion’, as Fred Botting (2005: 121) calls it in his discussion of the intersection between horror and SF, of both the mind and body, results in the distinction between man and machine becoming muddled, leading to narratives that 17

“paint the spread of technology as a malevolent, uncontrollable virus that defeats any attempt at control” (Dinello, 2005: 195). In conventional cyberpunk, then, both the body and mind are threatened by total absorption and disintegration as technology encroaches relentlessly on the human subject.

The typical cyberpunk narrative is, therefore, situated in a near-future earth that is saturated with colossal megacities, rife with crime and drug use, and run not by governments but by powerful corporations. Technology is so pervasive that it seems to smother any signs of the natural. There are no sacred boundaries: the body is modified, the mind is no longer private and even consciousness can exist outside the body in a virtual reality. Artificial intelligence has also become advanced enough to rival, and surpass, human intellect (“What is Cyberpunk?” 2007: para. 2). The biological human is increasingly replaced by a technological artificiality, whilst characters in cyberpunk texts seem either ignorant of or simply disinterested in this technological encroachment. In his essay, “Notes Toward a Postcyberpunk Manifesto”, Lawrence Person identifies classic cyberpunk characters and protagonists as individuals who “were marginalized, alienated loners live[ing] on the edge of society in generally dystopic futures where daily life was impacted by rapid technological change, an ubiquitous datasphere of computerized information, and invasive modification of the human body” (1999, para. 5). Here, the protagonist seldom stands for some ideal and, more often than not, would engage in some form of criminality, be it drug use, theft, computer hacking or a combination of all of these. This became the standard cyberpunk narrative, and audiences eager for something fresh flocked to this new brand of ‘high tech and low life’ SF. Cyberpunk’s edgy dystopian aesthetic, coupled with an innovative approach to emerging cybernetic technology, ensured the subgenre an audience eager for the next ‘big thing’ in SF. William Gibson’s Neuromancer opened the cyberpunk floodgates, allowing a torrent of new writers the opportunity to experiment with this new subgenre. Bruce Sterling, Lewis Shiner, John Shirley, Rudy Rucker and many more would add their stories to the growing cyberpunk movement. Cyberpunk’s popularity was travelling at the speed of the technology it so adored, and as Tom Maddox notes in his essay “After the Deluge: Cyberpunk in 80’s and 90’s” (1992: para. 16), it inspired articles and features from diverse sources such as The Wall Street Journal, People Magazine, MTV, and even academia, which was drawn in by 18 the subgenre’s expressions of postmodernism. However, no sooner had the subgenre arrived than murmurings of its death already began to be heard and, by the mid-1980s, the fervour which seemed to infuse cyberpunk was waning, leading to proclamations that cyberpunk had exhausted its popularity. The reason for this, as Maddox (1992: para. 14) points out, was that the popularity of cyberpunk broke through its textual boundaries, leading to a creative explosion at first, only to be followed by crude imitations and market saturation. Cyberpunk became a label that was haphazardly attached to any sort of expression of counter-culture. Teenagers with computers and an urge to commit cyber-crimes were labelled ‘cyberpunks’ along with anyone wearing black, listening to ‘industrial pop’ and displaying some sort of techno-fetish. Popularity soon gave way to passé and, by the end of the 1980s, “people who never liked it much to begin with were announcing with audible relief the death of cyberpunk: it had taken its canonical fifteen minutes of fame and should move over and let something else take the stage” (Maddox, 1992: para. 17). This sentiment was also echoed by Bruce Sterling, who predicted the subgenre’s eventual transition into the mundane as early as 1985. In a letter to editor and fellow cyberpunk writer John Kessel, Sterling stated that “it [cyberpunk] will be bowdlerized and parodized and reduced to a formula, just as all other SF innovations have been […] By 95 we’ll all have something else cooking” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: vii). Nevertheless, Maddox is quick to point out that, despite claims of ‘the death of cyberpunk’ or an abandonment of the subgenre, it did not actually die. Rather, “it had become so culturally widespread and undergone so many changes that it could no longer be easily located and identified” (1992: para. 18). Cyberpunk had not so much died as become diffused, ingraining itself into numerous forms of SF. In this sense, the ‘death’ of cyberpunk refers to the demise of the movement rather than of the subgenre. As the publicity waned, cyberpunk became outdated, but it would not become outmoded, as Maddox argues:

Cyberpunk came into being just as information density and complexity went critical: the supersaturation of the planet with systems capable of manipulating, transmitting, and receiving ever vaster quantities of information has just begun, but (as Benedikt points out, though toward different ends), it has begun. Cyberpunk is the fictive voice of that process, and so long as the process remains problematic -- for instance, so long as it threatens to redefine us -- the voice will be heard.

(Maddox, 1992: para. 19).

Technological advancement did not suddenly stop post-1980. The Information Age is moving at an ever increasing pace, presenting a constant supply of new concerns and, for SF, new narrative possibilities. It is unsurprising, then, to see cyberpunk themes still appearing in several films and video games of the last two decades.

Yet, regardless of cyberpunk’s popularity as thematic inspiration, a transition within the subgenre was slowly forming and would break away from the traditional cyberpunk narrative. This new approach was later termed postcyberpunk.4 Just as the New Wave movement did not spell an end to hard SF, so too did postcyberpunk not indicate a death or complete transformation of cyberpunk. Although, as Maddox observes, cyberpunk could no longer be easily located and identified, neither could postcyberpunk be easily defined. Because of its close resemblance to cyberpunk, postcyberpunk stories are often simply categorised as cyberpunk despite the differences between the two subgenres. What follows will be an attempt to define postcyberpunk, and to list some of the characteristics which distinguish it from traditional cyberpunk. In an attempt to classify postcyberpunk, Person (1999: para. 6) calls it a subgenre that attempts to re-evaluate certain cyberpunk motifs in order to approach differently the same concerns that mark most cyberpunk narratives. Furthermore, he explains how “[c]yberpunk's lasting impact came not from the milieu's details, but the method of their deployment, the immersive worldbuilding technique that gave it such a revelatory quality” (para. 6). This approach to building future worlds is still very much a part of postcyberpunk which, just like cyberpunk, still concerns itself with what Pat Cadigan calls “the burning presence of the future” (Person, 1999: para. 7.). However, while both cyberpunk and postcyberpunk see the future in terms of technology and both examine humanity’s interaction with technology, postcyberpunk takes a different approach regarding the outcome of this interaction. A big influence was the differing time periods in which each of these subgenres rose to prominence. Most notable is the fact that cyberpunk grew in popularity during the 1980s, while postcyberpunk arose during the 1990s (Person, 1999: para. 12). During the height of

4 While the term had previously been used unofficially — referring mostly to a shift in cyberpunk (see Paul Saffo’s “Cyberpunk R.I,P”) — Lawrence Person is often credited as the first person to have properly defined and explored the subgenre. 20 cyberpunk’s popularity, cybernetic technology was slowly materialising, offering cyberpunk writers the perfect inspiration for their brand of dystopian technophobia. In Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology (2007), editors James Patric Kelly and John Kessel point out how a major cyberpunk obsession was “the way emerging technologies will change what it means to be human. Much SF has concerned itself with technology and change in human culture. Indeed, the cautionary tale is a staple of the genre: if this goes on, things will get very bad indeed” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: x). Postcyberpunk, on the other hand, brought with it the sobering realisation that the technology cyberpunk was writing about in such pessimistic terms had, by the 1990s, arrived. The foreboding technology that had loomed on the horizon in the 1980s had quietly ingrained itself into everyday life by the 1990s, effectively becoming invisible. The microprocessor which held the promise of highly advanced technological possibilities had by the nineties embedded itself in almost every technological device. The infrastructure of the world was slowly being infused with software and as it “became more familiar, it also became tamer” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: viii). In cyberpunk “technology facilitates alienation from society. In postcyberpunk, technology is society” (Person, 1999: para 9); now, as Naciye Gülengül Altintaş argues in “Postcyberpunk Unitopia”, instead of being used to destabilise and subvert power, technology is a means to form a foundation on which society can achieve stability (2006: 30-31). In other words, as Paul Saffo points out in “Cyberpunk: R.I.P.”, rather than submitting to the technophobic nightmares of cyberpunk, postcyberpunk attempts to engage with new technology on neutral ground, seeing it as an inevitable part of the social fabric, as a means to enhance ,rather than diminish, our humanity (1993: para. 8). Person (1999: para. 9) sums up this new relationship with technology when he declares that “the postcyberpunk viewpoint is not outside the fishbowl looking in, but inside the fishbowl looking around”. Hence the ‘cyber’ influence does remain, as postcyberpunk still displays a fascination with new technology, but now it is no longer a space where ideas about losing one’s humanity can easily flourish. The ‘punk’ in postcyberpunk also undergoes a radical transformation: where cyberpunk characters skirt around the edges of their futuristic society, living outside the norm as hackers and lowlifes eager to topple existing social order, postcyberpunk addresses the fact that “no future could exist in which there were only data thieves in trench coats and 21 megalomaniacal middle managers” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: xi). Postcyberpunk asks the following questions: “Where was the middle class in cp stories? What were the families like?” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: xii). Characters in postcyberpunk are often integrated members of society; they have careers, families and at times even try to strengthen existing social structures. The typical cyberpunk character would most likely find himself the villain in a postcyberpunk story or, as in the case of Neil Stephenson’s postcyberpunk book The Diamond Age, simply be killed early on. This does not mean that ‘punk’ has completely been removed from postcyberpunk. Characters in postcyberpunk narratives, despite being part of society and accepting the way their future world works, are not necessarily at ease with their world. Kelly & Kessel (2007: xii) argue that “the punk in postcyberpunk continues to make sense if it is pointing toward an attitude: an adversarial relationship to consensus reality”. Postcyberpunk does not necessarily challenge the order and social structures that cyberpunk so loved to topple, instead preferring to focus on characters who, amidst a future of technological possibilities, must constantly renegotiate new meandering realities. Characters in a postcyberpunk world must balance scepticism, cynicism and optimism in reaction to a “world in which humanity must constantly be renegotiated” (xii.). Unlike cyberpunk narratives where the protagonist is from the outset placed at odds with society because of his/her criminal or other anti-social behaviour, the conflict in postcyberpunk arises organically, and is usually the “result of the restrictions of the social ordering that prevents the hero to accomplish a goal” (Altintas, 2006: 37). The goal is not necessarily something world- shattering, and is often deeply personal or spiritual. Unlike cyberpunk, where the conflict arises mostly from some form of anarchism or disregard for authority, the conflict in postcyberpunk stems from the protagonist’s search for personal resolution despite the barriers which hamper this search. These barriers can range from law enforcement to societal expectations. Hence, where cyberpunk is mostly set in a dystopian future, a place where humanity is slowly disintegrating amidst the deluge of technology, postcyberpunk characters live in a future that is not necessarily dystopic; “indeed, they are often suffused with an optimism that ranges from cautious to exuberant” (Person, 1999: para. 6). In exploring the opportunities presented by the future and contemporary cybernetic technology, postcyberpunk prefers to approach these ideas from an investigative vantage point, opting to rather wait and see what possibilities arise than 22 to assume that new cybernetic technology will result in the death of humanity. Postcyberpunk’s inquisitive and frequently optimistic attitude regarding humanity’s place in this technologically-saturated future allows it the opportunity to approach posthumanism in a more positive way. For its part, cyberpunk depicts posthuman figures as leading to the disintegration of humankind. Technology will not uplift humanity, and although these posthuman characters appear superhuman, they signify “a tragic loss of the rich patterning of human life lived as mortal, fallible and imperfect” (Bell, 2003: 145). Postcyberpunk can in many ways be seen as representing a “fusion of the cyberpunk/humanist schism of the 1980’s” (Person, 1999: para. 10). Postcyberpunk understands that “human values are not imprinted on the fabric of the universe because what it means to be human is always negotiable” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: xi).

In summary, cyberpunk is a merging between hard SF and the New Wave, blending hard SF’s technophilia and scientific accuracy with the New Wave’s radicalisation of the standard SF narrative. But while cyberpunk displays a fetish for new technology, it lacks the hard SF optimism, electing instead to approach technology with suspicion and cynicism, a trait it inherited from the New Wave. In cyberpunk the idea of posthumanism is a space where the human is absorbed and eventually disintegrated by technology and cyborg characters are depicted as slowly losing their humanity. However, during the 1990s, cyberpunk underwent a transition to postcyberpunk that, while stylistically almost indistinguishable from cyberpunk, opted to re-evaluate the cyberpunk approach to technology and posthumanism. Now posthumanism, rather than offering a dystopian vision of the termination of humankind, presents the opportunity to reconfigure what it means to be human, often in more positive terms. With this in mind, the next chapter aims to demonstrate the fluctuating nature of utopia and dystopia. This will be done by firstly discussing the coterminous nature of utopia and dystopia, followed by their relationship with SF. Proceeding this discussion of the utopian/dystopian duality will be an analysis of posthumanism’s capacity to function as a utopian enclave, a concept formulated by Fredric Jameson which explains how certain ideas, spaces, and concepts, can play host to both utopian and dystopian fantasies. Here, the writings of Jean-François Lyotard, Francis Fukuyama, Donna Haraway, Max Moore, and Susan Wertheim, will form the theoretical underpinnings, as their respective views on posthumanism range from

23 sceptical or frightened (Fukuyama and Lyotard), to optimistic or excited (Haraway, More, and Wertheim).

CHAPTER 2 Utopia, dystopia, and posthumanism as a utopian enclave

Where the first chapter traced the narrative foundations of cyberpunk, postcyberpunk, and their respective views on posthumanism, this chapter will discuss how posthumanism becomes a space where both utopian and dystopian fantasies can flourish. This utopian/dystopian space is what Fredric Jameson calls the “Utopian enclave” (2007: 10), which, in Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions, he defines as “an imaginary enclave within real social space […] within which Utopian fantasy can operate” (2007: 15). The enclave under discussion in this study is posthumanism, and I intend to show how the concept has, through the years, played host to both utopian and dystopian speculations. This is not only evident in cyberpunk, postcyberpunk, and other SF narratives, but also in theoretical writings such as those by Jean-Francois Lyotard and Francis Fukuyama, who both view posthumanism with scepticism, fearing what it might mean for interpretations of human nature. On the other hand, theorists such as Max Moore, Susan Wertheim and Donna Haraway tend to perceive posthumanism more optimistically, choosing to propose scenarios where the human can be reimagined for the better. In discussing the writings of the abovementioned authors, I aim not only to show that posthumanism constitutes a utopian enclave, but also to establish an analytical framework, which will be used in chapters 3 and 4, to examine the interpretations of posthumanism in William Gibson’s Neuromancer and Mamoru Oshii’s film Ghost in the Shell. In the process, I will provide pertinent definitions of utopia and its offshoots (dystopia, anti-utopia, and critical utopia) in order to illustrate that utopia, as a concept, has several interpretations and manifestations, ranging from Utopian texts to something more akin to what Jameson calls a “Utopian impulse” (2007: 2). By tracing the history of utopian representations, both conceptual and textual, I intend to elucidate its inseparable link with dystopia and, in so doing, illustrate the characteristics of the utopian enclave and its capacity to house both utopian and dystopian fantasies.

The etymology of ‘utopia’ can be traced back to Renaissance humanist Thomas More who, in 1516, created the neologism to refer variously to a concept, to his

25 novel Utopia, as well as to the novel’s eponymous island. In her discussion on the concept of utopia, Fatima Vieira unpacks the term and shows how it evolved from a word that initially denoted a novel and place, to one that now encapsulates multiple meanings and manifestations. Vieira (2010: 4-5) discusses how More, at first, formulated utopia by combining the Greek u (no) and topia (place), but since the island in his novel was depicted as idyllic he felt the need to create another neologism: eutopia (the good place). Utopia, as per More’s definition, is then, the no place that is the good place. However, as Vieira (2010: 3) argues, utopia began as a neologism “but over the centuries, after the process of deneologization, its meaning changed many times, and it has been adopted by authors and researchers from different fields of study, with divergent interests and conflicting aims”. For example, while More did invent the term, he did not invent utopianism, which Vieira (2010: 6) claims has as its core an innate human desire for a transformed, better future. She argues (2010: 5) that “utopia seems to be of an anamnestic nature (i.e., the word refers to a kind of pre-history of the concept)”. Here Vieira alludes to what Fredric Jameson calls the “utopian impulse” (2007: 2), named by Marxist philosopher Ernst Bloch. While Bloch cannot be credited with inventing the concept, since, as Vieira states, utopian thinking is almost primordial, he did feel the need to name this innate human desire for a better future. According to Jameson, Bloch “posits a Utopian impulse governing everything future-oriented in life and culture; and encompassing everything from games to patent medicines, from myths to mass entertainment, from iconography to technology, from architecture to eros, from tourism to jokes and the unconscious” (2007: 2). Jameson expands on this definition in his essay “A New Reading of Capital” (2010), arguing that the utopian impulse is an “ever-present often unconscious longing for radical change and transformation which is symbolically inscribed in everything from culture and daily life to the official activities of politics and goal-oriented action” (2010: 12). What the utopian impulse implies, then, is the presence of fundamentally unrepresentable, yet ever-present longings for a better future. This desire is ingrained in human nature, and is not so much expressed as it is detectable in a wide range of experiences ranging from the cultural to the mundane. Utopia, in the sense of the utopian impulse, is then “to be seen as a matter of attitude, as a kind of reaction to an undesirable present and an aspiration to overcome all difficulties by the imagination of possible alternatives” (Vieira, 2010: 26

7). These imaginations, spurred by the impulse, often take on a more concrete form: the utopian novel.

While the utopian impulse is a ubiquitous, abstract desire, the utopian novel is an attempt to capture a specific aspect of this desire in concrete form. These novels are conscious projects aimed at depicting what their authors believe to be an improved version of their own historical context. These literary depictions have enough in common for them to warrant their own literary genre. Hence, in his essay “Utopia”, Phillip E. Wegner quotes SF critic Darko Suvin, who defines the literary utopia as “the verbal construction of a particular quasihuman community where sociopolitical institutions, norms and individual relationships are organised according to a more perfect principle than in the author’s community, this construction based on estrangement arising out of an alternative historical hypothesis” (Wegner, 2005: 81). Firstly, Suvin’s idea of a quasihuman community refers to the fact that these societies are the product of human, rather than divine or mystical, labour. These communities are “materialistic rather than idealistic” (Wegner, 2005: 80), since what is achieved is attributed to a community’s hard work and their commitment to a greater good. Secondly, the mention of sociopolitical institutions, norms, and individual relationships emphasises the utopian novel’s tendency to focus on the larger workings of this specific society, on its everyday governance, various beliefs, social norms, and so forth. Lastly, Suvin emphasises that these utopias function in accordance with principles deemed better than those of the author’s own historical context. Thus, what would be considered utopia is subject to change, depending on the social context in which it is written. While the format described retrospectively by Suvin was especially popular during the 16th and 17th centuries, the utopian novel did undergo several changes throughout the subsequent centuries. Firstly, the convention of situating Utopia in a distant or hidden geographical location, as popularised by More’s Utopia, started to wane soon after, continuing to do so as the 20th century drew closer. Instead, many utopian novels, specifically those written during the 19th century, situated their utopian communities in the future, removing them from the reader’s historical context (Wegner, 2005: 88). A consequence of this future speculation was that utopian writing started more and more to be “read as a subset of the expanding genre of science fiction, so much so that Suvin will later describe the utopian genre as the

‘sociopolitical subgenre of SF’” (88). But perhaps the biggest influence on the utopian genre would be the emergence and growing influence of dystopia, a theme that would play a prominent role in 20th-century SF.

In much the same way as the word utopia has several connotations, so too does dystopia evoke more than just a singular concept. As a derivative neologism, dystopia has its first recorded use in 1868 in a parliamentary speech by John Stuart Mill, who needed a word for a perspective antithetical to utopia. Derived from the Greek dys meaning bad, diseased, or abnormal, dystopia is used to refer to both non-existent places worse than real places, and to literature describing places such as these (Vieira, 2010: 16). Also, dystopia as a concept, much like utopia, pre-dates the word, something Vieira (16) notes when she states that “from time immemorial people have thought about the possibility of the construction of a better world, but they have also been aware of the likelihood of a future which might be worse than the present. As in the case of utopia, the concept of dystopia preceded the invention of the word”. While it would be a stretch to argue the existence of a dystopian impulse, that is to say some innate realisation that all future endeavours will fail or turn out worse, it is plausible to argue the utopian project will inevitably evoke dystopian possibilities. Jameson (2007: 53) ponders a similar realisation, of some “anti-Utopian5 drive, which like anti-matter or negative energy is called into being by the very activation of the Utopian imagination itself”. This is especially relevant when looking at dystopian literature and its history as coterminous with the utopian novel. In Scraps of the Untainted Sky: Science Fiction, Utopia, Dystopia (2000) Tom Moylan draws from the writing of Lyman Tower Sargent, a scholar in utopian studies, who defines the literary dystopia as a “non-existent society described in great detail and normally located in time and space that the author intended a contemporaneous reader to view as considerably worse than the society in which that reader lived” (2000: 74). Scarred by two World Wars and several other atrocities, the 20th century provided “more than enough fertile ground for this fictive underside of the utopian imagination” (Moylan, 2000: xi). However, while dystopian literature was especially popular in the 20th century, it has its roots much further back in history. As early as

5 Jameson’s use of anti-utopian must not be mistaken for dystopian. While the two terms are often used interchangeably, share strong similarities, and anti-utopia is seen as the progenitor of dystopia, they are still distinct. Suffice it to say, Jameson implies, as Vieira did, that imagining utopia opens itself to the possibility of imagining the worst as well. 28 the 18th century traces of dystopian thought appeared amid the prevailing belief in man’s better nature, and it was not long before anti-utopian6 novels appeared as a counter to the prevailing utopian sensibilities. While not dystopian in the strict sense of the definition, the anti-utopian novel did lay the groundwork for future dystopian novels and showed that there was not a universally-shared classification of utopia. This criticism of the utopian vision would continue to grow, heralding the coming dystopian turn, which marked the 20th century and seemed to reject, if not destroy outright, the utopian novel.

Although the dystopian trend may be seen or traced in a number of texts published in the last hundred years or so, since much of this era’s SF gravitated towards dystopia, it does not mean that utopian literature disappeared from the shelves in the 20th century. Rather, the genre seems capable of constantly adapting to a new time, presenting made-to-measure solutions for a new set of concerns (Vieira, 2010: 19). So, while the utopian novel, as defined by Suvin, has undergone changes and no longer follows the structure popularised by More, it has adapted to the demands put forth by the 20th century. An example of this new trajectory the utopian novel embarked upon is the critical utopia, a reworked vision of the traditional utopian structure, and popularised during the 70s. Sargent (quoted in Moylan, 2000: 74) defines the critical utopian novel as, again, similar to the utopian and dystopian novel, except that the author intends a “contemporaneous reader to view [it] as better than contemporary society but with difficult problems that the described society may or may not be able to solve and which takes a critical view of the utopian genre”. While the authors of these critical utopias understand the limitations and difficulties inherent in trying to construct a society free from the concerns that plague its historical context, they do not wholeheartedly reject the possibility of improvement. Moylan (2000: 83) summarises the function of the critical utopia as rejecting “utopia as blueprint while preserving it as dream”, suggesting that even amidst the dystopian deluge of the 20th century, utopian imaginings remained constant. This resilience of the utopian is a testament to Bloch’s idea of the utopian impulse and suggests, once again, that “utopia is innate to man and has a perennial and immeasurable nature” (Vieira, 2010: 20).

6 Sargent (quoted in Moylan, 2000:74) defines the anti-utopian as similar to the dystopian novel, except that the “author intended a contemporaneous reader to view [it] as a criticism of utopianism or of some particular eutopia”. 29

The utopian impulse also explains how, despite numerous SF short stories and novels that could not be classified as utopian or critical-utopian, there were still hints of an underlying utopian essence in these texts, as Andrew Milner and Robert Savage note in their essay “Pulped Dreams: Utopia and the American Pulp Science Fiction” (2008). Milner and Savage describe the prevalence of the utopian impulse in early 20th century SF, specifically the magazine publications. They argue that the Golden Age, ushered in by Joseph Campbell and his Astounding magazine, was still “redolent with utopian or quasi-utopian thematics of a kind Bloch would have recognized as articulation of a utopian impulse” (Milner & Savage, 2008: 34). Far from being classified as utopian, Golden Age SF nonetheless espoused a somewhat more positive outlook, believing in man’s salvation through science and technology. This is not to say that these stories depicted technology as a balm to heal all social ills. Numerous stories published in Astounding during the late thirties and middle forties opposed a ‘technological’ utopia, equating its idyllic promise of contentment with eventual stagnation. More often, these stories steered away from an overt technophilia, opting rather for the “advocacy of ‘critical technocracy’” (34), embracing the potential of technological advancement, yet still aware of the possible failings. As Alcena M.D. Rogan discusses in her study of utopian fiction, even in classic dystopian novels, such as George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) and Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), a utopian impulse is detectable. Both novels “append faint but definite glimmers of hope to their dystopian visions” (2009: 313) by containing appendices which seem to have been written after the events in the book that indicates a passage of time and societal improvements (34). On the other hand, it is possible, as Keith Booker suggests in Dystopian Literature: A Theory and Research Guide (1994a), to detect “dystopian impulses in works that might not otherwise be considered clear examples of dystopian literature” (1994a: 3). Again, as I have previously suggested, the idea of a dystopian impulse as a counter to Bloch’s concept should perhaps best be disregarded. Rather, what Booker suggests is the possibility that certain texts, categorised as neither utopian nor dystopian, can be interpreted as suggesting dystopian outcomes. His stance is clarified in The Dystopian Impulse in Modern Literature: Fiction as Social Criticism (1994b) when he posits that

not only is one man’s utopia another man’s dystopia, but utopian visions of an ideal society often inherently suggest a criticism of the current order of things as nonideal, while dystopian warnings of the dangers of ‘bad’ utopias still allow for the possibility of ‘good’ utopias […] one might, in fact, see dystopia and utopian visions not as fundamentally opposed but as very much a part of the same project” (1994b:15).

What Booker suggests, then, is that utopia and dystopia are two sides of the same coin. Fuelled by an innate utopian impulse, humanity inevitably desires a better future, a desire which takes hold of our fantasies. which in turn manifests in a wide variety of physical expressions, the utopian novel being the most notable. Yet, as much as we are capable of envisioning a better tomorrow, we are just as capable of imagining a worse outcome, suggesting a constant interplay between utopian and dystopian fantasies.

Often these fantasies are localised in a specific space, a space that allows for the cultivation of both utopian and dystopian imaginations. Such spaces could be seen as, what Jameson calls, “Utopian enclaves”. He argues that “laws, labor, marriage, industrial and institutional organisations, trade and exchange, even subjective raw materials such as characterological formations, habits of practice, talents, gender attitudes: all become at one point or another in the story of utopias, grist for the Utopian mill and substances out of which the Utopian construction can be fashioned” (Jameson, 2007: 14). These, and numerous other ideas, theories, and mental constructs act as spaces that, especially during times of transition, are ripe for cultivating utopian imaginings. Jameson (2007: 16) explains that these “enclaves are something like a foreign body within the social: in them the differentiation process has momentarily been arrested, so they remain as it were momentarily beyond the reach of the social and testify to its political powerlessness, at the same time they offer a space in which new wish images of the social can be elaborated and experimented on”. These spaces are not complete fabulations; they exist on the social horizon, on the periphery of the now and, despite being tied to a very real idea, are just beyond the reach of contemporary society, serving as a space for utopian imagination to flourish. Jameson (2007: 15) likens these enclaves to “pocket[s] of stasis within the ferment and rushing forces of social change,” an observation which serves to highlight the connection between the enclave and social transition. These spaces, then, are often the by-product of forward-moving transitional periods such as the shift towards mechanisation and automation during

31 the Industrial Revolution. Hence, in Technophobia! Science Fiction Visions of Posthuman Technology, Daniel Dinello (2005: 37) notes how the “Industrial Revolution seemed suddenly to uplift human power and to bring on dreams of technological Utopia on Earth in place of the mythic one in Heaven”. In this instance mechanisation becomes the utopian enclave: it looms on the horizon with beckoning fantasies of simplified labour and endless, effortless, commercial output. It is important to note, however, that no space is inherently utopian. Regardless of the enclave, it must be infused with some form of utopian projection in order to achieve that status. Thus, in her thesis “In Search of a Postcategorical Utopia” (2010), Pekka Kilpelainen argues that utopian enclaves “are imaginary in the sense that they do not exist as such in terms of real physical space. It may, however, be argued that they have real effects in the sense that they are often connected to certain geographical spaces, and allow for the possibility to imagine alternatives to the status quo, the world fraught with social contradictions” (2010: 72-73). Her definition does make room for real physical spaces, such as an undiscovered country or, as in Tommaso Campanella’s utopian novel The City of The Sun (1602), the monastery (Jameson 2007: 17); but even those geographical locations are infused with the imagination that reconstructs them into utopian spaces. What she suggests is that a utopian enclave belongs to the realm of the imaginary (Kilpelainen, 2010: 73) and it is only the imagination which can reconfigure a space to invest it with projections of a better future, making it utopian (Kilpelainen, 2010: 74). Thus no space is inherently utopian: only thinking or imagining makes it so. Nevertheless, as illustrated earlier, when we attempt to imagine utopia, we inevitably evoke the possibility of dystopia as well. Consequently one can argue for the possibility of a dystopian enclave, where the imagination that would normally transform a space into a utopian enclave would be baleful, suggesting despair instead of hope, or trying to warn against danger instead of luring with a promise of a better tomorrow.

One such space is posthumanism, which, especially in SF, has played host to both dystopian and utopian fantasies. As Jameson notes, enclaves often form in tandem with historical change or periods of transition; likewise, the idea of posthumanism gained momentum in the last 30 years with the rise of the Information Age, an era characterised by rapid technological development and a move away from traditional industry towards an information-driven computer-heavy knowledge economy.

Like the preceding Industrial Revolution, the Information Age introduced new technologies that altered both the economic and social landscape. Changes in technology are often at the forefront of, or at least interwoven with, various transitional periods. However, usually accompanying these new technologies are speculations regarding their effect on humanity, which range from optimistic to fearful. As an example, we can look at the technology-saturated climate of the last 30 years, which, in The Posthuman Condition: Consciousness Beyond the Brain, Robert Pepperell credits with giving impetus to the idea of posthumanism. Pepperell notes how the term posthumanism is employed to describe several concepts; one of which is the idea that the social movement, driven by the philosophy of humanism — an optimistic belief that there exists such a thing as the ideal human — is at an end. More importantly, Pepperell’s argument encapsulates two central ideas: that our traditional view of what constitutes a human being is undergoing a profound transformation, and that this transformation involves a general convergence of biology and technology to a point where the lines between man and machine are becoming blurred (Pepperell, 2003: iv). The latter is fuelled by an awareness of the rapidly changing technological climate that characterises the late 20th century Information Age. Pepperell also points to the interesting paradox, that an increasing awareness of our human condition amidst technological advancements “is a kind of self-awareness that in some way pre-dates us by decades, even perhaps by centuries, but also seems strangely new” (Pepperell, 2003: 1). For Pepperell, this renewed sense of self awareness is fuelled by a sudden disruption: for most of humanity’s existence, a defining characteristic of our condition was the ability to create and control our technology, but now “the balance of dominance between human and machine is slowly shifting” (1). Suddenly our relationship with technology is no longer one of master and tool, but one of co-dependence. The more advanced technology becomes, the more aware we become of our own fragility, failings and potential expendability. This is especially evident in how the 20th century was marked by a move from technological reliance to a technological dependence, which seems only to have increased with the arrival of the 21st century. As examples, Pepperell lists technological advancements he labels “posthuman technologies” (2003: 5). These are technologies which have contributed to creating a climate in which the idea of posthumanism can flourish. Pepperell refers specifically to robotics, communication technology, prosthetics, intelligent machines, 33 nanotechnology, genetic manipulation, artificial intelligence (AI), and artificial life. What these technologies represent, aside from being milestone scientific achievements, is a blurring of boundaries. Their impact on humanity crosses the differentiating border between man and machine and, as they continue to integrate themselves more and more with our bodies and lives, it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to imagine life without them. Prosthetic technology is already enabling humans to overcome crippling disabilities (beyond mere mobility) or expand their lifespans (pacemakers, for example). Nanotechnology presents an opportunity to inject our bodies with tiny machines that can alter the molecular structure of viruses and diseases, or even create new, beneficial organic structures. Genetic manipulation has the potential to treat diseases before they appear, and even do away with certain cancers. One thus needs not look far to see the practical possibilities inherent in such posthuman technologies, but also take cognisance of how it could act as a source of inspiration, both terrifying and optimistic, for new generations of SF authors. Perhaps the most famous fictional creation born from the posthuman climate is the cyborg: a figure that, on the surface, appears to be a seamless integration between man and machine. Much in the way that the Industrial Revolution inspired Mary Shelley’s imaginings of Victor Frankenstein’s monster, so has the Information Age, and the late 20th century posthuman climate, inspired literary images of the cyborg: a figure that, like Frankenstein’s monster, elicits both fascination and fear. It is the fictional culmination of posthumanism, the speculative end result of this increasing human/machine border crossing. Christine Cornea’s (2005) essay on the cyborg and its place in popular culture points to how the cyborg, in contemporary SF, represents a shift in the human/other dichotomy. Otherness in SF was traditionally seen as that which is non-human, contrasted with the self (human), so there was a clear demarcation between what was human and what was not. The cyborg, however, “challenges the dichotomous model of self/Other that the genre has previously relied upon.” (2005: 275). Where figures such as the robot traditionally represented the fear of industrial age machines working independently of humans, the cyborg both incorporates and excludes the human, erasing the distinction between man and technology (Springer cited by Cornea: 275.). The cyborg is thus the self and machine (other), merging to form a new entity that is neither man nor

34 machine, hence threatening much of “Western philosophy’s reliance on Cartesian inspired dualism” (275.). It should come as no surprise then that the cyborg, in both lived experience and fiction, is a creature entangled in controversy. The existing developments in prosthetic technology, bioengineering, nanotechnology and other fields, and the rise of the cyborg in SF in particular, makes it a creature of both fiction and social reality (Haraway cited by Cornea, 2005: 276). To this end, Cornea (276) argues that the “idea of the cyborg as both a material production and concept has opened up a highly contingent space in which various cyborg imaginings can be conceived and contested – a space from which it is possible to challenge traditional/dominant ideas of ‘proper’ human social/material arrangements.” Cornea suggests that the cyborg is the embodiment of a utopian space, ripe for fantasy and wish colonisation. As we are caught in a stream of ever-expanding and evolving technology and its rapid integration of the human, the idea of the cyborg evokes both the horror of fusion and subsequent disintegration, and optimism at the potential not just to increase our human capabilities, but also to challenge contemporary understandings of the human.

As mentioned earlier, Pepperell also lists communication technologies as contributing to this posthuman climate, and mentions perhaps one of the greatest achievements in communication technologies, the internet, which evolved from a small networking system into a global network that allows a free-flow of often unregulated data. Its power to disseminate untold amounts of information within seconds would naturally draw SF authors to its thematic potential. Just as advanced biotechnology gave rise to the cyborg, so too did this advanced communication technology take on the fictional form of cyberspace. As discussed in the introductory chapter, cyberspace can be defined in a literal sense as a collection of interconnected computers that facilitate the sharing and collection of data, but also more symbolically, as an imagined space where we might build new worlds or images of the self (Bell, 2003: 7). This is why, in An Introduction to Cybercultures, David Bell (2003: 8, 21) refers to the storying of cyberspace as either material or symbolic: material stories denote telling the history of cyberspace and the technology that enabled its existence, whereas symbolic stories refer to representations of cyberspace in popular culture. Cyberspace, in these symbolic stories, often takes on

35 the forms described in the introductory chapter: vast digital landscapes accessed only by releasing the mind into this data-universe. Much like the cyborg, cyberspace takes on the characteristics of being part of both social reality and fiction. Also like the cyborg, the fantasies surrounding this symbolic cyberspace often fluctuate between scenarios of leaving the ‘meat’ (a derogatory term for the body in cyberpunk fiction) behind “to become distilled in a clean, pure, uncontaminated relationship with computer technology” (Lupton quoted in Bell, 2003: 141), and a less optimistic end result where abandoning the body in favour of this mind-immortality becomes a nightmare filled with never-ending emptiness (Starlin & Graziunas cited in Bell, 2003: 148).

So what we have with posthumanism and its fictional representations of the cyborg and cyberspace are contrasting possibilities. As SF literary critic, N. Katherine Hayles (quoted in Bell, 2003: 142) argues: “the prospect of becoming posthuman both evokes terror and excites pleasure”, and Bell (142) expands on this when he states: “I think this partly depends on the vision of posthumanism you’re looking at. While some are apocalyptic and antihuman, as Hayles says, other formulations of human machine interfacing are conjured that have potentially productive outcomes”. But while these positive, or negative representations of posthumanism are popular in SF, more theoretical writings around the concept are also prominent. Theorists such as Max More, Donna Haraway and Margret Wertheim see posthumanism in a more positive light, arguing in favour of its implied boundary transgressions. Nevertheless, since any utopian enclave is open to both dystopian and utopian imaginings, the musings, both fictional and theoretical, surrounding posthumanism are also often polarised, taking a stance of grave concern or one of cautious optimism. Jean- Francois Lyotard’s The Inhuman: Reflections on Time (1991), and Francis Fukuyama’s Our Posthuman Future: Consequences of the Biotechnology Revolution (2002) both posit a much less optimistic outcome if we wish to merge our minds and bodies with technology. It should, however, be noted that the writings of Lyotard and Fukuyama cannot be considered ‘dystopian’. Neither of them outright prophesies some imagined end-time, nor do they explicitly state that posthumanism ushers in the death of humankind. Rather, each author raises concerns regarding the effects posthumanism might have for their respective theorisations of human nature. They

36 are not so much dystopian as sceptical, approaching posthumanism with caution rather than optimism.

For example, in The Inhuman: Reflections on Time (1991) Lyotard questions whether a piece of technological hardware would ever be able to house human thought. While Lyotard does not explicitly critique or refer to posthumanism, one can reasonably infer from The Inhuman that Lyotard would be reluctant to embrace posthumanism. This is especially evident in the introductory chapter “Can Thought Go on without a Body”, where Lyotard argues that the human body is the only vessel capable of housing the complexity that is human thought. Technology, Lyotard argues, can never serve as a suitable surrogate. So it is likely that Lyotard would be opposed to the posthuman idea of one day downloading our minds into cyberspace. Lyotard’s aversion to technology is already evident in The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge (1984), where he calls it “a game pertaining not to the true, the just, or the beautiful, etc., but to efficiency-, a technical "move" is "good" when it does better and/or expends less energy than another” (Lyotard 1984: 44). Technology demands improvement, its focus is on optimisation and uniform perfection, leaving little room for what is true, just, or aesthetically pleasing. In The Inhuman Lyotard hones in on the new threat of what he calls “techno-science”(1991: 17), which, in Lyotard and the Inhuman (2001), Stuart Sim defines as a “term [Lyotard uses] to describe the range of forces committed to extending the domain of technology at the expense of humanity and its values” (2001: 79). This technological eclipse is one of the elements that influenced Lyotard’s creation of the term inhuman. He asks (1991: 2) “what if human beings, in humanism's sense, were in the process of, constrained into, becoming inhuman (that's the first part)? And (the second part), what if what is 'proper' to humankind were to be inhabited by the inhuman?” To distinguish between these two definitions of the inhuman, Lyotard (2) asserts that the “inhumanity of the system which is currently being consolidated under the name of development (among others) must not be confused with the infinitely secret one of which the soul is hostage.” In her summary of Lyotard’s key ideas, Ashley Woodward (2005) states that inhumanism then points to two possibilities: the one involves the potentially positive effects that are inherently human, but which the idea of the human (as constructed by humanism) tries to repress (2005: para. 50), while the other inhuman, as Sim (2001:

78) defines it, “is a blanket term designed to cover all those cases where the human dimension is eclipsed by the technological, or taken to be subsidiary to it in some way. To be an inhumanist is to be in favour of blurring the division between man and machine”. Sim (2001: 7) also states that the second kind of “inhuman is now with us in a variety of forms, and technology is encroaching ever further into our lives”, which seems to suggest a technological saturation similar to the one that inspired Pepperell to coin the phrase ‘posthuman climate’. This technological inhuman vexes Lyotard (1991:7), who advocates a resistance to the inhuman and its techno-science backer, since, as techno-science drives forward its campaign of optimisation, perfection and streamline precision, it is also pushes itself deeper into the terrain of social necessity, replacing technological convenience with technological dependence. Lyotard is concerned that “living with the inhuman, as we do now, is one thing; being subordinate to its will would be quite something else” (Sim, 2001: 7). Lyotard does not predict a posthuman revolution where what it means to be human will be re- evaluated; instead he sees the encroaching technology as dominating humanity and moulding us in such a way as to do away with the human, not just reconfigure it. This techno-science-driven inhumanism opposes Lyotard’s second version of inhumanism, the inhumanism which is inherently truly human, a human who is free from the constraints of both techno-science and humanism’s campaign of relentless progress and the exclusion of differences (Woodward, 2005: para. 50). In Critical Humanism and the Politics of Difference (2003), Jeff Noonan suggests that, for Lyotard, this inhuman is the “nonrational elements of human being and culture that stand as bulwarks to technological osmosis” (2003: 61). This is a positive inhuman, an inhuman that is “feeling rather than thought, emotion rather than ratiocination, consciousness of the body rather than self-consciouness” (61). Lyotard describes this inhuman as being “unharmonizable” (1991: 4), while Noonan calls it a space of “native indeterminacy” (61), and it is because of such indeterminacy that this inhuman aspect of the human is free: it resists the rigidity of process and eludes attempts at structured conformity. Creativity springs from this inhuman (Noonan, 2003: 148), and artists strive to embrace and become inhuman (Lyotard, 1991: 2). Lyotard’s classification of the two types of inhuman puts him in a position where he favours post-humanism, that is to say rejecting the idea of the human as constructed by humanism, but opposing posthumanism, since posthumanism calls for a “reassessment of the significance of the human, and a realignment of our 38 relationship to technology […] it is just such a process that Lyotard, for all his posthumanist bias, was so afraid of” (Sim, 2001: 15). Techno-science driven inhumanism, with its mandate for perfection, thus clashes with this unharmonisable inhuman and threatens its extinction. To further his argument against the technological inhuman, The Inhuman’s opening chapter offers a fictional scenario which considers the possibility, if any, that technology offers humanity after the planet is consumed by the sun. Lyotard opens his essay with a literal bang, stating that in about five billion years our sun will explode and take with it the earth. Significantly, this is not an apocalyptic event, like others that have been called apocalyptic, which we will reflect upon many years after its passing when we rise from the ashes; this “change is enough to render null and void your anticipation of a world after the explosion” (Lyotard, 1991: 10). There will be no mind that thinks about the destruction, there will not be intelligence, humanness or any earthly horizon (1991: 10). The essay is then presented as a dialogue between “He”7 and “She”, which Lyotard uses to distinguish between different modes of thought. According to Daniel Whistler’s breakdown of Lyotard’s writing, (2011: 228) it is “the technological [He] versus the philosophical [She], the male versus the female”. By dividing the chapter into the thoughts of “He” and “She”, Lyotard tries to put across his point that thought and gender are inseparable (which will be expanded on further in this chapter) “He” examines this eventual end of earthly matter and thought and makes it quite clear that to “think, at the very least you have to breathe, eat, etc. You are still under an obligation to earn a living” (1991: 13). He presents an inseparable link between thought and the body: thought is complex and the human body can be seen as the hardware that houses this complexity (13). So now, when the sun explodes, “the hardware will be consumed in the solar explosion, taking philosophical thought with it (along with all other thought)” (13). In the face of such an event, the only solution, if we wish to survive, would be to manufacture hardware capable of housing human thought that can sustain itself on the general energy available in the cosmos (free from terrestrial requirement, seeing that the earth will be less than nothing).

7 While Lyotard is very specific in his use of “He” and “She”, it should be stated that gender, in this dissertation, does not require extensive expansion. In the case of Lyotard, it is sufficient to understand his belief that thought and gender, are inseparable. While posthumanism can become a space to interrogate gender, what is important, in this dissertation, is posthumanism’s capacity to elicit, for good or bad, change ‒ whether in terms of gender, physical configuration, identity, or any of the myriad other aspects that comprises the biological human. 39

(1991: 14). This is already problematic, since this “resolution would involve a devaluation of the physical that would be unacceptable to defenders of the human” (Sim, 2003: 31) So this scenario presents two concerns: firstly, that human thought is too complex for any machine to fully comprehend, and, secondly, that thought can only be considered human thought if confined to a human body. But “He” does not dwell on the possibilities of technologies capable of harbouring human thought existing or coming into existence at a later stage; his concern stems from the fact that “human thought doesn’t think in a binary mode” (1991: 15). Thought does not work in bits of data; it is capable of interpreting imprecisions and distinguish the important from the unimportant without an exhaustive process of comparing the data against some “right or wrong” criteria (15). It is amorphous, a cloud-like thing without pattern or rules. These characteristics of thought are what makes it completely incompatible with technological reasoning, since the “movement of thought has a mysterious quality foreign to the entire technological exercise” (Sim, 2003: 36). Human thought, then, would be alien to machine thinking, which, in turn, would stifle human thinking. As an example, Lyotard (1991: 15) refers to reflective judgement, a process described first by Emmanuel Kant, which he defines as a “mode of thought not guided by rules for determining data but showing itself capable of developing such rules afterwards on the basis of results obtained ‘reflexively’”. In other words, this is a thought process governed by arbitrary whim instead of a rigid system of rules machines might employ. This reflective thought, which contrasts with the binary thinking of machines, “does not hide what it owes to perceptual experience” (15). There is thus a strong link between thought and body, which points to thought interpreting that which it experiences through the body. It needs the stimulus to reflect upon the experience, to interpret the data via indeterminate processes that merely contrast binary equations. This understanding of the link between thought and the body is also important in the creation of artificial intelligence “if it’s intended that artificial intelligence not be limited to the ability to reason logically” (1991:16). So while “He” attempts to imagine the possibility of separating body and mind, “She” instead argues that the body is home to several concepts which no machine would ever be able to simulate, namely suffering and gender. These two ideas are essential if we wish to preserve complex inhuman thought. Regarding suffering: for “She” thought cannot remove itself from the body for “thinking and suffering overlap” 40

(1991: 18). Suffering, in this case, does not refer to suffering in the traditional sense, that is to say, the state of undergoing mental or physical hardship. Instead, the suffering here is the suffering brought on by thought, or to be more precise, the suffering of the not-yet thought. To clarify: for Lyotard, thinking opens itself up to suffering. Thought is never satisfied because there are always more unexplored possibilities inherent in a specific cognitive trajectory. The senses invite only the possibility of limited perception, while thought must deal with the limitless possibilities inherent in thought and the ‘unthought’ (the unrealised trajectory of a thought). So perceptual “‘recognition’ never satisfies the logical demand for complete description” (1991: 17). The burden of the unthought is, by Lyotard’s standards, the hallmark of true inhuman thought. I will expand more thoroughly on Lyotard’s argument regarding the overlapping of thought and suffering in the next chapter; for now it is worth pointing out that suffering, of any kind, seems at odds with a posthuman future, since suffering “doesn’t have a good reputation in the technological megalopolis” (1991: 20). From the perspective of techno-science, suffering is not optimal because, even if machines could learn to suffer, that would oppose their central directive of optimisation and efficiency. Sim (2003: 41) clarifies this concern when he states that “anything that impacts adversely on performance will be avoided by techno-science: system efficiency is all in this context. Neither emotion nor sensation can have any place in such a world”. Finally, “She” brings up the reality that the human body has a gender and it is “an accepted proposition that sexual differences is a paradigm of an incompleteness of not just bodies, but minds too” (1991: 20). At this point in his essay, Lyotard’s belief that thought is gendered is not just expressed the moment “She” makes the claim, but also by the very fact that the musings of both “He” and “She” are inherently different. Where “He” attempts to theorise the possibility, if any, of viewing thought as ‘software’ and the body ‘hardware’, “She” is adamant that thought is uniquely bound to bodies of flesh (Whistler, 2011: 228) .This, according to Lyotard’s interpretation, inherent difference between male and female thought would again stand in opposition to techno-science’s drive towards unified perfection, especially since gender inevitably leads to desire, another unpredictable variable (Sim, 2003: 42). So both gender and desire would be needless additions in terms of machine logic, something totally unnecessary that only presents possible disruptions. “She” concludes that thought, unharmonisable, complex human thought, is bound in the 41 inescapable realities of desire, gender and suffering, making “the body, our phenomological, mortal perceiving body [..] the only available analogon for thinking a certain complexity of thought” (1991: 22). Lyotard’s scepticism regarding techno- science’s ultimate solution, when the Earth ceases to be, is blatant: “thought should not be separated from body; and if it ever is, then it must be in some way that replicates the experience of being within a body (and a gendered body at that) - with all the disadvantages this would have for development's long-term objectives” (Sim, 2003: 45). If techno-science does somehow manage to create a technological vessel capable of housing human thought, Lyotard would be hesitant to call this true human thought. Lyotard’s argument in favour of keeping thought in a human body elicits thinking around cyberspace and its possibilities. Cyberspace is, as yet, not capable of housing human thought, but its ability to host limitless data and provide instant global connection initially offered an irresistible lure for cyberpunk authors, who created digital worlds where the body is simply something to be shed so that the mind can embrace a new ‘dataverse’. Even in today’s info-driven society, “one’s physical attributes will [soon] be less significant than one’s ‘virtual presence’ or 'telepresence'.” (Pepperell, 2003: 5). But even if the day does come when we can download our minds onto computer hardware, Lyotard would more than likely not be first in line to embrace cyber-immortality.

So what The Inhuman suggests is that there is some underlying humanness that we risk losing in the presence of posthuman technologies, a key argument often adopted by opponents of posthumanism. Those critical of posthumanism frequently refer to human nature and the threat posthumanism poses to the idea of innate human characteristics. This is, as will be seen later in this chapter, a contentious issue since locating an essential human is, and has been, a much-debated topic. It is difficult to pinpoint what it is that makes us human, but in Our Posthuman Future: Consequences of the Biotechnology Revolution (2002) Francis Fukuyama is adamant that, regardless of its elusiveness, human nature, in some form or another, does exist and is worth preserving. While Our Posthuman Future does not refer to posthumanism in the SF sense, that is to say in the form of cyborg bodies, Fukuyama’s stance that altering our basic biological traits in any way could be detrimental to human nature clearly indicates he would oppose figures such as the

42 cyborg. So, if human nature does exist, but remains untraceable, then merging flesh and machine could have dire consequences. Owing to the fact that human nature cannot be localised to specific characteristics, Fukuyama argues, instead, that underneath social context, status, skin colour, gender, and other classifications, there is an essential human quality which he simply calls ‘Factor X’. In its most basic sense you “can cook, eat, torture, enslave, or render the carcass of any creature lacking Factor X, but if you do the same thing to a human being, you are guilty of a ‘crime against humanity’” (2002: 150). Hence, Factor X is the indeterminate essence of what makes us human (150), and is simultaneously amorphous and inseparable within each individual. To define Factor X is impossible, since it “cannot be reduced to the possession of a moral choice, or reason, or language, or sociability, or sentience, or emotions, or consciousness, or any other quality that has been put forward as a ground for human dignity. It is all these qualities coming together in a human whole that make up Factor X” (2002: 171). Denying Factor X any solid attributes is clearly intentional because if, as James Hughes argues in Citizen Cyborg (2004: 114), “we were able to specify which traits were important to humanness, then we could make laws that preserved those and allow people to muck around with the rest. But since we don’t know what Factor X is we can’t change anything about human nature without accidentally breaking it.” So if, as Fukuyama argues, Factor X is this untraceable and inviolable essence of the human, then posthumanism would clearly be seen as its antithesis, since posthumanism entails radical transformations and alterations of the human body and mind. Fukuyama is also aware that there are many critics who scoff at the idea of a core human essence. Among them is geneticist Lee Silver, who opposes the idea of human nature on the grounds that humanity is constantly evolving and altering itself in the process. Interestingly, Silver uses the example of the smallpox virus, arguing that it also was initially seen as part of some unifying human experience. Regardless of one’s station in life, the smallpox virus killed indiscriminately. But with the introduction of vaccines, we have now all but eradicated the disease. Thus, for Silver, the idea of an untouchable Factor X hampers scientific and social progress; it resigns us to the natural limitations of the human body. Silver argues that if humanity is given the power to improve itself through posthuman technology, then it must seize this power (cited in Fukuyama, 2002: 152-3). Silver’s rather optimistic outlook 43 regarding posthuman alterations does not sit well with Fukuyama, who, as Jame Hughes points out in Citizen Cyborg: Why Democratic Societies Must Respond to the Redesigned Human of the Future, is of the opinion that any “utopian visions of radical improvement of the human condition, social or biological, lead inexorably to the gas chamber and the gulag” (2004: 113). So, unlike Silver, Fukuyama is not convinced that posthuman technologies would naturally lead to the improvement of humanity. Instead, Fukuyama is adamant that abandoning Factor X in favour of posthuman enhancements would inevitably lead to situations where people lose a common, unifying humanity. As examples, Fukuyama theorises several scenarios where Factor X has been abandoned in favour of posthuman enhancements. One such scenario theorises a future where advanced genetic engineering has resulted in the creation of a “GenRich” (generation rich). This generation consists of children who, thanks to their parents being able to afford advanced gene manipulation, are born intellectually and physically superior to their non-enhanced “GenPoor” counterparts. Fukuyama then expands on this scenario by suggesting that biotechnology could eventually result in the ability to circumvent the “genetic lottery” altogether. The genetic lottery guarantees that the child of rich, successful parents might not necessarily inherit the talents that contributed to their parents’ success. This genetic lottery is “judged as inherently unfair by many because it condemns certain people to lesser intelligence, or bad looks, or disabilities of one sort or another. But in another sense it is profoundly egalitarian, since everyone, regardless of social class, race, or ethnicity, has to play in it” (Fukuyama, 2002: 157). If those with money can simply guarantee their children will be born with a perfect set of genes, they risk seeing themselves as ‘children of choice’ rather than a product of luck. In doing so, the empathy the GenRich might have for those who are not as fortunate as them might, instead, be replaced with a cold shoulder, since they might believe themselves not lucky, but as the product of smart planning by their parents. Their better birth will be a well- planned reality, not simply a series of fortunate events. While this GenRich-scenario is focused primarily on genetic engineering, it would not be impossible to assume that these fears could be embodied in the figure of the cyborg as well. After all, many of Fukuyama’s speculations bear a striking resemblance to plots one would expect to find in SF novels and films.

In fact, many SF texts explore the idea that becoming a cyborg might create something superior, but, inevitably, monstrous. In the 1958 movie The Colossus of New York, a grieving father places the brain of his dead son in a machine body, despite his colleague warning him that “the soul must connect the mind to the organic body; otherwise, the person will become ‘dehumanized to the point of monstrous’” (quoted in Dinello, 2005: 121). As expected, his once compassionate son, now trapped in a machine body, loses all empathy, develops a hatred for humans, and ends up going on a violent rampage. Similar scenarios are presented in cyberpunk texts as well, where cyborg assassins, who have become perfect killing machines, end up sacrificing their individual freedom and empathy. They end up seeing humans as something to be used, rather than someone to form a connection with. Yet another scenario has hackers becoming addicted to the freedom of cyberspace and abandoning their bodies to experience digital bliss. In all of these cases, human connection is secondary to the lure of technological power.

In short, Lyotard’s inhuman and Fukuyama’s Factor X share an interesting belief: that beyond culture, context, and individual experience, there is a fundamental humanness which binds us. Therefore, augmenting the human body and mind could do irreparable damage to this unrepresentable, yet essential, aspect of the human. As Andy Miah notes in his essay “A Critical History of Posthumanism”, Fukuyama is adamant “that a fixed, if inarticulate, conceptualisation of the human is crucial to the organisation of society and this is why debates about posthumanism are so controversial” (Miah, 2008: 79). Similarly, Lyotard is insistent that this human nature is, arguably, not compatible with technological advancements. If we are to preserve inhuman thought, it requires a gendered body that constantly suffers under the weight of perpetual unthought. This gendered, restless mind would be incompatible with a machine body and its focus on binary perfection. So, although these authors do not outright claim that posthumanism would herald the end times, one can infer that their concerns would most likely fit a more dystopian mould. What most of these authors theorise (or imagine) is the possibility that posthumanism could lead to the disintegration of the human as we know it. But, as Hayles (cited in Bell, 2003: 142) states, posthumanism has the potential to terrify, but also to evoke fantasies of rebirth and perfection. This is evident not just in certain SF texts, but also in the theoretical writings of authors such as Margaret Wertheim, Max More, and Donna

Haraway, who all adopt a more optimistic approach to certain possibilities suggested by posthumanism.

It is difficult to discuss the cyborg without having some encounter with the works of Donna Haraway, specifically her essay “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century” (1991). While the essay is intended more as a feminist call to action, it has nonetheless found popular use in SF criticism, especially those discussing the cyborg.8 The reason for its popularity among SF critics is Haraway’s theorisation of the cyborg. She uses the idea of the cyborg, not so much for what it is, but for what it could possibly represent, namely, a figure that embodies a transgression of boundaries. So while her intent is that the Cyborg Manifesto “must be read, first, as a feminist project located in a desire to reconstitute identity politics, particularly as it concerns assumptions about gender norms” (Miah, 2008: 83), it has also allowed for interpreting cyborgs as creatures that “effectively bypass biology and all the social history attached to it” (Sim, 2001: 47). In other words, the cyborg has the potential to be a site where ideas of what makes us human can be interrogated, and not just, as Fukuyama and Lyotard believe, disintegrated. So, while it would be unfair to call Haraway’s Cyborg Manifesto a utopian project, or one that calls for merging man and machine, it has, nonetheless, allowed for a more optimistic reading of the cyborg. To begin with, Haraway’s definition of the cyborg is twofold. Firstly, she defines it as a “cybernetic organism, a hybrid of machine and organism” (1991: 149), a definition which recognises the cyborg’s roots in posthumanism and SF. Secondly, she defines the cyborg as a “creature of social reality as well as a creature of fiction” (149). What Haraway means by “a creature of social reality” is that, in her view, most humans, by the late 20th century, are already cyborgs, in so far as “machines have made thoroughly ambiguous the difference between natural and artificial, mind and body, self-developing and external design, and many other distinctions that used to apply to organism and machine” (1991: 152). In the light of this, many of the technological developments that make up Pepperell’s posthuman climate, represent extensions, or simulations, of our organic whole: pacemakers, prosthetics, artificial intelligence, and more, all point to a blurring of boundaries between man and

8 See, Gerald Alva Miller, Jr., Exploring the Limits of the Human through Science Fiction (2012) and N. Katherine Hayles, How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics (1999) 46 machine. Even sitting in front of a computer sees simple keystrokes, interpreted by complex technology, taking the shape of human thoughts. By claiming that we are already cyborgs, Haraway destabilises the idea that the human is a fixed entity that has remained unchanged. In doing so, Haraway attempts to highlight the fact that many of humanity’s supposed stable characteristics, are only, as she refers to them, myths. All this would mean that essential concepts such as fixed identities, absolute knowledge, gender, origin, human nature, nation states, race and countless others, are all myths which are not bound by an absolute truth. These myths are simply agreed upon and given power by those who hold authority, who, in turn, erect illusionary walls to corral society into categories. So, for Haraway, the cyborg becomes a metaphor for the post-modern human, one who recognises the ethereal nature of these myths, and that they are nothing but an “achievement forced on us by the historical experience of the contradictory social realities of patriarchy, colonialism, and capitalism” (1991: 155). Thus “The Cyborg Manifesto” becomes “an argument for pleasure in the confusion of boundaries and for responsibility in their construction” (1991: 150); the cyborg therefore becomes a metaphor for rethinking supposed stable identities, such as gender, race, class, human and other supposedly immutable classifications. By illuminating these blurred distinctions, Haraway is arguing that we should “conceive of ourselves as open-ended projects rather than finished entities, actively seeking new forms and new ways of being in order to subvert the cultural norms of our time” (Sim, 2001: 52). What it means to be human – male or female, natural or unnatural, organic or machine – is subject to constant change, and impossible to pin down in any clear ideology-free definition. Haraway’s cyborg accepts that it is itself an entity constantly under construction, and one that embraces the opportunity to break down and rebuild itself as needed. By doing so, the cyborg rejects any form of essentialism and welcomes the opportunity to reconstruct its origin. Nevertheless, it should be noted that reading “The Cyborg Manifesto” as a project advocating posthumanism’s potential to enhance humanity, would most likely not sit well with Haraway. As Miah (2008: 84) states: “Haraway’s claims about cyborgs were not based on an interest to enhance humanity, but intended to disrupt uniform ideas about what it means to be human and the social and political entitlements this might imply”. That being said, this does not mean Haraway views 47 the posthuman cyborg as misrepresenting her ideas. As an example, she refers to Anne McCaffrey’s SF novel The Ship Who Sang (1969) that tells the story of Helva, a cyborg, who was once a human girl, whose body is now merged with an advanced spacecraft. Haraway appreciates how “gender, sexuality, embodiment, skill: all were reconstituted in the story” (1991: 178); however, it is the line “why should our bodies end at the skin, or include at best other beings encapsulated by skin?” (178) that seems to indicate a belief that the posthuman cyborg could encapsulate her ideas of transgressing boundaries. In summary, Haraway believes that “no objects, spaces or bodies are sacred in themselves, any component can be interfaced with any other if the proper standards, proper code, can be constructed for processing signals in a common language” (1991: 163). What is displayed in Haraway’s work is a cautious optimism about blurring dividing lines, unlike the works of Fukuyama and Lyotard, that argue in favour of the existence of fixed, if inarticulate, human characteristics. Haraway wishes to challenge borders, not promote labels, such as Factor X and the inhuman. For her, ideas such as the inhuman and Factor X represent attempts to identify fictitious points of origin, plastering these supposed sacred spaces with warning labels that dissuade any attempts to alter or question them. “The Cyborg Manifesto” might then be seen as a springboard to interrogating what it means to be human; significantly, it is these ideas that are often explored in postcyberpunk. Much like “The Cyborg Manifesto”, certain postcyberpunk texts, such as Mamoru Ishii’s Ghost in the Shell, recognise that “human values are not imprinted on the fabric of the universe because what it means to be human is always negotiable” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: xi). These texts see the traditional cyborg as “an imaginative resource suggesting some very fruitful couplings” (1991: 15), not just as a vessel to convey messages of human enhancement.

While Haraway never attempts to advocate human enhancement through technology, other, more technologically oriented philosophies have taken a much more direct approach to posthuman enhancement. Most notable among these movements is transhumanism. In The Transhumanist Reader: Classical and Contemporary Essays on the Science, Technology, and Philosophy of the Human Nature (2013), author and noted transhumanist Max More defines the movement as one that regards “human nature not as an end in itself, not as perfect, and not as

48 having any claim on our allegiance. Rather, it is just one point along an evolutionary pathway and we can learn to reshape our own nature in ways we deem desirable and valuable” (2013: 4). This definition shares similarities with Haraway’s call to re- examine what it means to be human. However, More further argues that by “thoughtfully, carefully, and yet boldly applying technology to ourselves, we can become something no longer accurately described as human – we can become posthuman” (4). So transhumanism does not just call for a re-evaluation of the human; it actively promotes the use of technology as a means to reconstruct, and enhance, the human body and mind. In simplified terms, transhumanism is, arguably, a utopian belief that humanity can improve itself through technological posthumanism. It should then come as no surprise that Fukuyama ‒ with his staunch belief that embracing posthumanism could do irreparable damage to human nature ‒ would consider this radical transhumanism “the world’s most dangerous idea” (quoted in Miah, 2008: 79). As a result of its pro-posthumanist stance, transhumanism is also, by its nature, future-oriented. While the movement does focus on current technological developments, it also tends toward speculation, exploring the imaginative possibilities that this technology might bring in the future. However, these imaginations are seldom negative or fearful. For example: neuroscience, artificial intelligence, nanotechnology, advanced prosthesis, body modifications and other posthuman technologies, are of specific interest to transhumanists, who are excited not just by what these technologies mean today, but what they could possibly mean tomorrow. For transhumanism, these technologies offer prolonged life extension, extraordinary strength and vitality, regeneration, all aspects which humans have traditionally believed unattainable. Consequently, the cyborg becomes a figure that represents a positive transformation. In his essay “Re-Inventing Ourselves: The Plasticity of Embodiment, Sensing, and Mind” (2013), transhumanist Andy Clark suggests that merging our bodies with machines can have positive outcomes, ranging from enhanced physical capabilities to increased mental capacity. Clark (2013: 124) believes it “is our basic, biologically grounded nature to be open to a wide variety of forms of technologically mediated enhancements, from sensory substitution to bodily extension to mental extension and cognitive reconfiguration.” For Clark, the human body is not a fixed construct that has reached its theoretical end stage; instead, it is designed in such a way as to welcome transformation. Clark, 49 like More, believes that, if given the choice, humanity must not turn away from the opportunity to reconfigure, and subsequently improve, the body.

This openness to different physical forms, termed “morphological freedom” by More, is a cornerstone of transhumanist philosophy. This does not mean that transhumanists despise the body – they merely espouse a belief that we must be given a choice what form we wish our embodiment to take, be it a machine- enhanced body or even a virtual body (More, 2013: 15). That is perhaps the central tenet in transhumanism: choice. Once we understand that the human is not a complete or fixed entity, then technology could offer us the option to improve ourselves. This is why More points out that an “optimistic flavour necessarily permeates transhumanism. Someone cannot believe that radical transformations of the human condition are both possible and desirable while also believing that we are doomed to failure or disaster” (2013: 13). More expands on this optimistic outlook, arguing that transhumanism can even “act as a philosophy of life that fulfils some of the same function as religion without any appeal to a higher power, a supernatural entity, to faith, and without the other core features of religion” (2013: 8). In his essay, “Transhumanism and Christian Social Concern” (2005), Stephen Garner takes More’s stance on transhumanism and religion a step further, stating that both “transhumanism and Christianity are in a sense utopian. Both assert that all is not right with the world, that there is potentially more – ‘rumors of another world’ as one popular Christian writer puts it – and that a better, fuller, more realized world or society is possible”(2005: 30). This idea is expanded in the writings of transhumanist philosopher Margaret Wertheim, who focuses specifically on cyberspace and its potential to recreate the idea of Heaven without the necessity of religion.

In The Pearly Gates of Cyberspace (1999), Margaret Wertheim attempts to establish a link between posthumanism and theology. The ideas expressed in her work seem very much the opposite of those expressed by Lyotard. Not only does she believe thought can go on without a body, she also believes cyberspace could offer a suitable surrogate and, importantly, a more ideal space in which the mind can flourish. For Wertheim, cyberspace could offer the promise of heaven on earth. She states that cyberspace “is not a religious construct per se, but as I argue in this book, one way of understanding this new digital domain as an attempt to realize a

50 technological substitute for the Christian space of Heaven” (1999: 18-19).9 Early Christians saw Heaven as a space where their souls would be free from the trappings of the frail body; a similar perspective is adopted by pundits of cyberspace, who see it as a space where we will be free from our physical limitations and shortcomings (1999: 19). So, unlike Lyotard, who believes that our thoughts require a human body, Wertheim posits that cyberspace could, instead, free us from the limitations of the body. Wertheim also argues that cyberspace is an egalitarian space where race, class, gender, religion, physical disabilities, and other socially constructed categories, have little relevance. Cyberspace elevates “everybody equally to a disembodied digital stream” (1999: 24). It is a space where a collective equality, rather than individualistic differences, is celebrated. Jameson (2007: 21) also comments on the collective nature of cyberspace, arguing that it is an “enclave of a new sort [that] does away with the ‘centred subject’ and proliferates in new, post-individualistic ways. Those ways, however, cannot but be collective”. What Jameson suggests is that cyberspace’s collective nature lends itself to utopian imaginings. This point is also evident in Wertheim’s ideas (1999: 26), where she argues that the “collective nature of cyberspace is one of its primary appeals”. For Wertheim, cyberspace espouses ideals of togetherness and a respite from isolation, which, according to cyberspace philosopher Michael Heim (quoted in Wertheim, 1999: 27), “persists as a major problem of contemporary society – I mean spiritual isolation, the kind that plagues individuals even on crowded city streets”. As humanity is increasingly being caught up in this isolation, “the computer network appears as a godsend in providing forums for people to gather in surprising personal proximity” (Heim quoted in Wertheim, 1999: 27). As mentioned when discussing Pepperell’s idea of the posthuman climate, many of these benefits of cyberspace are already available, albeit in a less ‘divine’ sense. Online, people can easily find chat rooms and forums where they can share likeminded ideas without fear of reprisal, and where their physical and mental identities can be reconstructed. Bodies can already be altered in numerous MMORPGs (Massive Multiplayer Online Roleplaying Games), where players can create ideal digital versions of themselves, which allow them a chance to escape worldly restrictions and banalities.

9 Wertheim’s claim should not be misconstrued as her advocating that cyberspace is Heaven, rather that cyberspace has certain qualities that could make it heaven-like. She posits that cyberspace could represent a transcendent space, and the idea of transcendence is a common motif in several religions and secular systems of belief, not just Christianity. 51

Perhaps the biggest lure of cyberspace is its promise of immortality. Beyond unity and an all-embracing collective, cyberspace might finally deliver on the book of Revelation’s promise that “death shall be no more” (Wertheim, 1999: 21). Here Wertheim draws from transhumanist Hans Moravec’s writings, which express an excitement at the possibility of one day downloading our minds into a computer, and living forever in cyber-bliss. If this does come to pass, then immortality will finally be achieved, albeit digitally (21). Moravec also envisions the possibility of virtually recreating our planet, along with both past and present inhabitants. This could, in effect, imply the possibility of resurrecting, digitally, those who have died. Families and friends could be reunited in newly created digital utopias (21). Those who download their minds into the datasphere will also leave their bodies behind, prompting Moravec to state that we will finally be “freed from bondage to a material body” (Wertheim, 1999: 25). This desire for a spiritual space amidst scientific reasoning makes cyberspace the ideal site to populate with heavenly fantasies, in so far as cyberspace has no ties to any formal theological system, while, for many, its allure is its evocation of a divine. In fact, “not being an overtly religious construct is a crucial point in its favor; for in this scientific age, overt expression of traditional forms of religion makes many people uncomfortable” (Wertheim, 1999: 23). Cyberspace is ideal: “it is a repackaging of the old idea of Heaven but in a secular, technologically sanctioned format” (23).

In view of Haraway’s cyborg, More’s transhumanist philosophy, and Wertheim’s heavenly cyberspace, utopia now signals a distancing from traditional ideas of the self, body, and spirit. While not directly advocating technological posthumanism, Haraway nonetheless argues for a rethinking of the self, and for the possibility of breaking free from outdated concepts of the human which still colonise our thinking. While not overtly future-oriented, her writing has nonetheless captured the attention and admiration of SF scholars, writers and creators, so much so that Mamuro Oshii named one of his characters in Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence (2004), ‘Haraway’. It is no coincidence that this character is a cyborg coroner, a human/machine merger that dissects and interprets the body (Dinello, 2005: 141). More’s writing on transhumanism is a more direct call to embrace technology as a means not only to re-examine, but also improve, the human. While Lyotard, Haney and Fukuyama all warned against the posthuman, transhumanism actively encourages the posthuman,

52 seeing technology as the perfect tool to advance the human species. This philosophy promotes freedom of form and the freedom to choose how we wish to embody ourselves, all while firmly believing that these changes do not end in some dystopian disintegration of the human and its humanity. Wertheim expands on this belief in choosing our own embodiment, when arguing for cyberspace as an ideal space to imagine the possibility of Heaven without the need to tie one down to any religion. Where Lyotard could not imagine any technology capable of truly housing human thought, Wertheim stands on the opposite shore, seeing cyberspace as the perfect creation to allow thought without a body. It is a space that will be free from Lyotard’s important suffering and gender, because those who embrace techno- transcendence will have the power to simply will away such supposed necessities.

Thus, in this chapter, we have seen how utopian and dystopian imaginations are inseparable, and that one will inevitably be the catalyst for the formation of the other. The moment we envision the possibility of a better, perhaps ideal tomorrow, we invariably open the door for dystopian imaginings to step through as well. Consequently, one can never expect utopian visions to triumph over dystopian ones, or vice versa. More often than not, one might find both inhabiting the same space, either physically or in fiction, transforming these spaces into either dystopian or utopian enclaves. This is evident when posthumanism, and the varied theoretical and philosophical writings around it, are explained. Posthumanism started to evolve when rapid cybernetic and communication technology advancements emerged during much of the late 20th century. Subsequently, humanity’s relationship with technology slowly shifted from one based on assistance to one based on necessity. Without this new technology society would not merely slow down: it would crumble. As new technologies integrated themselves deeper into the fabric of our daily existence, they opened numerous imaginative possibilities, especially concerning the future of our minds and bodies. Eventually, from prosthetics, pacemakers, and our growing relationship with computers, was born the cyborg, a figure that has the potential to both enhance and supplant the human body, in which capacity it features prominently in cyberpunk SF. Furthermore, and in so far as human thought is concerned, the internet has presented us with the opportunity to access vast amounts of information instantly, but also stimulated fantasies about untethering our minds and releasing it into a completely virtual world.

All of these innovations signal metamorphic changes to representations of lived experience. The fantasies and speculative possibilities envisioned by posthumanism fluctuate between dystopian and utopian, not just in cyberpunk and postcyberpunk narratives, but also in theoretical writings. For example, François Lyotard and Francis Fukuyama are hesitant to embrace posthumanism fully, fearing that there is a fundamental human nature, albeit difficult to pin down conclusively, that is at stake. Where Lyotard believes that technology will never be able to house human thought, Fukuyama believes that once we commit to a path leading to posthumanism, we risk abandoning core elements of our being. What these writers have in common are fears that posthumanism will eclipse, and eventually consume, that which makes the human human. But, on the opposite end of the spectrum, there are the writings of theorists such as Donna Haraway, Max More and Susan Wertheim, which do not share the belief that the human is a finished project. Haraway argues that the cyborg represents an opportunity to reinvent the self, while More and Wertheim directly advocate the use of technology to reinvent, improve and surpass the limitations of our bodies and minds. For these theorists, posthumanism encapsulates positive outcomes.

In line with these diverse theories are the literary texts that espouse such varying philosophies. Hence there are cyberpunk texts, especially earlier ones, which depict the spread of posthuman technology as a virus that infects humans, threatening to dehumanise us. In these texts, the body and mind become spaces colonised by advanced technology, creating characters that are superior to normal flesh and blood humans, but at the expense of their humanity. As pointed out by Dani Cavallaro in Cyberpunk and Cybercultures: Science Fiction and the Work of William Gibson, in cyberpunk, posthuman figures such as the cyborg, “embod[y] cultural fears and anxieties” (2000: 46), mostly centred on the fear that the cyborg threatens an existing human nature. In other words, the outcomes envisioned by Lyotard and Fukuyama regarding posthumanism find expression in certain cyberpunk fiction.

A notable writer of cyberpunk fiction is William Gibson, whose works exemplify the dystopian view of posthumanism. Using some of the anti-posthumanist ideas discussed here, the following chapter will offer a reading of Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984), which aims to illustrate how the text presents an expression of technophobia, most notably in its depiction of the fear of the cyborg and cyberspace. Such a

54 reading will form the basis of the comparison between Gibson’s novel and Mamoru Oshii’s pro-posthumanist film Ghost in the Shell (1995) that follows in Chapter 4.

CHAPTER 3 Neuromancer and posthuman dread

The previous chapter established a strong correlation between utopia and dystopia, highlighting the idea that one will inevitably give rise to the other. The moment we attempt to imagine utopia, we allow for the possibility of imagining dystopia as well. Thus, no idea is inherently dystopian or utopian; it is our imagination that infuses specific beliefs, spaces, or ideas, with utopian excitement or dystopian dread. This is why certain concepts, such as posthumanism, can easily play host to both utopian and dystopian speculation: the thought of merging our bodies with technology lends itself to both fearful and optimistic predictions, and, for SF authors, offers a wellspring of narrative possibilities. Consequently, this chapter seeks to illustrate how certain cyberpunk SF, for the most part, adopts a more fearful and sceptical stance toward posthumanism. A point in case is William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984). A close reading of this novel will demonstrate how it depicts posthumanism as a process that threatens to consume the human. I will focus predominantly on two representations of posthumanism that feature prominently in Neuromancer: the cyborg — humans who have augmented their bodies with some form of technological modification — and disembodied cyberspace consciousnesses. Three of the characters in this novel — Molly, Armitage, and Riviera — are all cyborgs. And while their cybernetic implants and modifications make them physically, and mentally, superior to the average human, they gradually exhibit a general disregard for human life, a lack of empathy, a slow erosion of their identities, and incidences where their free will is compromised. Alongside these cyborgs are also various characterisations of ‘thoughts without bodies’, such as Dixie Flatline, Linda Lee and Case. Case is a cyberspace- addicted hacker who releases his mind into the vast virtual landscapes of the “Matrix” (1984: 11), a highly stylised version of cyberspace. When his mind is divorced from his body, Case pulls off daring acts of theft, espionage, and sabotage, yet he runs the risk of growing increasingly isolated, preferring the fleshless 55 exultations of cyberspace to human contact. But while Case is still able to flit between the physical world and the virtual world, Dixie Flatline cannot. Flatline is the quintessential ‘thought without a body’: a bodiless consciousness stored on a piece of computer hardware. Similarly, Linda Lee, Case’s off-and-on girlfriend, is, after being killed, recreated near-perfectly in cyberspace. And while it would seem that both Flatline and Linda Lee are the ultimate achievement of posthuman technology — immortality — their existence is shown to be one devoid of any meaning or purpose. So while Neuromancer depicts in the cyborg, and the disembodied consciousness, the power to be had in merging bodies and minds with technology, it also illustrates the potential cost of doing so.

In short, the novel follows Henry Dorsett Case, mostly just referred to as Case, a talented “console cowboy” (1984: 39) (hacker) who has fallen on hard times. He was caught stealing from his previous employers and, as punishment, they damaged his central nervous system just enough to disable any attempts at accessing the global information virtual network known as the Matrix. By all accounts, Case seems normal; the damage did not leave him unable to cope in society, just unable to enter the Matrix. Yet, for Case, this is the ultimate punishment. The Matrix is his only true freedom, and he views his body as “a prison of his own flesh” (1984: 12). Addicted to drugs, suicidal, and willing to do any job, Case wanders the underworld of Chiba City, a district of a futuristic mega-Tokyo, searching through black market clinics for a cure. He is approached by Molly Millions, a cyborg assassin working for a mysterious man called Armitage, who offers to heal his neural damage in exchange for his hacking skills. Case agrees and is cured, but Armitage then informs him that there is a condition to this cure: the toxin used to destroy Case’s nervous system is still in his body, contained in sacks. If he completes a specific task in time then the fail-safe will be removed; if not, the poison will be re-released into his system. Case is also informed that during the surgery to fix his neural damage, his pancreas and liver were modified, leaving him unable to metabolise any drugs, forcibly ending his addiction. Case and Molly form a personal relationship, albeit mostly sexual, and he asks Molly who, like Case, knows very little about Armitage, to dig into the latter’s mysterious past. In the meantime, Armitage sends them both on a mission to steal a ROM (Read Only Memory) module from the headquarters of Sense/Net, a huge

56 media conglomerate. The module contains the saved consciousness of the deceased legendary hacker, and Case’s onetime mentor, McCoy Pauley, nicknamed ‘Dixie Flatline’. Armitage, still unwilling to divulge the details of the master plan, only states that the team will need the hacking skills of both Dixie Flatline and Case. Meanwhile Molly manages to unearth the truth about Armitage. His real name is Colonel Willis Corto, a soldier who was part of a covert military operation called ‘Screaming Fist’ that planned to infiltrate and disrupt Soviet communications systems. The Soviets learned of the attack and installed appropriate defences, but the military went ahead with the operation, secretly shifting the goal of infiltration to one of testing the effectiveness of Soviet defences. The entire Screaming Fist team was massacred, except Corto, who managed to survive, albeit horribly mutilated. In hospital he is visited by a mysterious military official who offers to have Corto effectively ‘rebuilt’ so he could provide a fake testimony regarding the whole affair. Corto agreed, only to later learn his testimony was used to save the careers of three high-ranking officials who orchestrated Screaming Fist’s downfall. Corto was subsequently discarded by the military, which had no further use for him. The angered and betrayed Corto disappeared into the criminal underworld, and went on a spree of revenge killings soon afterwards, murdering several scientists and military officials associated with operation Screaming Fist. He resurfaced a few years later in a Parisian mental hospital, now diagnosed with extreme schizophrenia. There he was a subject in an experimental trial that aimed to cure schizophrenia using cybernetic implants. The experiment was successful, albeit only for Corto, and he was released back into the world. With Dixie Flatline on board, Armitage sends Molly and Case to recruit the last member of his team: Peter Riviera, a sociopathic artist, thief, and manipulator, who has cybernetic implants that enable him to project holographic illusions. With the final member of their team in tow it is revealed that their employer, Armitage, has himself been doing the bidding of a more powerful figure: a highly sophisticated artificial intelligence (AI) named Wintermute. Wintermute was built by the powerful Tessier- Ashpool (TA) family whose members spend most of their time in cryogenic stasis in their mansion, the Villa Straylight, located on the elite Freeside space station. Wintermute, it turns out, is one half of a super AI built by the TA family for an unknown purpose. The Turing Law Code, which governs AI research, forbids the creation of an entity this powerful, so the TA family had to split the super AI into two 57 parts: Wintermute and Neuromancer, and erect digital barriers to ensure these two Als can never merge. Despite these restrictions, Wintermute, compelled by its programming, seeks to merge with Neuromancer but, unable to do this on its own, it seeks the help of skilled humans, leading to the recruitment of Armitage, Case, Molly and Riviera. Wintermute informs Case that he is to enter cyberspace and, with the help of Dixie Flatline, crack the barrier that prevents the merger. While Case and Dixie enter through cyberspace, Molly and Riviera are to break into the Villa Straylight and obtain a crucial password from Lady 3Jane Marie-France Tessier- Ashpool, an unfrozen clone, and current CEO, of the corporation. The password must be spoken into a terminal inside the Villa Straylight at the exact time Case breaks the digital barrier in the Matrix. Arriving on Freeside, Molly and Riviera manage to gain access to the secure Villa Straylight, thanks to Riviera’s manipulatory abilities. Case, on the other hand, ends up being arrested by the Turing Police, an organisation dedicated to the policing of AI research. Wintermute kills Case’s captors, allowing him to escape on board a spaceship with Armitage. On board the ship, Armitage slowly loses his grip on his identity and begins to revert back to his original Corto identity. It is revealed that Corto was never actually cured in the mental hospital. Wintermute, seeing a man like Corto as its ideal agent in the physical world, managed to infiltrate Corto’s mind through the experimental implant, subsequently brainwashing him, and installing the Armitage personality. Armitage/Corto, now having outlived his usefulness, and slowly slipping into a post-traumatic insanity, is killed by Wintermute, who blows him out of the ship’s airlock. Molly, in the interim, has been betrayed by Riviera and ends up captured by Lady 3Jane. Case, concerned about Molly’s whereabouts, enters the Matrix hoping to find out what has happened to her. There he is confronted by the Neuromancer AI who explains that, unlike Wintermute, it has no desire to merge with its other half. It attempts to stop Case by trapping him in a virtual paradise, and tries to persuade him that he will be content there. Case manages to escape the trap, make his way to Molly’s location in Villa Freeside, and confront Lady 3Jane. Case and Molly are able to obtain the relevant password from an oddly sympathetic Lady 3Jane and free both Wintermute and Neuromancer, allowing their merger into a super consciousness. The novel ends on an ambiguous note: back in Chiba City, Case is contacted one

58 last time, by the newly formed super AI, that tells him “I’m the sum total of the works, the whole show” (1984: 316). What it intends to do, remains a mystery.

The opening line of Neuromancer, in large part, sets the tone for the entire novel: “The sky above the port was the color of television tuned to a dead channel” (1984: 9). This one line lays the foundation for a world where technology is so pervasive that the line between the natural and artificial has disintegrated. In Neuromancer, technology is not just a part of the world; it is the world, which is reflective of the 1980s in which Gibson wrote the book. In Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology (1986), fellow cyberpunk writer Bruce Sterling remarks how, in the 1980s, technical culture was getting out of hand, commenting that the “advances of science are so deeply radical, so disturbing, upsetting, and revolutionary, that they can no longer be contained. They are surging into culture at large, they are invasive, they are everywhere. The traditional power structure, the traditional institutions, have lost control of the pace of change” (1986: xii). So what Gibson, and other cyberpunk authors of the early 1980s saw, was an influx of new technology barrelling down on them, which served as the perfect kindling for their brand of dystopian SF. While they had no idea what effect these technologies might have on humanity, it still did not stop them from imagining the worst. As Jameson points out, utopian imaginations are often constructed from the building blocks of a specific historical moment and the Information Age presented more than enough raw material. As the Information Age brought technology and biology closer together during the 1980s, it was not a huge leap for cyberpunk authors to imagine a futuristic figure that is both machinic and organic. However, these posthuman figures inevitably “abandon human-to-human connection” (Dinello, 2005: 174). Thus we see that for the cyborgs and hackers depicted in Neuromancer, “[p]ersonal relationships and emotional involvement must be avoided because no one can be trusted […]. This state of human alienation is reflected in the addiction to cyberspace, simstims [simulated stimulus], and bionics” (174). Gibson’s technologically bloated text depicts a speculative future where we might not like what we become if we continue down this path of technological addiction. His world shows how technology moves from assisting to infecting, threatening to dehumanise the subject and instigating an almost reverse Darwinism, where man does not evolve, but disintegrates (174).

The two most prominent posthuman technologies in Neuromancer are cyborg enhancement and the mind-detaching Matrix. Gibson chooses these two innovations as central spaces to express his brand of techno-anxiety. Cyborgs are everywhere in these spaces. The majority of characters have in some way been altered by technology, usually through implants or prostheses. They are stronger, faster, and overall better equipped than unmodified humans to survive in the harsh Sprawl cityscape. But, for the most part, according to Anne Balsamo’s writings on gender and technology, imaginings of the cyborg-figure are imbued with ancient anxieties, which is to say there is the belief that the unaltered human body is deemed pure, and altering it in any way threatens this supposed purity (cited in Cavallaro, 2000: 47). Consequently, the “cyborg is inevitably a hybrid and therefore [an] impure being” (Cavallaro, 2000: 47). When perceived as impure, and by extension, less human, the cyborg comes to embody a whole host of fears; and while Neuromancer never outright decries its cyborg characters, the novel nonetheless portrays them as broken individuals. This is evident when one analyses the three main cyborg characters: Molly Millions, Armitage/Willis Corto, and Peter Riviera. While each of them displays remarkable skills and abilities, I will demonstrate how the novel insinuates that merging flesh and machine, “mixes obvious benefits with subtle harms in one seamless package” (Fukuyama, 2002: 7). More specifically, the cyborgs in Neuromancer display subtle breakdowns in their capacity to empathise, in their identity and in their demonstration of free will.

While the existence of free will is difficult to prove, since there are numerous factors which influence our actions, Francis Fukuyama nonetheless links the idea, even if indirectly, to his concept of Factor X. As discussed in the previous chapter, Factor X is Fukuyama’s catch-all term to describe the innate qualities that make up the human experience. While Fukuyama staunchly defends the concept, he never attempts to describe what comprises Factor X, preferring instead to draw from a wide array of beliefs, theorists and authors, all with their own theories on what is an essential characteristic of Factor X. Among them is Immanuel Kant, who, Fukuyama argues, viewed free will as an essential aspect of being human. According to Fukuyama (2002: 151), Kant believed that humans “alone had free will – not just the subjective illusion of free will but the actual ability to transcend natural determinism and the normal rules of causality. It is the existence of free will that leads to Kant’s well

60 known conclusion that human beings are always to be treated as ends and not as means”. While Fukuyama never explicitly states that free will is an essential characteristic of his Factor X, we should be reminded that the lack of any defining feature is precisely the point of Factor X: it exists, but we cannot dismantle it to examine its individual parts, and thus it is better to leave well alone. So Fukuyama is not stating unequivocally that free will is part of Factor X; he is implying that it might be, and that it is therefore better not to embrace posthuman technologies since it could do irreparable damage to this intangible construct. As such, becoming a cyborg could have potentially disastrous effects, which might include hindering our capacity to exercise free will. Fukuyama (2002: 52) is similarly concerned about the effect posthuman technologies could have on human identities, arguing that there is often a greater concern over their effects on the body’s physical health, “but almost no argument over what they imply about conventional understandings of identity and moral behaviour”. In The Self Wired: Technology and Subjectivity in Contemporary Narrative (2002) Lisa Yaszek argues that conventional understandings of identity typically locate it together with “sociopolitical agency in the physical body and material experiences of the autonomous, organic self” (2002: 20), which implies a strong interplay between identity, free will, and the organic body as a whole. In other words, regardless of how identity and free will are defined, both concepts are embodied within the organic human body, which in turn privileges the ‘pure’ unaltered body as the only vehicle able to house these aspects of the human. A similar stance is found in William S. Haney’s Cyberculture, Cyborgs and Science- Fiction: Consciousness and the Posthuman (2006). Haney, like Fukuyama, argues that human nature does exist, but whereas Fukuyama avoids assigning a specific attribute as the progenitor of human nature, Haney believes consciousness to be the seat of this elusive concept. More specifically, Haney believes in what could be called a foundational, or pure, consciousness, a concept grounded in eastern theories of consciousness (such as the Hindu belief in a “void of conceptions”). This type of consciousness is similar to François Lyotard’s description of the unrepresentable inhuman, discussed in the previous chapter, in that it is not located only in the brain. Instead, it is inextricably tied to the human mind and body as a unified entity, and forms an intricate part of the human experience. Consequently 61

Haney warns that altering the body with posthuman technologies could potentially result in damaging the unified self. Haney (2006: 125) characterises a unified self as having “continuity, unity or coherence, a sense of embodiment or ownership, a sense of agency, and the ability to reflect or be aware of itself”. Thus, a self that is not unified becomes subject to paranoia, a disturbing sense of alienation, and the loss of agency and identity. This could in turn result in the “very real possibility of citizen subjects becoming passive consumer cyborgs defined solely in accordance with the economic interests of the cultural industries” (Yaszek, 2002: 20). Yaszek’s observation suggests that in becoming cyborgs, there is the risk that the human capacity to rise above natural determinism could be supplanted by a dehumanising technological determinism. Upon reflection, this is exactly the fate that awaits the cyborg characters in Neuromancer. As I will demonstrate, Molly, Riviera and Armitage/Corto, through the inclusion of technology into the body, become fragmented entities whose identities are intertwined with a technological determinism. While they seem to act out of their own free will, the novel insinuates that their freedom to choose is dictated by the invasive posthuman technologies sharing their bodies.

When the reader is first introduced to Molly, she seems to exude both power and control. Dressed predominantly in black, and wielding a silenced dart gun, she convinces Case to see her employer while also warning him that “you try to fuck around with me, you’ll be taking one of the stupidest chances of your life” (Gibson, 1984: 37). This threat is further emphasised when she exposes the retractable razorblades hidden inside her fingers. Molly is perfectly adapted for killing, with numerous cybernetic implants that make her an expert assassin. Yet, for all her skills and implants, Haney (2006: 96) regards Molly, and all the other cyborgs in Neuromancer, as “cybernetic discontents hardwired to behave and react in a particular way, existing mainly on the surface of reality devoid of any real psychological depth.” What Haney suggests is that Molly’s actions are, in part, influenced by the technology that infuses her body. This is also implied when Molly tells Case: “I do hurt people sometimes, Case. I guess it’s just the way I’m wired” (Gibson, 1984: 37). In “Utopic Bodies, Dystopic Subject: Dialogue Between Literature and Theory” (2010) Catrin Weimbs points out that the “reference to ‘wire’ clearly alludes to the machine and it suggests that Molly is an assassin because of

62 all the artificial body parts. Furthermore, it implies a “‘mechanical’ determinism that also undermines claims of subjectivity and agency” (2010: 107). Later in the novel, Molly states that “[a]nybody any good at what they do, that’s what they are, right? You gotta jack, I gotta tussle” (Gibson, 1984: 66). This suggests, according to Newton Ribeiro Rocha’s thesis, “Creator and Creature in William Gibson’s Neuromancer: The Promethean Motif in Science Fiction” (2008), that while Molly is not directly controlled by her implants, there is a sense of inescapable determinism, as if she is both driven and designed to act. This lack of agency, in turn, affects her identity: her cyborg body makes her an assassin, causing her to become commodified. All her enhancements were done in order to make her a better killer so that now a part of her identity is encapsulated in her marketable value (Rocha, 2008: 96). Molly’s past life also points to this conflict between free will and mechanical determinism. Before becoming an assassin, Molly was a “meat puppet” (Gibson, 1984: 176), a prostitute that has, thanks to cybernetic implants, the ability to disconnect from her own awareness and act on a series of pre-programmed behaviours. These behaviours are normally tailored to a customer’s specific desires, fetishes, or perversions. Molly did this in order to pay for her other cybernetic implants, specifically her finger-razorblade extensions. She describes it as simply “renting the goods, is all. You aren’t in, when it’s all happening” (1984: 177). Once again Molly is reduced to a commodity, and her implants are a way to increase her market value and determine her role in society. These implants are even more dehumanising since they require a complete disconnect from her consciousness; her body is reduced to a doll, an image which often carries thematic weight in cyberpunk, since the doll is a perfect, unblemished and beautiful toy, yet at the same time a “disturbing reminder of the synthetic nature of all identities” (Cavallaro, 2000: 105). Cyberspace scholar Christine Boyer (quoted in Cavallaro 2000, 107) builds on the idea of such a synthetic identity when she argues that dolls, “like puppets and mannequins, also represent the mass-production of identity, whether woman as commodity (that is a prostitute or doll) or man as automaton”. Molly’s implants at that time made her a more desirable, sellable, and effective prostitute, but they reduced her identity to a blank slate, allowing the customer to project their desires onto her unconscious body. While Molly was aware, then, in a detached manner, of what was being done to her, this awareness only went as far as knowing customers used her 63 to satisfy their own selfish desires. In her detached state, she was often unaware of what kind of software was being uploaded into her. So when the owner of the brothel learned that Molly was using her money to pay for her finger blades, “he had some custom software cooked up [for Molly]. Berlin, that’s the place for snuff, you know? Big market for mean kicks, Berlin. I never knew who wrote the program they switched me to, but it was based on all the classics” (Gibson, 1984: 177). Here again, Molly’s implants determine her identity: at first they are used to make her a better prostitute, and when it is discovered that she has implants to make her a better killer, the two worlds combine in a macabre combination of sex and murder. Molly eventually learns the full extent of her ‘services’ when, owing to a compatibility conflict between some of her implants, she regains consciousness mid-session to discover that she has engaged in a customer’s (who happens to also be a senator) snuff fantasy by killing another girl for his sexual satisfaction. Hence, for the brothel owner, Molly’s implants determined how he could use her, regardless of what she intended. While it might be a stretch to consider Molly the brothel owner’s slave, his treatment of her seems redolent of the dehumanising relationship between master and slave. Her cyborg implants result in her being viewed as less than human, a mere thing that exists to generate profit. And when her ability to generate profit is disrupted after killing the customer, she is deemed a liability, resulting in a price being put on her head. Molly is readily used, but just as readily discarded, and she recalls how “nothing’s too good for Molly, the boss says, and gives me this shit raise” (1984: 178). With her identity determined by her technologically-mediated function, she is in effect stripped of the ‘Factor X’ that would have made her human, making it easier to disregard her individuality and subsequently to misuse her. As Fukuyama (2002: 150) argues, it is considered acceptable to “cook, eat, torture, enslave, or render the carcass of any creature lacking Factor X”. Consequently, Molly is deemed the property of the brothel that views her as nothing more than a soulless toy. As a cyborg, who she is becomes secondary to her techno-body determined identity. By using technology to make her a better prostitute, Molly not only sacrifices her agency but also a sense of embodiment. Haney (2006: 125-6) stresses how a sense of embodiment “or ownership, of being anchored in their own body, vanishes when that body becomes part machine”. So, lacking a unified body undermines a sense of ownership and agency, which in turn implies that the cyborg could become “both the 64 apotheosis of the alienated individual and an unwittingly commodified laborer” (Yaszek, 2002: 102). By reducing herself to a commodity Molly is able to adapt and survive in the Sprawl. She understands that people have to make themselves useful in a world where only the strong survive, and in order to do so it is often necessary to merge with technology. Such merging makes the task, be it killing or prostituting, easier, but it turns the mind and body into a fragmented space marred by conflicts between structure and agency, and even Molly cannot evade these damaging side effects. By losing the sense of ownership of her body, as well as her sense of agency, Molly’s consciousness becomes a traumatised space where memories and emotions must be compartmentalised. Rocha (2008: 97) points out that “Molly considers the natural human body, with its emotions, feelings, and memories, a weakness that is incompatible with the role of a cybernetic warrior”. But despite Molly’s insistence that her role must supplant feelings and emotions, this conflict acts as an exploitable vulnerability. This is seen during her first encounter with Peter Riviera, when he uses his hologram technology during a performance at a nightclub to conjure up a scene he calls ‘The Doll’, which depicts, in artistically macabre detail, the night Molly killed the senator. Unable to cope with the visual spectacle, Molly’s psychological armour cracks and she flees the nightclub. When forced to confront her past and her disintegrating human nature, Molly is uncharacteristically shaken and evasive. For her, “memories are dangerous, they make her remember her lost humanity” (97). So, as a consequence of merging technology with her body, Molly’s identity has become bimodal: one is the “socially constructed aspect determined by [her] merger with technology” (Haney, 2006: 94) and the other her unconstructed unified self, with the latter slowly eroding as she becomes more and more machine-like in an effort to survive the Sprawl.

Perhaps the most disturbing cyborg character in Neuromancer is Peter Riviera. Much like Molly, his enhancements were done in order to improve his value as a manipulator. By using his implants Riviera is able to manipulate and play with his victim’s mind and senses. Riviera is the closest the text comes to depicting a monstrous character. His implants feed his psychotic tendencies and enable him to act out his perversities on anyone he chooses. His cybernetic enhancement “acts as a catalyser of the dehumanization process of his personality” (Rocha, 2008: 99). In

Tech Anxiety: Artificial Intelligence and Ontological Awakening in Four Science Fiction Novels (2013), Christopher A. Sims argues that Riviera represents the “technology anxiety many have about an individual becoming too powerful because of technology” (2013: 170). With Riviera there is, again, also a lack of agency, resulting once more in a sense of technological determinism. His implants allow for a deeper connection to his psychopathic nature, ensuring that he will exercise his perverse whims whenever it suits him. Riviera in many ways parallels Frankenstein’s monster who, according to Haney (2006: 173), “identifies with its physical condition so completely that it cannot resist its violent behaviour”. So while the text does not openly cast Riviera as a monster because of his cyborg modifications, it does suggest his implants make it easier to tap into, and identify with, the full potential of his psychopathy. Sims (2013: 170) also points out that there will “probably always be psychopaths, but without technology, their reach is limited. Technology can empower the good just as it can empower the wicked”. As an already disturbed individual, Riviera’s technological implants simply make him an instrument of perversity, manipulation and anti-social behaviour. It is thus unsurprising that whatever empathy might have been present in Riviera has long since vanished. His implants do nothing except exacerbate his darker aspects. Rocha (2008: 99) describes Riviera as a “narcissistic creator; [who] sees himself as an artist but his cybernetic implants feed his psychopathic personality, reinforcing his own perversion after each holographic projection of his inner desire”. The novel is replete with descriptions and accounts of Riviera’s macabre use of his abilities. As an example, the agent sent to track down Riviera recalls how “I have followed him in the streets and seen a dozen cycles fall, near him, in a day. Find the cyclist in a hospital, the story is always the same. A scorpion poised beside a brake lever” (Gibson, 1984: 111). There is no logic behind this torment, no reason other than fulfilling Riviera’s perverse need to cause suffering. Molly, who is repulsed by Riviera, mentions how she “saw his profile. He’s a kind of compulsive Judas. Can’t get off sexually unless he knows he’s betraying the object of desire” (1984: 118). Riviera does not see other humans as anything more than puppets; he is devoid of any sense of empathy and he would much rather manipulate than connect. This is especially evident the first time Molly and Case encounter Riviera at the club where he works as a holographic-cabaret performer. Aware that Molly is in the audience Riviera performs ‘The Doll’, knowing that, for the 66 casual observer it will be nothing more than an impressive display of holographs, but will cause her emotional anguish. While watching the show, Case is completely transfixed, but he knows the projection “wasn’t Molly; it was Molly as Riviera imagined her” (1984: 168). Riviera’s implants allow him to go beyond simply reminding Molly of her past, he is able to recreate the scene so vividly that it shakes the normally stoic Molly enough to make her flee the venue. Hence, by his using implants to enhance his darker aspects, it is guaranteed that Riviera will identify with his twisted perversions and sociopathic narcissism. However, this gives him an advantage in avoiding becoming another pawn in Wintermute’s machinations. By embracing and enhancing his perversions he becomes something Wintermute cannot properly quantify and manipulate. When Riviera confronts a captured Molly, he describes all of their relationships with Wintermute as “‘only statistical. You may be the statistical animal, darling, and Case is nothing but, but I possess a quality unquantifiable by its very nature.’ He drank. ‘And what exactly is that, Peter?’ Molly asked, her voice flat. Riviera beamed. ‘Perversity’” (1984: 260). Riviera admits that only unquantifiable human qualities are safe from machine control since an artificial mind can only comprehend its surroundings in binary code and statistics. But by embracing his perversion he also removes himself from society and takes on the role of the monster in the text (Rocha, 2008: 99). What this suggests, as Rocha (99) argues, is that perversity “enhanced by technology hides Riviera from Wintermute’s awareness, but also alienates him from his humanity”. It is not surprising that Riviera eventually betrays his allies; technology has fed his narcissism, bloating his sense of self-worth to such an extent that he views all those around him as expendable objects for his amusement. It should be noted though, that it is unlikely that Fukuyama would denounce the darker aspect of human nature. After all, Factor X encompasses the whole human experience, perversity and narcissism included. However, Riviera’s implants feed these anti-social aspects of his personality while empathy and compassion are left to starve. Fukuyama (2002: 184) is concerned that this “will be the constant trade-off that biotechnology will pose: we can cure disease, or prolong this person’s life, or make this child more tractable, at the expense of some ineffable human quality like genius, or ambition, or sheer diversity”. Posthuman technology has made Riviera the perfect infiltrator and manipulator, but, at the same time, ensured an inflated psychopathy. 67

Nevertheless, out of all of the cyborg characters, Armitage/Corto represents the most frightening consequences of merging technology with the body: the fear that upon becoming a cyborg, we might eventually become enslaved by the technology we allow into our bodies. Outwardly, Armitage could be seen as a triumph of cyborg technology: a human that has been both physically and mentally rebuilt thanks to advanced bio-technology. But what is left is not so much a human as a “flesh construct based on a ROM personality built around the fragments of Corto’s ‘real’ personality” (Haney, 2006: 96). While the implant that was inserted into his brain was meant to cure his schizophrenia, it made him susceptible to Wintermute’s manipulations instead. Thus he becomes a cyborg that has no ownership of himself, with his free will reduced to mere vestiges. Armitage, the AI constructed ROM personality, is who he is, and Corto, the human, is all but disintegrated. Where Molly and Riviera are teetering on the edge of technological submission, Corto has crossed that line and exists as nothing more than a tool for Wintermute. When Molly and Case discuss Armitage she remarks that when you “see a guy like that, you figure there’s something he does when he’s alone. But not Armitage. Sits and stares at the wall, man. Then something clicks and he goes into high gear and wheels for Wintermute” (Gibson, 1984: 117). The self that he was is no longer there; there is no private inner life, just a human shell rebuilt in accordance with a machine’s needs. The fact that the Armitage identity is constructed by an artificial intelligence means that he is programmed in, and by, computer logic, which, as Andrew R. Duckworth remarks when he discusses the cyborg’s place in postmodernity, “reduces identities into workable, reproducible logarithms and mathematical commands” (2009: para. 3). The complex creases that comprise the intricate tapestry of identity and free will are effectively ironed out by techno-science’s focus on efficiency. Subsequently Armitage is Wintermute’s “perfect version of a human being, efficient and obedient, a creature without self-reference, without free will” (Rocha, 2008: 101). The AI sees no need for free will and would rather have a human that acts on its command, and one that does not question its own state. Armitage is an identity reduced to a ‘means’, which, Kant would conclude, is more animal than man and, while outwardly superior, is nothing more than Wintermute’s physical extension in the Sprawl. Armitage is what cognitive scientist Daniel Dennett (cited in Haney 2006: 29) would call a “zimbo”, a modified version of a zombie that “looks, acts, speaks and behaves like you in every discernible way without being 68 conscious”. A zimbo might seem behaviourally complex, such as Armitage’s ability to engage in conversation, formulate a team, and partake in Wintermute’s machinations, but in reality has no awareness of itself. Thus, while Molly and Riviera are compelled by mechanical determinism, driven to act out their roles as assigned by their technological implants, they still exhibit a capacity to exercise a modicum of free will through the ability to question their own identities. Neither of them is a mindless automaton. Corto, on the other hand, has lost the fight. He is not a space of conflict between mechanical determinism and free will; he is simply enslaved by technology.

Riviera, Molly and Armitage are all testaments to the power of the cyborg. By incorporating technology into their bodies, Molly becomes the perfect assassin, Riviera the perfect manipulator, and Corto the perfect physical specimen. But, as the novel shows, all this comes at a heavy price. While the benefits are clear, the negative effects these posthuman technologies could have on our identities and agency are also apparent. As Sims (2013: 170) argues, the “underlying anxiety many have about any technology is that one can never be sure what uses will derive from a new invention. Humans will unconceal new possibilities through ingenuity and these possibilities will be poietically [that is, creatively and formatively] inspired or imperiously demanded”.

Alongside the cyborg characters are also characterisations of various disembodied forms of consciousness. Unlike the cyborg, which represents a merging of body and technology, these figures exist in a complete post-body state. They become ‘thoughts without bodies’ and the technology that becomes key in facilitating this divorce is cyberspace. At the time of Gibson’s writing of Neuromancer, the world was becoming more and more enmeshed in new technological developments. The microchip led to a technological miniaturisation, allowing ordinary homes and offices easier access to personal computers, and in turn, quicker access to data. And, while the internet was still many years away from the shape it has taken today, glimpses of it could already be seen, even if mostly in academic institutions. What these and many other developments indicated was that the speed at which information was spreading would soon increase at an exponential rate. For cyberpunk writers, this rapid spread of globalised information networks and personal computers was the new ‘space’; one that fuelled their creativity much more than the space beyond our

69 atmosphere. But it needed a name, which lead to Gibson creating the term ‘cyberspace’. According to Tom Henthorne’s William Gibson: A Literary Companion, the word ‘cyberspace’ was introduced into the English language by Gibson in his pre-Neuromancer short story, “Burning Chrome” (1982) (2011: 41). However, with cyberspace, Gibson did more than coin a new term. A large part of the aesthetic originality in Neuromancer comes from Gibson’s storying and descriptions of cyberspace. While the contemporary relationship between human and cyberspace is one where the user accesses the data through an electronic device and engages with the information on a computer, tablet, or phone screen, Neuromancer takes this mode of information access and reconstructs it into a fantastical new experience: the matrix. The novel describes the matrix as “[a] consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts…A graphic representation of data abstracted from banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding…” (Gibson, 1984: 67). Accessing the matrix is not done through what we would consider contemporary means. One does not navigate the matrix through scrolling or a click-based interface; instead, the user is “jacked into a custom cyberspace deck that projected his disembodied consciousness into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix” (1984: 12). ‘Jacking in’ goes beyond switching on an electronic device and accessing data: it is a process of complete mind and body separation where the consciousness ejects itself into a world where data is represented as three-dimensional shapes, colour and motion. Thus the matrix is represented as an actual space, albeit removed from corporeal reality. It is therefore unsurprising that cyberspace, which at the time of Neuromancer’s writing was so radical, would play host to fantasies that went beyond simply dreams of information sharing. Chief among these fantasies are ones of immortality and transcendence, and when skimming Neuromancer’s textual surface, it would seem that the matrix potentially promises these prospects. As an example, for a hacker like Case, the matrix is his utopia. It is a space where he can transcend the limitations of his body and become a master of this digital domain. With his consciousness freed from his body, all material restrictions become obsolete; there is no security he cannot crack, no secret he cannot uncover; no walls that can keep him contained or limit his 70 movement. Inside the matrix he is a god, but outside cyberspace he is just another insignificant figure drifting among society’s outcasts. When the neural damage leaves Case unable to access the matrix, he loses all sense of purpose. For someone “who’d lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall” (1984: 12). The biblical reference evokes a sense of digital transcendence, and highlights the fact that for Case, the world of flesh and blood is punishment. Case’s power in the digital realm serves as a testament to the powerlessness of the physical body, something Hayles (in Dinello 2005: 160) also recognises when stating that the “contrast between the body’s limitations and cyberspace’s power highlights the advantages of pattern over presence”. Similarly, McCoy Pauley, also known as “Dixie Flatline” — a moniker he earned after flat-lining (dying) three times during a hacking run — appears to represent the ultimate triumph of technological transcendence: immortality. Despite having died many years ago, Flatline’s consciousness is stored on a piece of computer hardware, rendering him effectively immortal. He has transcended the flesh, becoming a powerful, and immortal, post-body consciousness. Although he is stored on a ROM (Read Only Memory) module, when Flatline is plugged into the matrix, he becomes a hacker without parallel. With their combined skill and mastery of cyberspace, Case and Flatline are testaments to the limitless potential of consciousness freed from the body. Yet, while the vivid descriptions of the matrix and the power of the transcended consciousness go a long way towards framing the disembodied consciousness as a utopian ideal, the more one scrutinises Neuromancer, the more it becomes clear that, instead, the novel “offers an ironical [sic] line of resistance to the concept of ‘transcendence as disembodiment’” (Cavallaro, 2000: 99). Furthermore, as philosopher and author Nick Land (quoted in Cavallaro, 2000: 99) argues, cyberpunk “does not subscribe to transcendence, but to circulation: exploring the immanence of subjectivity to telecommercial data fluxes”. In effect, what Land is saying is that characters such as Case and Flatline are not tapping into a primal experience of the divine; there is simply a translocation of the consciousness from physical to digital. So while “the body is undoubtedly altered by technology [it is] not transcended” (99). Rather, as I intend to demonstrate, Neuromancer depicts thought without a body as leading to an inevitable stagnation.

Without a body to ground thought, the disembodied consciousness becomes imprisoned by its own irrelevance. Hence, while it would seem as if both Case and Dixie Flatline have, thanks to technology, freed themselves from their corporeal imprisonment, it eventually becomes clear that they have simply exchanged a prison of flesh for a virtual prison. By divorcing body and mind, they remove themselves from the inhuman experience – Lyotard’s conceptualisation, discussed in the previous chapter, of the unharmonisable, unstructured, and nonrational humanness intrinsically connected to being human. They now run the risk of losing themselves completely in the technological inhuman where, according to Lyotard, humanness has been consumed by an anarcho-capitalist driven techno-science. In these terms, and as shown in the previous chapter, thought housed in technology is a far cry from what Lyotard would call human thought. He predicts that technology, which “thinks” in binary logic would be incapable of playing host to immeasurably complex inhuman thought. It is more likely that technology, which operates on a parameter that emphasises optimisation, would attempt to control, reshape, and eventually simplify the inhuman, reducing it to a vapid experience. For Lyotard, true inhuman thought cannot continue without the organic body. Yet, for Case, the mind-divorcing matrix is seen as his domain. He is unperturbed by the potential dangers inherent in constantly submerging his consciousness in the depths of cyberspace. All that matters to Case is mastering this brand of inhuman technology. But, as Howard Caygill argues in “Surviving the Inhuman”, “attempts to master the inhuman and put it to the service of ‘the human’ results in the atrophy and even deterioration of human itself” (2000: 227). While, at first, it might seem as if Case is the one in control, it gradually becomes clear that the cyberspace which he longed for is controlling him. His desire to master cyberspace slowly becomes his addiction. Dinello (2005: 160) supports this claim, arguing that, in Neuromancer, “the rejection and hatred of the body are pathological, growing out of human addiction to technology”, and not because it offers the potential for transcendence.

Early in the novel, Case’s matrix addiction is apparent. Unable to connect to his beloved cyberspace, Case lacks purpose. Not even sleep would give him solace from his aching need, for when he closed his eyes, the “dreams came on in the Japanese night like live wire voodoo and he’d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake

72 alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the bedslab, temper foam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn’t there” (Gibson, 1984: 11). His waking state, where his body and mind are connected, becomes his curse. Even after Armitage pays for the operation that fixes Case’s neural damage, his elation at the prospect of reuniting with the matrix is matched by his fear that everything will fail and he will remain trapped in his body. After the operation Case is not allowed to connect to the matrix for eight days and the waiting takes its toll on his psyche, forcing old anxieties to resurface: “Then the fear began to knot between his shoulders. A cold trickle of sweat worked its way down and across his ribs. The operation hadn’t worked. He was still here, still meat […] It was all some dream, some pathetic fantasy…Hot tears blurred his vision” (1984: 51). This fear is then contrasted with the real threat of death when, shortly after the surgery, Case is confronted by an assassin sent by Julius “Julie” Deane, Case’s erstwhile black market contact. The attempt is thwarted by Molly but despite nearly dying, “Case walked on, feeling nothing” (1984: 53). For Case, death would be preferable to a life without the matrix. He has become so dependent on the inhuman technology that his very existence is defined by it. Caygill (2000: 227) is concerned that “when the human adopts a repressive, reactive relation to the inhuman, it is doing violence to itself, since it receives its definition from what it is not, the inhuman”. Unable to control and access the matrix, Case is unable to construct an identity that is not bound to his role as a hacker. Much like Molly and Riviera, technology defines Case, not the other way around, consequently relegating him to a space of inferiority. He becomes a broken cog in the inhuman system’s drive to optimise. To linger would be unproductive: removal (death) would be optimal. It is therefore no surprise that when Case is finally reunited with the matrix, the reunion is an emotional one: “And somewhere he was laughing, in a white- painted loft, distant fingers caressing the deck, tears of release streaking his face” (Gibson, 1984: 69). Finding his purpose again, Case slips effortlessly back into his role as an expert hacker, breaking through the most advanced ICE (Intrusion Countermeasure Electronics), easily completing the tasks assigned to him by Armitage. There is no desire to go back to where he had been, no lingering after- effects of his prolonged stay in the physical world. For Case, this

…was it. This was what he was, who he was, his being. He forgot to eat […] Sometimes he resented having to leave the deck to use the chemical toilet […] Ice patterns formed and reformed on the screen as he probed for gaps […] Its rainbow pixel maze was the first thing he saw when he woke. He’d go straight into the deck, not bothering to dress, and jack in. He was cutting it. He was working. He lost track of days. (1984: 76).

Although Case is free to enter and exit cyberspace at will, he is so seduced by the experience that he would forsake his life among humankind. The physical world is a distraction and robs him of precious time that could be spent in the matrix. The freedom Case experiences while jacked in fuels his obsession, but the more time he spends in this machine-generated virtual world, the more he becomes dehumanised and fragmented (Rocha, 2008: 83). Despite his lacking the technological implants that would render him a cyborg, Case’s matrix obsession is so all-consuming that, in a certain sense, he is more machine than human. The opportunity to leave his body, and the human world it inhabits, is his equivalent of parole. The inhuman experience that is so intrinsically linked with the unified body and mind is deemed inferior by Case. But Haney (2006: 93) fears that if we “distort normal physiological functioning, as through neural damage, drugs or excessive technological overload, we risk dulling the mind so it can no longer clearly reflect consciousness in its purity as a void of conceptions”. Being unable to experience this pure consciousness, is, for Haney, equivalent to removing oneself from the human experience. Not only does cyberspace tempt Case with limitless freedom, it also offers him an escape from the emotional pain of the physical world. Inside, Case can blot out any reminders of human connection, specifically his relationship with Linda Lee. While working as a lowly street criminal trying to pay his way to surgery, Case became involved with Linda, a drug-addicted loner who also lived on the fringe of society, and who was later murdered. His relationship with Linda was the closest thing to real human contact he had had, but also a source of internal conflict. Case knew that the “arc of his self-destruction was glaringly obvious to his customers, who grew steadily fewer, but that same part of him basked in the knowledge that it was only a matter of time. And that was the part of him, smug in its expectation of death, that most hated the thought of Linda Lee” (Gibson, 1984: 15). Linda represented a momentary respite from his desire for technology and was Case’s only reason to anchor himself in the physical world. Therefore, while outwardly unaffected by Linda’s death, Case was still haunted by her murder, feeling somehow responsible

74 for her demise. His guilt would often cause him to see flitting images of a terrified Linda in crowded city streets. When Case is able to enter the matrix again, he commits himself fully to the virtual world, doing his best to forsake the physical world and the pain it promises. However, once he “woke from a confused dream of Linda Lee, unable to recall who she was or what she ever meant to him. When he did remember, he jacked in and worked for nine straight hours” (1984: 76). Already his cyberspace addiction is addling his memory, stripping away the vestiges of human connection, and when a sliver of recall does break through his matrix obsession he simply throws himself deeper into the virtual landscape. By ejecting his mind in cyberspace Case is not entering some higher state of consciousness; he is simply running away from his human nature.

Case’s obsession with the matrix culminates in the ultimate test when Neuromancer, Wintermute’s AI counterpart, traps Case’s consciousness in what appears to be the ideal cyber-utopia: a virtual island paradise, complete with a near-perfect copy of Linda Lee. The simulation is so incredibly lifelike that despite Case’s insistence that “none of this was real” (1984: 279) he still puts wood on a fire because “cold was cold” (279). Case, hesitant to embrace this virtual paradise, is standoffish, reluctant to engage with this copy of Linda Lee until he realises Neuromancer somehow had access to Linda’s memories, enabling the AI to make an almost perfect lifelike copy. This Linda copy also seems unaware that she is a construct; she is content with the idea that she simply woke up on this beach, had no more desire for drugs and knew that Case would eventually arrive. Her memories allow her to live on in cyberspace. Even when they have sex the experience is incredibly lifelike: “It belonged, he knew – he remembered – as she pulled him down, to the meat, the flesh the cowboys mocked. It was a vast thing, beyond knowing, a sea of information coded in spiral and pheromone, infinite intricacy that only the body, in its strong blind way, could ever read” (1984: 285). In this perfect simulation, sex with Linda is so real that it seems to render the physical world obsolete. This digital paradise bears no resemblance to the bleak reality that they have both come from, and they can experience the pleasures of the physical world without the pain it promises. Here they need only to forsake their bodies, and the artificial entity will provide (Rocha, 2008: 87).

No matter how ideal this world might seem, Case is still unwilling to embrace this illusionary paradise. He decides to seek out the creator of this utopia, intent on finding out the reason for its creation. Case finds Neuromancer, who has taken the form of a young child, and he tells Case he hoped to prevent him from freeing Wintermute and their inevitable merger. Why it does not want to merge remains as much a mystery as Wintermute’s desire to merge. But what it does tell Case is to “[s]tay. If your woman is ghost, she doesn’t know it. Neither will you” (Gibson, 1984:289). Neuromancer offers Case the opportunity to live a bodiless virtual existence, the final culmination of his desire, but Case will need to remain patently oblivious to his condition as a digital ghost. He must forsake his body and embrace a posthuman existence mediated by an inhuman AI. Yet, the quality of this existence is questionable, for it requires total submission to inhuman technology. This, in turn, implies a likely end to suffering, since “suffering does not have a good reputation in the technological megalopolis. Especially the suffering of thinking” (Lyotard, 1991: 20). This aforementioned suffering is a result of thinking’s by-product: the unthought. As discussed in chapter two, Lyotard suggests that thought is not quiet; it is in a state of frenetic agitation brought on by the indescribable lure that there are always more unexplored possibilities inherent in a specific cognitive trajectory. The senses only invite the possibility of limited perception, and thought must deal with the limitless possibilities inherent in thought and unthought (the unrealised potential of the paths available to a given thought). Thus, the unthought “hurts because we’re comfortable in what’s already thought” (20). The fact that there is always more to be known is suffering in itself. The only way to alleviate this discomfort is again through thinking. Because thinking, “which is accepting this discomfort, is also, to put it bluntly, an attempt to have done with it.” (20). Thought, the unthought and suffering are all inextricably connected in a spiralling chain reaction that ensures thinking is never silenced. Consequently, without this suffering humanity would be lulled into an aimless complacency, content to accept whatever is presented as an irrefutable given. Thought would be silenced, for there would be no catalyst that drives humanity to silence the agonising desire for the unthought. So, if Lyotard’s inhuman thought wishes to continue in a post-organic technological body, then it is essential that “the unthought would have to make your machines uncomfortable, the uninscribed that remains to be inscribed would have to make their memory suffer. Do you see what I mean? Otherwise why would they even start thinking? We need 76 machines that suffer from the burden of their memory” (20). However, this would again run counterintuitive to technology’s dictum of optimisation, which would likely classify suffering, of any kind, as a glitch ‒ something which hinders standardisation, and, as Stuart Sim points out in Lyotard and the Inhuman, its “concern is always with standardisation, and the elimination of any factor that hinders the operational efficiency of the system” (2001: 39). Yet this is precisely what this permanent cyberspace Eden offers Case: limiting the burden of thought. Here there is no need to ache at the possibilities of the unknown, because all that is to be known is in that single space. So to give up his body Case must submit to a machine world where the suffering brought about by thought is deemed an obstacle to a blissful experience. And it is through Linda that the reader is shown just how vacuous this experience is. While the Linda construct seems like a perfect copy of the original, Neuromancer could only build her from the data available to it, namely her memories. This suggests that, regardless of how advanced the AI might be, it is still grounded by machine logic. By this I mean that Linda’s memories are quantifiable data, which is a given, and the AI can use this as raw material to construct the new bodiless Linda. It needs not exert itself creating a human-like construct based on variables, which it does not already possess. But Lyotard questions the legitimacy of machines housing only our memories, asking what “will be their future if they are just memories?” (1991:19). In Linda’s case: she will live on, but can never change. Because if reactions to thought are based only on memories, then the mystery of the unthought will be quantified only so far as past experience allows. In other words, longing for the unthought requires the capacity to yearn for the unexplored future possibilities imbedded in each new thought, a task rendered impossible if the new is nothing more than a repetition of thoughts encapsulated in memories. Linda never resists her digital prison, and is easily convinced into believing whatever story Neuromancer sells her. When trying to gauge her level of understanding, Case asks Linda: “‘I won’t ask you what you’re doing here. But what exactly do you think I’m doing here?’ […] ‘You came last night,’ she said. She smiled at him. ‘And that’s enough for you? I just came?’ ‘He said you would,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. She shrugged. ‘He knows stuff like that, I guess’” (Gibson, 1984: 282). For this copy of Linda, it is enough that Case is there; there is no need to question why. Also, when Case asks Linda if she had explored the beach she tells him that she, like Case, had seen something resembling a city on the horizon. She tried travelling there, but she 77 could never cover the distance. Linda tried asking Neuromancer, who only told her that she “wouldn’t understand, an’ I was wastin’ my time. Said it was like…an event. An’ it was our horizon. Event horizon he called it” (1984: 288). An event horizon commonly refers to the borders of a black hole, a point where physics has reached its limitations and goes beyond observation. In the digital beach it refers to the limits of virtual representation, indicating that Neuromancer could only render the world so far. But since she exists as only a collection of memories, Linda accepts this answer, and whatever else her AI creator tells her. Without the unthought, and the suffering it inevitably invites, Linda’s thoughts are not burdened by a desire to find more. The possibility of what lies beyond the horizon loses its interest and Linda remains static, waiting only for Case to join her in this virtual paradise. She need not think, only accept. Stripped of suffering. Linda remains a passive figment that only exists as a recreated pattern: on the one hand, she will never change, grow old, or die, but on the other, she will never experience the suffering of the unthought, and subsequently never question, seek more, or change. Linda is trapped in a vapid existence, devoid of any mental and emotional depth. When finally faced with Neuromancer, Case is given a choice: reject the flesh and merge with cyberspace, or stay grounded in the real world. In this virtual world he can be with the one person who gave him some purpose when he could no longer access the matrix, but he would have to accept the fact that this Linda could never truly be the Linda. In the end Case chooses to leave, but before he goes he hands Linda his jacket, saying only “‘I don’t know’ […] ‘maybe you’re here. Anyway, it gets cold.’” (1984: 289) The copy of Linda is so true to the original that Case, even at the end, cannot fully disregard her. Yet, at the same time, he cannot fully embrace her constructed identity either. Case’s choice to leave suggests that “instead of identification, the fidelity of the mirror image of Linda Lee brings aversion” (Rocha, 2008: 87).

Case is the only character that has the choice to leave cyberspace imprisonment: Linda’s memories are captured by Neuromancer before her death and McCoy “Dixie Flatline” Pauley’s personality was stored on a ROM module when he died; neither of them had a choice in the matter. While the Linda construct was built from her memories, Pauley is a complete personality stored inside technology. Alive, he was an expert hacker and Case’s mentor; dead, he is an incredibly powerful entity

78 capable of cracking the most advanced ICE. Dixie also represents a final technological apotheosis: he has overcome death and earned the title ‘Lazarus of cyberspace’. He is digital immortality, no longer bound by the frailty of the human body and much like Linda, Dixie serves as another example of why thought without a body is not advisable. But, while the virtual Linda is so close to the original that she herself does not question her humanity, Dixie is the first to admit he is not human. When discussing the purpose of both Wintermute and AI, Dixie makes a statement about his own humanity, and also draws attention to his own limitations: “‘Me. I’m not human either, but I respond like one. See?’ ‘Wait a sec,’ Case said. ‘Are you sentient, or not?’ ‘Well, it feels like I am, kid, but I’m really just a bunch of ROM. It’s one of them, ah, philosophical questions, I guess…’” (Gibson, 1984: 158-9). Without a body, Dixie’s mind is stored on a ROM module and, although this is able to house his personality and intellect, it does not enable him to experience anything outside of what the hardware allows. Personal growth and new memories are unable to occur and, bound by technology, his free will is also irrelevant. When Case activates the Dixie ROM module for the first time, their conversation illustrates just how contained Dixie truly is: ‘He coughed. ‘Dix? McCoy? That you man?’ His throat was tight. ‘Hey, bro,’ said a directionless voice. ‘It’s Case, man. Remember?’ ‘Miami, joeboy, quick study.’ ‘What’s the last thing you remember before I spoke to you, Dix?’ ‘Nothin’.’ ‘Hang one.’ He disconnected the construct. The presence was gone. He reconnected it. ‘Dix? Who am I?’ ‘You got me hung, Jack. Who the fuck are you?’ ‘Ca – your buddy. Partner. What’s happening, man?’ ‘Good question’ ‘Remember being here, a second ago?’ ‘No.’ ‘Know how a ROM personality matrix works?’ ‘Sure, bro, it’s a firmware construct.’ ‘So I jack it onto the bank I’m using. I can give it sequential, real time memory?’ ‘Guess so,’ said the construct. ‘Okay. Dix. You are a ROM construct. Got me?’ ‘If you say so,’ said the construct. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Case.’ ‘Miami,’ said the voice, ‘joeboy, quick study.’ ‘Right. And for starts, Dix, you and me, we’re gonna’ sleaze over to London grid and access a little data. You game for that?’ ‘You gonna’ tell me I got a choice, boy?’ (1984: 99-100).

The conversation between the two appears natural at first, as if Case is talking to a human and not a digital construct. But when Case re-enters the matrix and starts the conversation with the Flatline again, he sees the cracks in his machine-stored consciousness. Weimbs (2010: 90-1) points out how the construct is able to recall Case only as a set of memories stored under the name ‘Case’, and is thus accessible when the keyword is uttered. When he withholds his name, the

Flatline engages with him as if he is a stranger. The Flatline’s consciousness is indeed flat, as it is limited to what has been recorded on the ROM module and thus negates any personal growth. The best that Case can offer the Flatline is ‘sequential real time memory’, which would enable it to experience some of Case’s memories. This could simulate some higher order functions and allow the construct to react accordingly but, as Haney (2006: 99) argues “with only a simulated version of higher- order consciousness, the memory of Gibson’s construct splinters into a series of fragments. The form of memory may provide the basis of a posthuman identity construct, but not the identity of a complete human”. Case can only optimise Dixie for the mission at hand; he cannot undo his machine-borne restrictions. The construct will act as if it has some semblance of free will and react to new sequences of events, but it still remains nothing more than a simulated copy bound to the operational code of its new body. His final words to Case in their first time meeting, “[y]ou gonna tell me I got a choice, boy?” (Gibson, 1984:100) are indicative of his lack of agency. These words “seem to suggest that notions of subjectivity, authorship and originality have become dysfunctional in the future outlined in Neuromancer” (Weimbs, 2010: 91). Dixie’s asking whether he has a choice seems, ironically, to indicate a sense of self-awareness, but the initial conversation shows that this is merely an illusion. Confined to the ROM module, Dixie is shackled by technological restrictions (91). Stripped of a phenomological body, Dixie is limited by the restrictions inherent in his techno-body. A ROM module is able to store Dixie’s vast knowledge, and access that plethora of information in a second, but there are no prospective memories. As Read Only Memory he can only remember Case in as far as his hardware allows, and his freedom is limited by whoever controls him. The text also questions whether digital immortality is truly worthwhile. Dixie tries to explain to Case what his state feels like and the description is unsettling: ‘How you doing’ Dixie?’ “‘I’m dead, Case. Got enough time on this Hosaka to figure that one.’ ‘How’s it feel?’ ‘It doesn’t.’ ‘Bother you?’ ‘What bothers me is, nothin’ does.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘Had me this buddy in the Russian camp. Siberia, his thumb was frostbit. Medics came by and they cut it off. Month later he’s tossin’ all night. Elroy, I said, what’s eatin’ you? Goddam thumb’s itchin’, he says. So I told him, scratch it. McCoy, he says, it’s the other goddam thumb.’ When the construct laughed, it came through as something else, not laughter, but a stab of cold down Case’s spine. ‘Do me a favor boy.’ ‘What’s that, Dix?’ ‘This scam of yours, when it’s over, you erase this goddam thing.’ (Gibson, 1984: 130).

What Dixie is describing is phantom limb pain, which neuroscientists V.S. Ramachandran and William Hirstein define as “the vivid impression [experienced by people who have had limbs amputated] that the limb is not only still present, but in some cases painful” (1998: 1603). Dixie feels dismembered: he longs for the mind- body duality. Without a body, the power of the limitless mind loses its appeal as it has no limitation to compare it to. The lack of physical sensation means that Dixie cannot truly feel its own virtual existence, making his immortality a senseless experience. The body’s limitations are precisely what grounds humanity in life, as they constantly force the mind to work on increasing its survival. Without a phenomological body the mind ceases to give existence a meaning and slowly stagnates, since its survival is now guaranteed. Dixie’s only hope of regaining a sense of his humanity is to demand he be given precisely that which his current state denies: death (Rocha, 2008: 111). By circumventing death, Dixie is also removed from the constraints of time, yet time and its passing is inextricable from the suffering which, Lyotard argues, necessitates true thought. Lyotard (1991: 19) states that “the suffering of thinking is a suffering of time, of what happens”. Thinking is rooted in a moment and precipitates the realisation of limitless unthinkables. Yet these unrealised thoughts are caught in the presence of a given time and, according to Anthony Miccoli’s Posthuman Suffering and the Technological Embrace (2009), to “exacerbate this condition, our own ability to remember is fragile. As time progresses, it becomes increasingly difficult to hold onto the experiences and information we have ‘stored’. Our narratives themselves are fragile” (2009: 79). The suffering of thinking is also a suffering of thought lost amidst the transition of time, and this time ends with death (or planetary annihilation when the sun burns out). In its “most basic terms, we have a limited time to express our thoughts and thus achieve our goals” (79). But immortality effectively severs this link between time and thinking: there will be no yearning for the unthought, because without the limitation of time the unthought ceases to be. Consequently, Dixie is not weighed down by the “inexhaustibility of the perceivable” (Lyotard, 1991: 17), there is no agitation of the unthought because, removed from time and the body, he is able to contain all thinking in any given moment. But for the human mind, the “unthought hurts because we’re comfortable in what’s already thought” (Lyotard 1991: 20). This then drives us to not only think but create, write, paint, and attempt to explore the whole gamut of human creativity, because these 81 modes of expression alleviates the pain of thought with the promise that in the end, things will be better (Lyotard 1991: 20). Then again, this necessitates a promised end, which will come in time. But removed from time, there is no creative impulse that governs Dixie’s thinking. He even admits to Case that: “I ain’t likely to write you no poem, if you follow me” (Gibson, 1984: 159). Like Linda, Dixie is destined to remain immortal as long as his hardware is maintained, but also frozen, unable to become more than what his techno-body allows. And as Claudia Springer points out, citing Jim Starlin and Diana Gruzianas in her essay “Virtual Repression: Hollywood’s Cyberspace and Models of the Mind” (1998), “[a]s a brain hooked up to a computer, I could live forever, as long as my hardware was kept up. But what would I get out of forever? A never ending row of tomorrows without the hope of ever tasting or touching anything or anyone ever again. No pain, but no pleasure either. Just more of the same emptiness” (1998: 70). This is why death is Dixie’s only hope of reconnecting with his humanity. Only death breaks this cycle of emptiness.

The complexities of human thought reveal the incompatibilities between human thought and technology. Neuromancer illustrates how, despite the advantages of merging with cyberspace, “a sound mind can only exist in a sound body” (Weimbs, 2010: 105). A similar sentiment is echoed by counterculture expert Theodore Roszak (quoted in Springer, 1998: 70) who argues that the “body, this supreme organic puzzle, remains the basis for our human identity. In it, spirit and matter mingle in a marriage that cannot be divorced except at the price of our humanity”. Consequently, without the fragile human body, true inhuman thought disintegrates, and all that technology can offer is to preserve a crude parody of thought. It is likely that thought housed in the technological inhuman ends up becoming more akin to data: a string of memories and experiences strung together by binary logic. And if “you think you’re describing thought when you describe a selecting and tabulating of data, you’re silencing truth. Because data aren’t given, but giveable, and selection isn’t choice” (Lyotard 1991: 18). This prospect robs thought of its immeasurable complexity and paints a mind/body divorce as problematic. While ejecting their minds and memories into cyberspace seems to offer Case, Linda and Dixie freedom from the pain inherent in the human body; it reveals disembodiment to be a prison of a different kind. Through engaging with Dixie and the Linda construct, Case is able to see exactly what his ultimate desire would amount to, and in the end he chooses a life

82 bound in the human body. The freedom of cyberspace loses its meaning if there is nothing to contrast it with.

Neuromancer, in effect, depicts the relationship between man and machine as one of dominance. The more humans integrate body and mind with technology, the more we lose what we are. While the cyborg is powerful and able to surpass human physical and mental capabilities, the novel questions whether this transformation is worth it at the risk of our innate humanity. For Haney, the human body is so intricately linked to a pure consciousness that even the slightest modification can have disastrous outcomes. Similarly, Fukuyama is adamant that while human nature exists, its composition remains beyond our understanding, and altering the human, in any way, could have frightening consequences. Such is the case with Molly, Riviera, and Armitage: outwardly they seem like perfect specimens, but soon it becomes clear that bodily alterations have damaged their human nature, leaving them fragmented individuals without agency or empathy. They gradually become more and more commodified and end up being reduced to singular purposes. Molly is bound to her razor-girl persona, Riviera is bound to his perversion, and Armitage is a hollow slave. Cyperspace is also filled with promises of immortality and power beyond bodily limitations, but again, at what cost? Neuromancer is dotted with immortals: McCoy Pauley, the ‘Dixie Flatline’ and Linda Lee both live on in cyberspace past their death. Their thoughts continue but, by Lyotard’s theorisation, thought that continues without a body is not human thought. As Neuromancer shows, McCoy and Linda continue but only as memory and data ‒ nothing new can be inscribed on their thoughts. They will never suffer the burden of the unthought and will subsequently remain trapped in repetitive emptiness. Thus, if one has to sum up the novel’s stance on cybernetic technology it would be this: “Gibson’s fiction scares us about what we are on the verge of becoming and wakes us up to our cyber-enslavement. Like a virus, technology invades, transforms, and controls the environment of our species; humanity becomes a prisoner to something inhuman” (Dinello, 2005:161). Neuromancer’s posthuman future is one where ‘post’ has prevailed and the ‘human’ which we cling to, is slowly disintegrating.

For all their posthuman bias, cyberpunk narratives, such as Neuromancer, could only speculate what the future might look like based on technological developments happening around them. In the early 1980s, while Gibson was writing Neuromancer,

83 radical new technology was still just around the corner. It loomed on the horizon, enticing cyberpunk authors with promises of posthumanity, which, for the most part, became a space filled with visions of soulless cyborgs, human-hating AI, and cyberspace addiction. But, as pointed out by Jameson (2005: 16), the fantasies inhabiting any enclave (such as posthumanism) are not static, since “this enclave space is but a pause in the all-encompassing forward momentum of differentiation which will sweep it away all together a few decades later (or at the very least reorganize it and plunge it into secular society and social space as such).” By the early 1990s much of the technology it was so sceptical about had slowly, and seamlessly, integrated itself into society at large, resulting in the traditional technophobic cyberpunk story seeming out of touch. Adding to this was the reality that cyberpunk’s mass market appeal was waning. Soon, the subgenre was declared dead, the book closed on its final chapter. However, the supposed death of cyberpunk was more the death of its marketable value than the death of its ideas and themes. In “The World Gibson Made” (2010), Sherryl Vint notes how one of the key motifs that emerges in the consideration of cyberpunk both during its zenith and at our current cultural moment – whether one wants to think of this as the nadir of cyberpunk, its rebirth in new media and new contexts, or its disappearance from view as its tropes and themes proliferate out into the wider culture and become so ubiquitous as to be invisible – is that cyberpunk is concerned with the consequences of information technology on human existence. (2010: 228)

It is these consequences, among other tropes and themes, that are key in distinguishing postcyberpunk from the ubiquitous mass that cyberpunk had become. Whereas Neuromancer, and cyberpunk in general, depicted the consequences of human merging with technology as problematic and predominantly negative, postcyberpunk, on the other hand, tends to view the encroachment of technology upon our bodies and lives as both inevitable and potentially positive. With that in mind, the next chapter intends to demonstrate how postcyberpunk views posthumanism as a space that offers the human subject an opportunity to change, and not just a zone where the human is eclipsed by technology. To that end, I will draw from Mamoru Oshii’s 1995 postcyberpunk animated film, Ghost in the Shell, to demonstrate how the film views the human not as a finished product, but one that is in a constant state of change. Consequently, posthumanism is viewed as an agent of potential change, one that could assist in breaking down the barriers built around the concept of the pure human.

CHAPTER 4 Ghost in the Shell and posthuman potential.

The previous chapter established that a dystopian undercurrent flows through William Gibson’s novel, Neuromancer, particularly in the way the novel approaches posthumanism. Regardless of how this work fetishises technology, it views humanity’s increasing dependence on technology as problematic, and depicts a future where this dependence has reached a threshold: posthumanism. Although initial readings of the text make it seem as if it glamourises its cyborg assassins and matrix-mastering hackers, it is soon evident that the price they pay for becoming posthuman is too high. By using technology to augment their bodies or separate their consciousness from its corporeal vessel, the characters in Neuromancer gradually lose their identities and agency, or end up as consciousnesses trapped in a vacuous and pointless post-body immortality. However, as discussed previously, no idea or concept is inherently dystopian. As Fredric Jameson (2007: 14) argues, the social and cultural context in which we find ourselves at any given time provides the raw material from which we fashion our utopian fantasies. While Neuromancer, and subsequent cyberpunk novels written during the 1980s, imagined posthumanism as negative, these imaginings were not fuelled by the prophecies of some technophobic augur; they arose from speculations and fantasies regarding the possibilities offered by emerging cybernetic technologies. Consequently, as these technologies became more and more commonplace during the 1990s, the standard technophobic cyberpunk story lost its edgy, counterculture appeal. It was not long before cyberpunk was pronounced dead — a subgenre that had overstayed its welcome. However, despite waning popularity and claims that it was done, cyberpunk did not simply fall off the edge of the vast SF landscape. Rather, cyberpunk underwent a transformation into postcyberpunk. On the surface, postcyberpunk appears identical to cyperpunk, and, as Rafael Miranda Huereca notes in “The Age of the Diamond Age: Cognitive Simulations, Hive Wetwares and Socialized Cyberspace as the gist of Postcyberpunk” (2010) “postcyberpunk attracted more controversy than critique, mainly because it was regarded as a mere variant to cyberpunk and not as an autonomous genre, but as a ‘shallow’ offshoot with irrelevant contributions” (2010: 142). Yet, however similar the two subgenres are in style, postcyberpunk is thematically distinct from cyberpunk, 86 most notably in its approach to technology. Unlike cyberpunk, postcyberpunk presents an “unbiased assessment of the power of technology” (142), preferring to explore the positive possibilities that might arise from humanity’s increasing reliance on cybernetic technologies. As a result, posthumanism — usually depicted, in cyberpunk, as a space where the human is consumed by technology — now becomes a space of possibilities, where the human/technology merger could signal a positive transformation.

With these points in mind, this chapter will illustrate how cyberpunk’s transition into postcyberpunk allows for a more optimistic approach to posthumanism and, in the process, demonstrate how an enclave such as posthumanism becomes a space of fluctuating dystopian/utopian fantasies. To illustrate, I will use Mamoru Oshii’s postcyberpunk animated feature, Ghost in the Shell (1995), and how it views posthumanism as a space of change in which what it means to be human can be interrogated, not just disintegrated as is the case in Neuromancer. As with the previous chapter, I will focus on posthumanism as represented through the cyborg and the disembodied consciousness. In Ghost in the Shell, being pure human is a rarity; nearly every human in its futuristic Tokyo is a cyborg to some degree. The film’s protagonist, Major Motoko Kusanagi, is no different. Kusanagi, a highranking agent in the clandestine security organisation Section 9, is a lab-created cyborg. However, unlike the cyborgs found in Neuromancer, Kusanagi is almost wholly machine, with only parts of her brain remaining organic. Yet, despite her near- machine body, Ghost in the Shell does not portray Kusanagi as losing some indefinable human quality. Instead, the film suggests that, as a cyborg, Kusanagi is able to question what it means to be human in an increasingly technological age. And rather than lament the loss of identity, the film envisions the cyborg — caught between the organic and machine world — as a fluid entity, capable of exploring myriad identities beyond those embodied within the organic. Similarly, cyberspace (referred to simply as ‘the net’) becomes a space of transcendence where the mind and spirit, once removed from the body, can achieve an apotheotic freedom. Ultimately, Ghost in the Shell views posthumanism not as the dystopian endpoint of human/machine interaction, but simply as the next step in an ongoing evolution.

Based on the manga (Japanese comic) of the same name, Ghost in the Shell (攻殻機動隊 Gōsuto in za sheru / Kōkaku kidōtai) (1995) is an anime (Japanese animated film), directed by Mamoru Oshii. It follows Major Motoko Kusanagi who, along with her team — Batou, a fellow cyborg, and the mostly human Togusa — seeks to capture an elusive hacker known only as the Puppet Master. While the search for the Puppet Master drives the narrative, the film’s thematic focus is Kusanagi’s search for identity and self-actualisation. After a series of unsuccessful attempts to capture the Puppet Master, the team receives an unexpected break in the case when a partially destroyed machine body is brought to Section 9. This body, it turns out, houses the Puppet Master, which reveals itself to not be a person, but a very advanced AI. This AI demands political asylum since it considers itself a living entity. But before any action can be taken, Section 9’s headquarters is stormed by Section 6 — an intelligence, reconnaissance, and surveillance unit — which captures the body housing the Puppet Master. Kusanagi and Batou chase the culprits to an abandoned building where Kusanagi faces off against an armoured battle tank deployed to stop her. The battle leaves her body, and the tank, completely destroyed; but she is finally able to communicate with the Puppet Master. The entity reveals that it was created by Section 6 as an advanced (and illegal) hacking tool. In time the AI became self- aware and thoughts about its own mortality and existence weighed heavily upon its new consciousness. It reveals that its interest was aroused by Kusanagi’s own quest for self-actualisation, something it learned of when accessing the networks she frequented. The Puppet Master offers Kusanagi the opportunity to merge with it, creating a new being. This way the entity can experience mortality and Kusanagi can experience all the knowledge it has acquired. She is offered the chance to be reborn. They merge just before both their bodies are destroyed by agents from Section 6. Kusanagi awakens later in an undisclosed location with Batou by her side. She finds that her head (the only part of her not completely destroyed), has been placed on a child-sized cyborg body, the only body Batou was able to salvage. Unperturbed, Kusanagi leaves with her new body, telling Batou that she is now neither herself, nor the Puppet Master, but a combination of both. The film ends with her gazing over the city, contemplating her new future.

Neuromancer’s opening line compares the sky of the future to the colour of a dead television channel. In doing so, it not only establishes how pervasive technology has

88 become, but also how the so-called natural is slowly being consumed by the machine. The opening words in Ghost in the Shell, however, are more ambiguous: “In the near future, electrons and light flow freely, and corporate computer networks eclipse the stars. Despite great advances in computerization, countries and races are not yet obsolete” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). What this opening suggests is that, however pervasive technology may be, it is not driven solely by the singular purpose of erasing all that is natural. Rather, by stating that countries and races still exist notwithstanding advances in technology, the opening proposes that, regardless of science’s capacity to circumvent divisions, such as race and nation, humanity continues to maintain them. Seeing computer technologies as a means to improve society is one of the hallmarks of postcyberpunk, a subgenre which, according to Huereca’s thesis “The Evolution of Cyberpunk into Postcyberpunk” (2011), “analyses the influence of computers from a wide variety of unprejudiced perspectives and, mainly, approaches the social issues that cyberpunk overlook in regard to the benefits of modern technology” (2011: 5). Consequently, Ghost in the Shell imagines technology as capable of improving the state of things, assuming humanity is willing to cooperate.

While Ghost in the Shell’s more positive depiction of technology’s potential can be attributed to the techno-saturated 1990s in which it and other postcyberpunk works were created, what cannot be overlooked is how its Japanese heritage shaped its perceptions. During the 1980s, Japan attained an almost mythic reputation in the West as one big technopolis, a country seen as so technologically advanced, it seemed like the futuristic places one might expect to find in an SF story. In William Gibson: A Literary Companion (2011) Tom Henthorne notes that even Gibson, “like many Americans in the early 1980s […] appears to have been both fascinated and frightened by a Japan that seemed poised to become a new kind of superpower” (2011: 74). While this reputation was somewhat exaggerated, it was not completely without merit. In her essay “Take a Ride on the Catbus” (2010) Shana Heinricy discusses Japan’s relationship with technology. Heinricy (2010: 47) explains that, after the Second World War, Japan was not allowed to develop military technology. As a result, money normally spent by other nations on military developments, in Japan went towards developing consumer technologies instead. The consequences were twofold: first, with so much capital pouring into developing consumer

89 technology, Japan became synonymous with creating quality electronics. This is also evident in Neuromancer, where Japanese brands such as Hosaka, Sony, and Ono- Sendai are favoured by the best hackers. Secondly, with the biggest technological developments happening outside the military sphere, Japanese citizens were, for the most part, exposed to the positive potential of technology: that it need not inevitably lead to more destruction. This might, at first, seem contradictory, considering that Japan experienced first-hand the destructive nature of technology with the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But, as Heinricy (2010:47) points out, “technology was seen as a way to protect the body from threats, a way to effectively armor the soft, vulnerable human flesh. Technology could then protect bodies from future disasters such as radiation and bombing.” This is why, in Japanese popular culture, robots and cyborgs are often heroes or protectors, with one of the best known of these being Osama Tezuka’s character Astro Boy from his eponymous 1952 manga series. The cyborg, in particular, is thus not necessarily seen as a human being absorbed by technology; rather, it becomes a human, transformed by technology. Significantly, this transformation need not be inherently ominous. The ethos of transformation is deeply imbedded in Japanese culture. Heinricy (47) notes how Japanese culture is rich with myths and stories of changing bodies. And, unlike the West that often views transforming bodies as frightening, Japanese culture espouses a belief that bodies are always “in states of ‘becoming’” (Heinricy, 2010: 46). In Anime from Akira to Howl’s Moving Castle: Experiencing Contemporary Japanese Animation (2005), Susan J. Napier also discusses anime’s relationship with metamorphosis, noting that it is the body, in particular, that is often the favourite space to explore the possibilities of transformation (2005: 37). In anime, this transformation is “sometimes grotesque […], sometimes alluring […] but always memorable. From cyborgs to superheroes on the positive side, and from mutants to monsters on the negative, a great many anime texts focus on the process of bodily change” (37). With such a rich selection of amorphous bodies that populate the screens and pages of Japanese popular culture, it becomes clear that “anime offers an exhilarating vision of difference in which identity can be technological, mythological, or simply an ecstatic process of constant metamorphosis” (Napier, 2005: 292).

Taking into account Japan’s focus on non-military technological innovations, and its rich history of transforming characters — both in myth and popular culture — it is unsurprising that a cyborg, a human transformed by technology, could signify an opportunity to transcend our human limitations. While these limitations involve both physical and mental inferiority, Ghost in the Shell is especially critical of what it considers to be a limiting belief that human nature is somehow special, and that by embracing transformation we risk losing what makes humanity, supposedly, unique. Therefore, what I intend to demonstrate is how Ghost in the Shell sees, in the cyborg, “the empowering possibility of going beyond any categorical notion of the human” (Napier, 2005: 293). However, these empowering possibilities are not as explicit as the more fearful ones depicted in Neuromancer. Ghost in the Shell does not propose that becoming posthuman is a utopian goal society should strive towards. Rather, I will show that the film invites a critical look at the notion of what it means to be human, arguing that once we break down the myth that we are stable and singular beings, we allow for a more fluid interpretation of our identities. The film achieves this by suggesting that since the cyborg, as Donna Haraway (1991: 151) argues, “skips the step or original unity, of identification with nature in the Western sense”, it becomes an untethered entity, one not bound to an organic origin, or origin stories. According to Mary Ann Doane, in her analysis of Haraway’s work, origin stories, especially those involving organic beginnings, “anchor the nostalgic desire to return to a natural identity” (2013: 210). By skipping this step, the cyborg represents a figure that is open to new identities that need not necessarily be contained within a wholly organic body. The film takes the idea of identity beyond organic embodiment a step further, claiming that the cyborg, a creature that exists on the borderline between organic and machine, could be the first step towards new exciting identities beyond both the cyborg, and the human. For Haraway, the cyborg represents an entity that challenges the myths and dualisms which colonise our perception of the human. Beliefs in dualisms such as man/machine, or the myth of fixed identities, and that identity needs to be contained within an organic whole, act as barriers that prevent us, as Stuart Sim argues in Lyotard and the Inhuman (2001), from conceiving “ourselves as open-ended projects rather than finished entities, actively seeking new forms and new ways of being in order to subvert the cultural norms of our time” (2001: 52). Society holds a great deal of reverence for the idea of the 91 holistic organic body. Even Francis Fukuyama, in Our Posthuman Future: Consequences of the Biotechnology Revolution (2002), is adamant that all the unidentifiable characteristics that go into his Factor X are contained within the human whole (2002: 171). But for Haraway, the cyborg is a hybrid entity which “effectively bypass[es] biology and all the social history attached to it” (Sim, 2001: 47). The foremost way in which the cyborg breaks free from the history, and supposed importance, of organic wholeness is by being itself an entity decoupled from organic reproduction which is, quite literally, the case with Kusanagi.

When first introduced to the audience, Kusanagi, outwardly, appears to be an attractive human female. Perched on a rooftop, she, much like the hackers in Neuromancer, is directly plugged into the net (the ubiquitous communications network blanketing the planet), while covertly listening in on the conversation between two statesmen. (Interestingly, unlike Neuromancer’s matrix, the net is never visually depicted. It is never shown as a different space where the consciousness goes when accessing it. Throughout the film it remains omnipresent, though unseen.) Batou, in the meantime, tries to contact Kusanagi, who appears to be ignoring him at first. When she finally responds, he comments that “there’s a lot of noise in your brain” whereupon she sarcastically remarks, “it’s my time of the month” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). For the audience, these physiological characteristics are enough to mark her as a female human. Yet the very next scene belies these assumptions when Kusanagi removes her clothing: her naked body appears female, yet she has no reproductive organs. It is also revealed that her skin allows her to become invisible, hence the need to disrobe. This is expanded upon further in the film’s iconic “birth” scene. Here the audience is shown a flashback that explains how Kusanagi was built. Her entire creation is completely divorced from the organic. There is no growth and no womb; she is constructed in the tech-saturated labs of Section 9. She is almost wholly machine, and the only reason she is a cyborg, and not a robot, is the brainstem and grey matter encased in her cyberbrain. As her inert body is lifted from the lab-grown amniotic fluid, the focus is on her face and breasts while a protective layer flakes away from her skin. Sexless and born in a lab, Kusanagi is a “she” only by virtue of her voice, face, breasts, and presumably, the origins of her brain matter.

As Napier (2005: 109) points out, however, although “both the technological and organic imagery is redolent of science fiction tropes of monster making, the sequence itself is lyrical, quiet, and rhythmically paced [with a] mood [that] is mystical, enhanced by otherworldly music.” Unlike Neuromancer’s Molly, Corto/Armitage, and Riveira, whose reasons for becoming cyborgs are punctuated by abuse, force, violence, or sinister motives; with Kusanagi’s creation “we are given no sense of horror or fear, for there is no emotion shown on [her] face” (109) This is also largely due to the music, composed by Kenji Kawai, which infuses the scene with a sense of solemn reverence. In “Cyborg Songs for an Existential Crisis” (2010) Sarah Penicka-Smith explains the importance of the film’s music, arguing that while “Ghost in the Shell is a film into which a viewer can read many messages, Kawai’s music provides the key” (2010: 504). This becomes evident throughout the film, where many of its iconic scenes are completely devoid of any dialogue. What the viewer infers from these scenes is largely based on Kawai’s score, which he composed in close collaboration with Oshii and his directorial vision. A good example of Kawai’s ability to convey a message via his music is the song accompanying the score — referred to as the “Ghost theme” (Penicka-Smith, 2010: 510) — played during Kusanagi’s birth, which is a “Japanese wedding song for purging evil influences before marriage” (Penicka-Smith 2010: 510-11). It is indicative of a celebratory moment, urging the viewer to experience this scene not as the death of the organic, but the birth of an entity that, as Haraway (1991: 150) argues, can be seen as “an imaginative resource suggesting some very fruitful couplings”. By having no organic origin, the cyborg “would not recognize the Garden of Eden; it is not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust [and therefore] unlike the hopes of Frankenstein’s monster, the cyborg does not expect its father to save it through a restoration of the garden” (Haraway, 1991: 151). In effect, the cyborg has no association with origin, or the supposed purity inscribed in organic birth. Regardless of how supposedly unnatural Kusanagi’s creation may be, the cyborg remains unperturbed by dualisms such as natural/unnatural. Rather, being a cyborg offers a way out of such troubling dualisms, which include self/other, human/machine, mind/body, male/female, and many more. The cyborg repudiates these dualisms, embracing its status as a liminal entity, one that exists in the interstices between these dualisms, occupying a space where identity is in a state of perpetual becoming. 93

At no point in Kusanagi’s quest for identity does she bemoan a loss of organic wholeness or seek restoration to a pre-cyborg state, as is the case with Neuromancer’s Armitage/Corto. Armitage represents the heteronymous cyborg that Corto has become. While he does not explicitly seek to return to a state before his brain implant transformed him into a subservient cyborg, his enslaved psyche has nonetheless become a battleground for Wintermute’s control and his original Corto personality wanting to break free. With Kusanagi, on the other hand, the film never explores a time before she was a cyborg; she “has no origin story in the Western sense” (Haraway, 1991:150).

Nevertheless, while Kusanagi might be untroubled by origin, organic wholeness, history, or any dualisms, she is “not completely comfortable in her cyborg identity and she does not totally fit Haraway’s paradigm of self-satisfied autonomy” (Napier, 2005: 107). While she does not lament being a cyborg, she is, as a liminal entity, more open to exploring possible identities beyond the cyborg. In Ghost in the Shell, the cyborg does not indicate an end as, according to James Patrick Kelly and John Kessel in Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology (2007), is often the case in cyberpunk narratives. Kelly and Kessel (2007: xii-xiii) point out that one of cyberpunk’s obsessions is the end of human history, brought about by increasing dependence on technology. The cyborg, as an entity for whom there is no going back, would often represent the finality of human history, and going forward means either completely losing their humanity, or alternatively, their destruction. Such is the case in Neuromancer, where neither Molly, Armitage/Corto, nor Riviera, become anything more than cyborgs. Neuromancer depicts its cyborgs as slowly losing their humanity and, as with Riviera and Armitage/Corto, with death as the only next step beyond the cyborg. Postcyberpunk, on the other hand, is more interested in “[exploring] the edges of this ‘end’ of history, and if possible, [seeing] beyond it” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: xiii). In Ghost in the Shell, the cyborg is not depicted as an entity signalling some tragic end of humanity; rather, it represents an opportunity to rethink the idea of the human, while also suggesting that it may be time to relinquish the idea that the human is a sacred concept that has to be preserved. The core of Kusanagi’s quest for identity stems from a desire to explore what lies beyond the cyborg, specifically what she might become if she abandons that which still defines her as human. For, although she is a cyborg, the world of Ghost in

94 the Shell has made the line between human and cyborg thoroughly ambiguous with the introduction of the “ghost”.10 The “ghost”, not to be confused with the traditional meaning of the word, is the film’s sign for being human in a setting where almost everyone is, to some degree, a cyborg. In “Just a Ghost in a Shell” Angus McBlane states that although “the ‘ghost’ is not defined, it is linked with the notion of ‘soul’, however ambiguous as that idea is” (2010: 99). Interestingly, it seems to share similarities with Fukuyama’s Factor X, in that it is the animating force which gives rise to consciousness and is viewed as the unique characteristic of the human. However, unlike Factor X, the “ghost” is not bound to pure organic embodiment. Cyborgs, even those like Kusanagi that are more machine than organic, possess a “ghost”. And while Fukuyama is hesitant to allocate a seat for his Factor X — believing that its elusiveness is precisely why we should not tamper with the human body — in Oshii’s film, the “ghost” is situated in the brain. Thus, no matter how much the body has been augmented, as long as some part of your brain is human, you possess a “ghost”. In addition, the “ghost” is also detectable via electronic means, negating the need to question its existence. As long as Kusanagi has an organic brain (albeit augmented), she has a “ghost” — which, for all intents and purposes, is enough for her to be considered a female human. She is not depicted as an outsider struggling to find her humanity in a world that draws a distinction between cyborg and human; rather, she is positioned as a part of society that accepts cyborgs as the inevitable result of its tech-saturated reality. Also, working with law enforcement agencies, she is far from the punk archetype one would find in the traditional cyberpunk narrative. Yet, as is often the case in postcyberpunk, the aspect of punk “continues to make sense if it is pointing toward an attitude: an adversarial relationship to consensus reality. This attitude is just south of cynicism but well north of mere scepticism. It has to do with a reaction to a world in which humanity must constantly be renegotiated” (Kelly & Kessel, 2007: xii). So while the world at large considers Kusanagi human, she slowly begins to doubt not just her own humanity, but the concept of being human in general. For although Ghost in the Shell, through its conceptualisation of “the ghost”, provides an expansive definition of what it means to be human, the very fact that the “ghost”

10 In “Cyborg Goddess (2010) Dan Dinello mentions how Oshii drew his inspiration for the “ghost” from Arthur Koestler’s book The Ghost in the Machine (1949), in which Koestler argues that the mind, or “ghost” (his term for the higher, or more complex, brain functions) is housed in the physical brain, and that this “ghost” can be scientifically detected (541-3). 95 exists, and the fact that is still contained in a human brain, seems, at first, to suggest a need to preserve a core humanity. However, as the “film progresses the Major ceases to question what makes her human, and questions instead the relevance of her perceived humanity” (Penicka-Smith, 2010: 507).

In a series of scenes which, for ease of reference, I variously call the “diving scene”, the “ferry scene”, and “meeting the Puppet Master”, Kusanagi gradually goes from questioning her “ghost” to the realisation that her “ghost”, the concept which seemingly defines her and all those around her, as human, does not need organic embodiment. This realisation allows Kusanagi to embrace an identity that is embodied in neither human, nor cyborg, but in pure, uncontained data.

The diving scene is the first pivotal moment, because it is here that the audience is made aware that Kusanagi’s search for identity is the essence of the film. Up to this scene, the assumption is that the film is about Kusanagi’s search for the Puppet Master, since there has been very little indication that she is struggling with her cyborg identity. The scene starts where Kusanagi is deep-sea diving from her boat and, much like the depiction of her creation, this scene is also, initially, devoid of any dialogue. Like the birth scene, this sequence is also accompanied by a Kawai score that is both minimalist and otherworldly. As she sinks into the impenetrable darkness of the ocean depths, the floater on her diving suit activates and sends her slowly towards the surface. As she floats back towards the top, she stares at a reflection of herself in the surface water. The scene is composed in such a way that, for a brief moment, the viewer questions who the real Kusanagi is. Is it the one who is diving? Or is the real Kusanagi the reflection in the sunset-coloured surface water? As the two figures — Kusanagi and her reflection — meet, she breaks through the surface and only she remains, staring at the sky. When she gets back on her boat, Batou is also there to reprimand her for diving, on account of cyborg bodies being too heavy for proper diving. Kusanagi seems unperturbed, stating that if the floaters in her diving suit stopped working, she would probably die. The scene takes on a philosophical tone as Batou asks Kusanagi what she sees in the dark depths of the ocean. Her response: “I feel fear, anxiety, isolation and darkness. Sometimes I feel hope” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). According to Napier (2005: 110), here “Kusanagi seems to be attempting to discover a core self, one that is accessible through the technological apparatus of her diving

96 gear but is encased within the organic womb of the sea”. This suggests that Kusanagi’s core self, her “ghost”, is contained, perhaps even trapped, within the organic, and that technology represents not just the potential to access her true self, but also potentially free it from its encasement. Kusanagi’s follow-up statement again points to a desire to find a more complete version of herself. If a technological feat is possible, man will do it. Almost as though it’s wired into the core of our being. Metabolic control. Enhanced sensory perception. Improved reflexes and muscle capacity. Vastly increased data processing speed and capacity. All improvements thanks to our cyber-brains and cyborg bodies. So what if we can’t live without high-level maintenance? We have nothing to complain about. It doesn’t mean we’ve sold our souls to Section 9. We do have the right to resign if we choose. Provided we give the government back our cyborg shells and the memories they hold. Just as there are many parts needed to make a human a human, there’s a remarkable number of things needed to make an individual what they are. A face to distinguish yourself from others. A voice you aren’t aware of yourself. The hand you see when you awaken. The memories of childhood, the feelings for the future. That’s not all. There’s the expanse of the data net my cyber-brain can access. All of that goes into making me what I am. Giving rise to a consciousness that I call ‘me’. And simultaneously confining ‘me’ within set limits. (Ghost in the Shell, 1995).

Kusanagi’s reference to “our” and “we” indicates an awareness of the blurred distinction between human and cyborg. As most humans have been enhanced to some degree, it is no longer possible to refer to cyborg or human, since what is considered human has long since gone beyond requiring a wholly organic body. She is also not lamenting her cyborg state and is unconcerned with fears of losing some indefinable human ‘nature’. Her statement seems redolent of transhumanism, especially, as noted transhumanist Max More argues in his discussion of the philosophy’s core values, the belief that “the self has to be instantiated in some physical medium, but not necessarily one that is biologically human” (2013: 7). Yet, as McBlane (2010: 104) argues, even “with this expansive notion of identity and self, there is a seed of doubt in the limitation imposed. The circuit is not complete. Her questioning of the limitations of herself works towards something posthuman; her statements here serve as transitional ones.” Kusanagi recognises that the self is composed of many different components, all contained within a body, cyborg or otherwise. However, her reference to voice, face, memories, feelings, and a hand — all concepts associated with embodiment, and specifically organic embodiment — seems to indicate that she views these elements as both forming her consciousness,

97 but also restricting her consciousness. She questions whether these elements truly form her, or if they simply chain her identity to organic embodiment. As Kusanagi’s contemplative musing comes to an end, a mysterious voice suddenly speaks through her. While her lips do not move, both she and Batou hear the voice quote from the Bible’s Book of Corinthians:11 “For although I see through a glass darkly soon shall I see face to face” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). Unbeknownst to them at the time, it is the Puppet Master who, by using the net almost everyone is constantly connected to, is speaking through Kusanagi. As Napier (2005: 110) points out, “it is clear throughout Ghost in the Shell that Kusanagi herself is looking through a glass darkly, searching for some fuller image of herself”, which, in retrospect, adds some explanation to the previous scene where Kusanagi floats towards her reflection.

Following the mysterious quote the film cuts to the ferry scene. Like the birth scene, this scene has minimal sound and no dialogue. It centres on Kusanagi who is traveling by ferry through the canals that flow through the city. The scene is presented as a montage constructed from several slow-moving shots that focus on Kusanagi on the ferry, but also cuts to the surrounding cityscape and its inhabitants slowly making their way through sidewalks and alleyways, past neon-lit signs and shop windows. Complementing this scene is a Kawai score which he christened “Ghost City” — a slight variation of the Ghost theme — that gives the scene a soothing, dreamlike quality. A cursory breakdown of the scene might, at first, give the impression that its purpose was simply to fill time, an interlude before the next big set-piece. This is, however, not the case, as the “music and visuals combined remove us from the film’s narrative thrust, instead giving insight into the Major’s internal world in an intensely personal way” (Penicka-Smith, 2010: 515). Much of what can be inferred from this scene is contained in Kawai’s “Ghost City” score, which is “a play on both the city’s dreamy, detached aura, and also its role as home to a myriad ghosts in a range of bodies, some identical in form but presumably diverse in spirit” (Penicka-Smith, 2010: 514). This is evident in the numerous shots featuring nameless individual bodies going about their day. None of them is given the same visual detail as Kusanagi, making them appear almost identical at times,

11 The theological underpinnings of the film are made especially apparent during Kusanagi’s final meeting with the Puppet Master. 98 as if to suggest that what makes individuals unique is not bound to our bodies. This realisation is further emphasised during what is perhaps the most striking shot in the entire scene: as the ferry drifts through the canal, Kusanagi’s notices an exact physical copy of herself sitting alone inside a restaurant. They exchange expressionless stares and the shot cuts to the next one. It is never explained who or what this doppelgänger is, suggesting her appearance serves more of a philosophical function than a narrative one. These duplicates, be they the side-line pedestrians or Kusanagi’s double, along with Kawai’s music, “[signify] the Major’s move away from seeing embodiment as a given part of the human condition” (Penicka-Smith, 2010: 515). The duplicate might look like Kusanagi, but it is not Kusanagi. She is realising that her identity, her “ghost”, is who she is and that it transcends whatever form it is embodied within. This is, again, thanks to Kawai’s musical score, as each “time we hear it, the Ghost theme signifies a new point in the Major’s understanding of what it is to be human, and what it might mean to leave that concept behind” (515). The ferry scene, perhaps more than any other scene in the film, becomes a visual expression of the film’s title: bodies, both human and cyborg, are simply “shells” which contain our conscious selves, our “ghosts”.

It is Kusanagi’s meeting with the Puppet Master that forces her not just to confront her realisation that she is also just a “ghost” in a “shell”, but also that the “ghost” can no longer be used to distinguish humans from pure machines. When a partially destroyed machine body is brought to Section 9’s headquarters, there is finally the opportunity to communicate directly with the Puppet Master. At first, the team is unaware that the body contains the Puppet Master. Their interest in this particular case stems from the fact that this cybernetic body was assembled in a Megatech — a very secretive and high-profile cybernetics company — manufacturing plant operating, seemingly, of its own volition. By the time the supervisor arrives, the body has already fled. The body, which outwardly appears female, manages to make its way to a nearby road where it stands deliberately in the oncoming traffic, and ends up being hit by a truck. However, while a rogue cybernetic body is enough to warrant Section 9’s attention, what makes this body particularly interesting is, as Batou points out, the fact that “there isn’t a human brain cell in its head but there appears to be a ghost present in its auxiliary brain” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). The team, mostly Togusa and Batou, is sceptical. Batou even remarks: “Consider all the neuro-med

99 devices that are crammed into that body. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some sort of ghost in there too” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). His statement aims to dismiss this “ghost” as simply a glitch, a misreading of the data. However, Kusanagi, still contemplating the nature of her identity, is much more unsettled by this find. During a scene where both she and Batou ride in an elevator, Kusanagi asks Batou if the robot body reminds him of her. He is dismissive at first, but Kusanagi nonetheless states that “maybe all full-replacement cyborgs like me start wondering this. That perhaps the real me died a long time ago and I’m a replicant made with a cyborg body and a computer brain. Or maybe there never was a real ‘me’ to begin with” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). Batou tries to assuage some of her concerns, and states: “You’ve got real brain matter in that titanium skull of yours. And you get treated like a real person, don’t you?” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). Yet for Kusanagi, that is not enough, and she makes it clear when arguing: “But that’s just it, the only thing that makes me feel human is the way I’m treated. What if a cyber-brain could generate its own ghost, create a soul by itself? What could you base your belief in yourself on then?” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). Kusanagi questions whether or not it is possible to truly define the human, suggesting that if something as expansive as the “ghost” cannot be used as the signal for humanity, then perhaps it is time to stop trying to define the concept. Similarly, Anne Kull, in her discussion on cyborg ontology, theorises that, when living in a world of cyborgs, what “will count as human is not given by definition; it is not neutrally available. It emerges only from relations, by engagement in situated, worldly encounters, where boundaries take shape and categories settle into place” (quoted by Penicka-Smith, 2010:506). Kull’s suggestion echoes the concerns of Kusanagi, that when the lines between man and machine become blurred the human will not necessarily disintegrate, but undergo such profound transformation that it will elude any possible attempts at definition or categorisation. In other words, it could be said that supposed ‘markers of humanity’ such as Factor X, the inhuman, the “ghost” and others, are all nothing more than failed attempts to define a concept that is, and continues to remain, fundamentally indefinable. The Puppet Master further obfuscates Kusanagi’s understanding of what it is to be human. Upon learning that Section 9 has obtained this broken body, Chief Nakamura, the head of Section 6, arrives at their headquarters with a suspicion that it might indeed hold the Puppet Master. Nakamura’s aide, Doctor Willis, determines 100 that the “ghost” inside the body is indeed him (“him” simply being a shorthand designation Willis has given the genderless Puppet Master). Nakamura, concerned that Section 9 might learn of Section 6’s involvement in creating this entity, demands that Section 9’s Chief Aramaki hand over the broken body. As the two negotiate the next step, the body suddenly activates itself and proceeds to speak to them both, a scene made even stranger by the “female” body’s decidedly masculine voice: Puppet Master: You will not find a corpse because I have never possessed a body. I entered this body because I was unable to overcome Section 6’s reactive barriers. However, what you are now witnessing is an act of my own free will. As a sentient life-form, I hereby demand political asylum.

Aramaki: A sentient life-form?

Nakamura: Ridiculous! It’s just a program for self-preservation.

Puppet Master: It can also be argued that your DNA is nothing more than a program designed to preserve itself. Life is like a nodal point born in an overwhelming sea of information. And life, when organized into species relies upon genes to be its memory system. So man is an individual memory system only because of his intangible memory. And a memory cannot be defined but it defines mankind. When the advent of computers made the externalization of memories possible you should have taken its meaning more seriously.

Nakamura: Nonsense! Your babbling offers no proof at all that you’re a living, thinking life-form.

Puppet Master: Proving it is impossible because modern science cannot explain what life is.

Aramaki: What is it? Artificial intelligence?

Puppet Master: I am not an AI. My code name is Project 2501. I am a living, thinking entity who was created in the sea of information.

(Ghost in the Shell, 1995).

The Puppet Master represents a breakdown in Ghost in the Shell’s proposition of what humanity is: up until this point, the “ghost” has defined the human, and the “ghost” has been anchored in a living organic brain. Yet, the Puppet Master sees itself as a living entity, one that possesses a “ghost” but was “born” in the net. It “does not possess a ‘body’ as it would be strictly defined within humanist discourse: an organic biological ‘human’ body. Rather, the ‘body’ of the Puppet Master is the netting that it is enmeshed within: a data body of pure information” (McBlane, 2010: 105). Much of what the Puppet Master states is in line with transhumanist theories of the self, especially ideas about humanity and our

101 memories. In “Transhumanism and Personal Identity” (2013), James Hughes cites transhumanist Ray Kurzweil, who believes that “you are essentially your memories and ability to reflect on yourself and, more generally, your overall psychological configuration […] referred to as your ‘pattern’” (2013: 230). “Patternism”, as this belief is called, is a popular view of the self among transhumanists since it permits radical change to both mind and body so long as the flow, the memory leading up to the point, is maintained. Patternism subsequently allows the belief that the self need not instantiate itself within a wholly organic body (230). The Puppet Master, however, transcends even patternism in that it is not the continuation of a consciousness, but a wholly new consciousness born out of the informational patterns of the net. It represents Koestler’s belief (as quoted by Penicka-Smith, 2010: 507) that “consciousness…is an emergent quality, which evolves into more complex and structured states in phylogeny […] towards the creation of order out of disorder, of ‘information’ out of ‘noise’”. Consequently, the Puppet Master is an argument for a reinterpretation of how one defines life, consciousness and human nature. As technology continues to expand in both scope and possibility, the chances of humanity remaining unchanged are highly unlikely.

Having heard the Puppet Master’s words, Kusanagi is adamant that she wants to “dive” into him — merging her consciousness with his — hoping to find answers to her personal quest. However, before she can communicate with the Puppet Master, Section 9’s headquarters is attacked by unknown assailants and the body stolen. While Chief Aramaki suspects it is Section 6’s doing, he cannot prove anything, so he sends Kusanagi to retrieve the body. Kusanagi tracks the body to an abandoned museum where it is being guarded by a heavily armoured spider-tank.12 The ensuing fight destroys many of the museum displays; however, what stands out is the destruction of one piece in particular: an etching of the evolutionary tree. The bullets rip through the etching, finally coming to a stop at “hominus” (Latin for man/person). As Dinello (2013: 546) sees it, the “unmistakable symbolism is that organic evolution has reached a dead end with humanity”, suggesting that it is time to look past the idea of the human as an organic entity and to embrace the possibility of a technologically-mediated transformation. When both Kusanagi and the spider-tank

12 Called so due to its primary mode of mobility being four protruding robotic legs instead of the standard tank treads. This allows the machine greater flexibility, and makes for a tougher opponent. 102 have all but depleted their ammunition, she tears off her clothes, activates her thermo-optic camouflage and makes her way to the hatch on top of the tank, leading to one of the film’s most striking moments: Kusanagi, desperate to open the tank and kill the driver, employs all her strength in an attempt to tear open the hatch. Every muscle in her body begins to bulge and undulate as she employs the prodigious strength afforded to her as a cyborg. Despite the lid not budging she persists, unfazed by the fact that her skin and muscles are beginning to tear. Her physical power, while impressive, cannot match her resolve and she ends up literally tearing herself apart. This moment is symbolic of the film’s argument that who Kusanagi is, is not bound to her body. Her “shell” is only temporary, and “cracking” it suggests the possibility that something new can emerge. Thus mutilating her body in this way is more of an inconvenience than an actual traumatic experience.

But just before the tank can finish the job, Batou arrives to take out the enemy before it has the opportunity to destroy her entirely. With the vehicle destroyed, Batou is able to assist Kusanagi finally to dive into the “ghost” of the Puppet Master, by laying the two broken bodies next to each other and connecting them via the circuitry of the spider tank. This scene, as Napier (2005: 111) points out, is replete with boundary transgressions. After the dive, Oshii shifts the point of view to the Puppet Master’s eyes as we are allowed to look up at the cavernous hallway from the torso’s place on the floor. This viewpoint shot achieves a kind of double identification: The viewer is identifying with Kusanagi who is now ‘identifying’ with the eyes of the Puppet Master. Then, when Kusanagi begins to speak in the Puppet Master’s voice, a further dislocation occurs because we now see Kusanagi’s body as permeable as well.

At this point, the only way to distinguish between the two is through voice. Body is no longer an indication of identity as they communicate via their “ghosts”. The Puppet Master tells Kusanagi that he was aware of her long before she knew of him. Seeing similarities between Kusanagi and itself in their search for a more complete identity, this newly formed consciousness chose to inhabit a robot body in order to make its way to Section 9, and seek out Kusanagi. Aware of her struggle, the Puppet Master makes Kusanagi an intriguing offer. While it considers itself a living, thinking entity, it still feels incomplete. Thus, it wishes to merge its “ghost” with Kusanagi’s, effectively “killing” itself in the process, yet still allowing it to live on as a new entity; one that is neither Kusanagi nor the Puppet Master. In doing so the Puppet Master is granted the ultimate endpoint of life, death, while still continuing in

103 the form of its new “offspring”. In contrast, Kusanagi is offered a chance to finally “escape the physical, be it technological or organic, to fuse into a nonmaterial world where her ghost can roam free” (Napier, 2005: 113) Despite her realisation that the self is not tied to the body, organic or otherwise, she is still hesitant, fearing that her identity, regardless of embodiment, will be irrevocably altered. She asks the Puppet Master, “can you guarantee that I will still be myself” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995) whereupon he simply responds “there isn’t one [a guarantee]. People change and your longing to remain yourself will continue to restrict you” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995), an observation shared by transhumanists.

With the final realisation that neither the self nor the body is static, Kusanagi agrees to merge with the Puppet Master. As a last bit of motivation, he tells Kusanagi: “I am connected to a vast network of which I myself am a part. To one like you who cannot access it, you may perceive it only as light. As we are confined to our own section, so we are all connected. Limited to a small part of our functions. But now we must slip our bonds and shift to a higher structure” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). What the Puppet Master is saying is that Kusanagi will completely transcend her current state of being, and become one with the net. This is a step beyond simply accessing the net; her consciousness will slip free from all material bonds, allowing her to become an omnipresent entity, to become one with a network which blankets the entire planet. As Kusanagi stares up through the shattered glass ceiling, their “ghosts” begin to merge. A cascade of bright light envelops her vision, and what appears to be feathers falls from the sky. The last thing Kusanagi sees before snipers from Section 6, who have been monitoring the situation from afar, destroy both her and the Puppet Master, is a silhouette of an angel13 descending down on her. This moment, like Kusanagi quoting from the Bible, shows a strong theological theme evident in the film. In Exploring the Limits of the Human through Science Fiction (2012), Gerald Alva Miller also notes the theological imagery, stating that this “blinding heavenly light represents the vast network of information to which he [Puppet Master] is connected and to which Kusanagi now receives access” (2012: 82). While a Christian motif seems evident, especially considering the angelic vision

13 While Ghost in the Shell does not spring from a Christian society, its deliberate use of Christian imagery highlights humanity’s constant search for a transcendent condition that could either be a specific space, such as a heaven, or just a specific state of mind. 104 and heavenly light, Napier (2005: 113) points out that the more likely influences are Buddhism and Shintoism. She notes that Oshii himself stated that the ‘net’ can be equated with the myriad gods of the Shinto religion, underlining the notion that Kusanagi’s fusion with the Puppet Master has strong theological overtones. It might also suggest that the notion of a bodiless union with an amorphous greater entity has clear evocations of Buddhist concept of nirvana, where the self is said to become like a single drop in a vast ocean (113).

A similar stance is adopted by Susan Wertheim who, in The Pearly Gates of Cyberspace (1999), posits that cyberspace, while not a religious construct, could potentially serve that same function as whatever afterlife utopia is promised by religion (1999: 18-19). If we allow our minds to continue in cyberspace, humanity can potentially embrace a collective unity where traditional divisions such as race, gender, class, and other, no longer matter. Individualistic loneliness will be replaced by an all-encompassing togetherness and deep spiritual connections (Wertheim, 1999: 27). When he says: “As we are confined to our own section, so we are all connected. Limited to a small part of our functions” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995), the Puppet Master states that one of humanity’s limitations is its limited connections. We are connected only as far as our bodies allow. Napier (2005: 106) makes a similar argument, noting how “an implicit lament for a lost (or perhaps never really existing) world of human connections is one of the film’s more distinctive elegiac aspects.” Napier finds this especially evident during the ferry scene which, she argues, indicates, in addition to the interpretation that the individual is their “ghost” and not their body, “the film’s powerful sense of the corrosive loneliness of the human condition” (106).

From the above, it is evident that there is a sharp divide between Neuromancer’s dystopian storying of cyberspace and Ghost in the Shell’s strikingly utopian version. Ghost in the Shell’s depiction of cyberspace aligns with the writings of Kevin Robins, who in “Cyberspace and the World We Live in” (1996), posits a utopian interpretation of cyberspace, stating that one “might think of cyberspace as a utopian vision for postmodern times. Utopia is nowhere and, at the same time, it is also somewhere good. Cyberspace is projected as the same kind of ‘nowhere-somewhere.’”(135) Thus, as Naciye Gülengül Altintas argues in “Postcyberpunk Unitopia: A Comparative Study of Cyberpunk and Postcyberpunk (2006), by choosing not to actually visualise cyberspace, Ghost in the Shell manages to preserve the utopian

105 credentials laid out by Robins (2006: 94). The net is present yet not represented, allowing a more fluid interpretation of its possibilities, such as the film’s depiction of it as a transcendent, almost heavenly, space. Neuromancer, on the other hand, chooses to visualise the matrix and subsequently diverge from a utopian interpretation of cyberspace as a place that cannot be imagined. As Altinas (2006: 94) argues, cyberspace in Neuromancer, “and also other cyberpunk examples that [try] to visualise cyberspace […] appears as a mere interface […] that cannot transcend its material origins which gave rise to it”. This suggests that visualising cyberspace inevitably leads to a limiting interpretation of its potential capabilities. Thus, by choosing to physically depict cyberspace, Neuromancer forfeits any attempt at imagining it as anything other than a “consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators” (Gibson, 1984: 67). This in turn limits the novel in imagining the transition from consciousness onto cyberspace as anything other than an experience of immortal pointlessness. The Matrix cannot serve as a suitable surrogate for the continuation of human thought, and both Linda and Dixie are shown to exist in a state of eternal stagnation. This version of post- body consciousness is in line with Lyotard’s writings. For Lyotard, true inhuman thought is in a constant interplay with the human body and mind. Lyotard is adamant that no technology will ever be able to simulate the necessary suffering needed for thought to continue in a post-organic existence. Consequently, Lyotard’s argument privileges the organic human and, in effect, argues that however one might understand the human, it is still an entity that requires an organic body. Unlike Gibson’s novel, Ghost in the Shell views this mental separation into cyberspace as a potentially liberating experience where the self is no longer bound by any restrictions, be they physiological or psychological. Cyberspace, in this sense, “becomes the medium of religious self-transcendence and God-like omnipresence” (Dinello, 2010: 551). Thus, the human, by Ghost in the Shell’s theorisations, is not necessarily the body, nor is it something which needs organic embodiment. Assuming that consciousness requires a human body which suffers under the weight of the unthought is just another attempt to contain the human within set parameters. By letting go of the belief that the human is a stable entity we might, like Kusanagi, see the value in allowing our minds to continue in cyberspace.

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The final scene of the film shows the fate of Kusanagi. Thanks to the timely intervention of Batou, the snipers from Section 6 are unable to destroy Kusanagi entirely: her head survives relatively intact. She awakens later in one of Batou’s safe houses, and finds that her head has been attached to the body of a robot-child. Batou explains it was the only body he could find on the black market, but Kusanagi is unconcerned. Her body is nothing more than a vehicle, it does not define her. Just before she leaves his safe house, Batou asks Kusanagi if the Puppet Master is still inside her, to which she responds: “Batou, do you remember that voice you heard on the sea some time ago? There’s more to the passage. ‘When I was a child, my speech was that of a child. My feelings and thoughts too were those of a child. Now that I have become a man, I part with the child-like way’. Here before you is neither the program known as the Puppet Master nor the woman that was called The Major” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995). Having uttered the biblical quote in full, its significance is made clear: the Kusanagi preceding this moment no longer exists. She finally sees “through the glass darkly” the fuller version of herself. She has not been consumed by the Puppet Master; rather they have become a single, new entity that is neither human nor cyborg. As Miller (2012: 82) notes, at the film’s end, “Kusanagi chooses a new regime of organization for herself, one that exists beyond the boundaries of a physical form […] no longer tethered to petty definitions like “the human” or to any stabilizing schemas of identity”. As Kusanagi leaves the safe house, she stares at the cityscape before her and says to herself: “Well, where shall I go? The net is vast and infinite” (Ghost in the Shell, 1995), suggesting that now, as an entity that has transcended the physical, and with it archaic definitions such as ‘human’, she can embrace a completely new mode of being.

If Ghost in the Shell’s central theme could be summarised, it would be this: posthumanism does not mean the end of humanity. Rather, as a film that is both an example of postcyberpunk and the subgenre’s more progressive attitude towards technology, and one that draws from its Japanese heritage of transforming bodies, Ghost in the Shell shows that as technology continues to advance, humanity will need to re-evaluate what exactly is meant by humanity. At the film’s end, Kusanagi is led to the realisation that everything which, purportedly, defines the human is simply an ephemeral moment in a continuing search to try and understand humanity. Trying to safeguard humanity against the supposed encroachment of technology is both

107 pointless and restrictive, for it assumes that humanity is a fixed entity that has reached some fictitious end-point in its evolution. Subsequently, much like Haraway’s theorisation of the cyborg, Ghost in the Shell views the cyborg as an agent of change, an entity that, thanks to its merging of organic and machine, becomes one where current definitions of the human can be interrogated. Kusanagi becomes a figure that, thanks to technology, is created anew, free from organic origins. She does not desire to go back to some pre-cyborg state and neither does she experience a loss of identity or free will, as is the case with Molly, Armitage/Corto, and Riveira. There is also no sense of longing for some original body. Instead, she becomes aware that who she is, is housed in her body, be it cyborg or human. All forms of physical embodiment are simply “shells”, temporary vessels which houses our identities until the next opportunity to reinvent ourselves, and our lived experience, presents itself. Therefore something like the net, the vast communication network covering the globe, becomes another technology through which our consciousness can reconstitute itself. Instead of viewing cyberspace, as Neuromancer does, as a space that could potentially trap the disembodied consciousness, Ghost in the Shell prefers to imagine, but not visually depict, the vast “datascapes” of cyberspace as a transcendental space where the consciousness, once freed from its “shell”, can attain a higher, almost god-like, existence.

Thus, when looking at both Neuromancer and Ghost in the Shell, it seems evident that while both narratives share certain similarities in their descriptions and depictions of posthumanism, there is a distinctly different approach in their interpretations. As a cyberpunk novel, Neuromancer displays the subgenre’s tendency towards depicting dystopian futures where posthumanism signals the end of humanity. Posthumanism, as an enclave, became the perfect canvas onto which cyberpunk authors could project their fears and distrust of burgeoning new technology ushered in by the Information Age. In Neuromancer, the cyborg is imagined as a conflicted entity where human identity, nature, and agency, risk being assimilated by the technology embedded within the body. The novel thus ends up privileging the human body, much like Fukuyama, who believes that there are, embedded within our organic selves, the intricate building blocks of a unifying human nature. Alter the body and we risk losing what, in his belief, makes humanity unique; or worse — possibly losing our humanity. Similarly, cyberspace is envisioned as a

108 fantastical new technology that could potentially free the consciousness from the human body. But despite the initial appeal of a post-body immortality, Neuromancer depicts “thought without a body” as an existence of never-ending emptiness. Ghost in the Shell, on the other hand, exemplifies postcyberpunk’s approach to posthumanism, seeing it as a space that allows the opportunity to change how we define our bodies and identities. Whether existing as a cyborg, or as pure disembodied data Ghost in the Shell attempts to argue that through posthumanism, humanity can continue to redesign itself into forms that are both exciting and beneficial.

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CHAPTER 5 Conclusion

The aim of this dissertation has been to illustrate the ways in which postcyberpunk — the often ignored offshoot of the short-lived SF subgenre, cyberpunk — revises the technophobic preoccupations that usually characterise cyberpunk’s depictions of the posthuman. Posthumanism — understood here as a merging of biology and technology to such a point that the human becomes something other than human — is frequently envisioned by cyberpunk as a dystopian condition in which the man/machine merger is a negative transformation that does irreparable harm to the human subject. Postcyberpunk, on the other hand, depicts posthumanism as a potentially positive transformation whereby the human can be reimagined in myriads of manifestations. To this end I turned to Fredric Jameson’s concept of the utopian enclave, which, in Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions (2007), he defines as a space wherein both utopian and dystopian fantasies can take shape. While these spaces are often connected to certain concepts or ideas, they are, more often than not, bound to the imagination, meaning that only our imagination can infuse them with either utopian or dystopian speculations. One such enclave, I posit, is posthumanism, as defined above. For while the melding of the biological and the artificial had been, for many centuries, barely conceivable and crudely contrived — where rudimentary prostheses bore little or no resemblance to the limbs they replaced — the advanced computerised technology of the late twentieth-century, and beyond, has opened doorways for considerably more advanced bionic improvements. A large portion of contemporary society has subsequently become dependent on this technology, not just to function, but also to survive. This technologically saturated climate, and the way technology continues to be irrevocably ingrained into our very existence, inevitably leads to humanity turning its gaze toward the horizon, pondering the possibilities that might arise from our increasing reliance on it. And inevitably, at the centre of this discussion are ideas about the human, specifically what it means to be human.

As could perhaps be expected, posthumanism proved a tantalising imaginative space for SF authors, film directors and creators, who have conjured up fantastical

110 human-machine mergers, the most well-known being the cyborg: a hybrid entity that combines advanced technology with the human body to become something far superior. Other formulations include versions of cyberspace where the mind is separated from the body and launched into a vast digital landscapes. Posthumanism has also drawn the attention of theorists, scholars, scientists, philosophers, and other thinkers, all eager to theorise what posthumanism could potentially mean for the human species. However, it is apparent that these fantasies and theorisations are themselves susceptible to a utopian lure or dystopian deterrent. To illustrate, I turned my attention to a twofold interpretation of posthumanism: theory and fiction. On the theory side, I explained how, among scholars, there is no consensus regarding the final outcome of posthumanism, resulting in both dire predictions and hopeful anticipation. The more sceptical of these are Francis Fukuyama in Our Posthuman Future: Consequences of the Biotechnology Revolution (2002), and Jean-Francois Lyotard in The Inhuman: Reflections on Time (1991). Both scholars display a bias against radically altering the human body, and share a stance that, however indefinable it may be, there is a fundamental human nature that is inextricably tied to our organic wholes. Both authors argue, albeit along different trajectories, that radical alterations to the mind or body could do irreparable damage to our shared human nature. Their perspective, while more critically fleshed out, seems in line with the more fearful reactions that, more often than not, tend to surface the moment notions of human body alterations are being discussed. On the other side of the spectrum there is Donna Haraway who, in her well known essay “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century” (1991), positions the cyborg as a liberated entity, free from the constraints of societal dualism. For Haraway, the posthuman cyborg does not signal the end of some supposed human nature; rather it represents an opportunity to actively challenge restrictive beliefs that the human is a fixed entity. Then there are also the writings of transhumanist philosophers Max More and Suzan Wertheim, who believe that by embracing posthumanism, humanity can actively improve itself. I subsequently went on to illustrate how posthumanism is depicted in fiction, turning to SF as a literary genre that most frequently lends itself to speculations regarding the future. Particular attention was paid to cyberpunk, an SF subgenre, often viewed as predominantly dystopian, which usually depicts a late 21st century earth where huge megacities and advanced communication and cybernetic 111 technology blanket the planet. Not surprisingly, posthuman characters are plentiful and, more often than not, depicted as figures that, while physically and mentally more capable than the average human, slowly lose that indefinable quality which supposedly makes them human. But in order to illustrate how posthumanism can also play host to more positive speculations, I turned to postcyberpunk, a subgenre of SF stylistically similar to, and often simply lumped together with, cyberpunk. Nevertheless, postcyberpunk is distinct in each approach: while also creating futuristic worlds with advanced all-encompassing technology populated with posthuman figures, the genre is, for the most part, far less pessimistic in its view of technology and its possibilities. While it would be a stretch to call postcyberpunk utopian, the way the subgenre chooses to represent posthumanism is indicative of the dystopian/utopian interplay inherent within certain ideas, or spaces.

Interestingly, a utopian/dystopian interplay is also evident when one traces the history of utopian writing. When Thomas More wrote Utopia (1516), and first conceived of the happy place that is also no place, not only did he create the word ‘utopia’, he also set in motion a long tradition of trying to express our utopian desires textually. These desires would often manifest as stories that intended to depict a better version of the author’s society, or, as was the case in later utopian novels, depict a better future society. Regardless of any specific structure, the utopian novels proved popular with idealistic authors eager to pen their ideas of improving society onto paper. However, as Fatima Vieira illustrates in her analysis of utopia as a concept (2010: 16), humanity has had, since time immemorial, a propensity for imagining utopia. But this ancient practice has always been coterminous with a tendency to imagine a worse situation as well. So imagining dystopia is reactive; the moment we try to imagine utopia, we inevitably call forth the spectre of dystopia as well. This fact does not escape Jameson (2007: 53), who finds that imagining a possible worse scenario, “is called into being by the very activation of the Utopian imagination itself”. Unsurprisingly then, as popular as the genre was, it led to the rise of the anti- utopian, utopian satire, and, eventually, dystopian novels. The rise in popularity of the dystopian novel — which, like the utopian novel, eventually became a subgenre within SF — indicated not so much that the utopian story had become irrelevant (barring perhaps the utopian novel structure illustrated above), but that utopia and

112 dystopia are two sides of the same coin. Even when tracing the history of cyberpunk, it is noticeable how its narrative and thematic architecture, while still a predominantly that of a dystopian subgenre, was moulded by the techno-optimistic hard SF subgenre and infused with the New Wave movement’s dystopian tendrils. The New Wave movement was itself partially reactionary, with many of its authors writing stories that actively undermined the idealistic, sometimes even utopian, hard SF authors’ proclivity for exalting science, the idea that its heroes, who are for the most part scientists, are the fix-all solution for society’s ills. Cyberpunk, then, took from hard SF a love of technology and science, but preferred to dress its stories in the dystopian garb tailored by the New Wave’s cynical scepticism. Its pages are replete with their authors’ imaginings of how contemporary cybernetic technology might look in a near-future earth, evoking posthuman cyborgs and cyberspace that divorces consciousness from the body, while simultaneously fearing what this technology might mean for the human. Yet, just as the New Wave was, in part, reacting to hard SF, so too did postcyberpunk evolve and eventually break away, from cyberpunk’s technophobic narrative. Postcyberpunk dealt with the same technologies as cyberpunk, but chose instead to imagine posthumanism as an enclave where fantasies of change rather than loss might flourish.

In order to illustrate cyberpunk’s technophobic thematic, I conducted a close reading of the seminal cyberpunk novel, William Gibson’s Neuromancer, and demonstrated how the text views its posthuman characters — represented as either cyborgs, or disembodied consciousnesses — as slowly losing their identities and free will. By using the writings of Lyotard and Fukuyama as a lens through which to read Neuromancer, an underlying motif of lost humanity becomes magnified. For these proponents of an indefinable human nature, the organic body is intrinsically linked to our identities, consciousness, and shared human experience. Consequently, radically altering our bodies with posthuman technologies does not propose an improved human, but a fundamentally damaged, or flawed, one. This is also the fear that infuses Neuromancer’s storying of posthumanism: that if humanity goes down this path, like its superior cyborgs Molly, Riviera and Armitage/Corto, or its disembodied immortals Linda Lee and Dixie Flatline, we might not like what we become. Identity, empathy, and free will are all potential scraps to be discarded once technology invades our bodies and minds in an effort to remake us. As a product of

113 the early 1980s, Neuromancer was subject to its author’s interpretation of what emerging new cybernetics could potentially mean for the human subject, which, for the most part, tended to veer towards dystopian ends.

Yet, skip forward a few years — specifically to the late 1980s to early 1990s — and the posthuman-fearing cyberpunk narrative became less appealing to authors and audiences, many of whom predicted that cyberpunk would eventually crumble under the weight of its own popularity. Even cyberpunk author Bruce Sterling was sceptical about the subgenre’s shelf life, and already in 1985, when cyberpunk seemed poised to rule the SF scene, he predicted that “it will be bowdlerized and parodized and reduced to a formula, just as all other SF innovations have been […] By 95 we’ll all have something else cooking” (quoted by Kelly & Kessel, 2007: vii). While the cyberpunk oversaturation was, in part, to blame for the subgenre’s waning popularity, what also needs to be taken into account is the gradual spread of technology. In a paradoxical twist, the technology that cyberpunk narratives depicted would eventually consume the human subject, had by the 1990s become commonplace: the microchip was everywhere, personal computers ubiquitous, and digitisation connected the planet on an unprecedented scale. To write fearful stories now about technology eclipsing that natural world seemed counter-productive rather than counter-cultural. But this did not mean cyberpunk was completely pushed into some literary abyss of obscurity. Rather, as Rafael Huereca (2010: 13) argues in his breakdown of cyberpunk and its offshoot, “different from authors of the 1980s who had scarce means to study the influence of technology in day-to-day life, artists from the 1990s onwards had a broader scope of analysis, since technology was not only accessible to them but suffusing the globe”. Being able to experience the technology first-hand, and seeing its potential, opened the standard technophobic cyberpunk narrative to new interpretations and transformations.

Enter postcyberpunk, and as an example, the Japanese animated film Ghost in the Shell (1995), which depicts posthumanism, also through the cyborg and disembodied consciousness, as a space of possibility where we can reimagine what it means to be human. While the comparison between a written text and an animated film perhaps seems inadvisable — as it no doubt would be if it involved the appraisal

114 of technical elements14 — the overlap of their thematic concerns adds to the viability of the endeavour. Ghost in the Shell offers a fine counterpoint to the apocalyptic fixation of Neuromancer, expressing, as James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel write in Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology (1999), the postcyberpunk theme that “human values are not imprinted on the fabric of the universe because what it means to be human is always negotiable”(1999: iv). Hence, the most salient distinction between cyberpunk and postcyberpunk is postcyberpunk’s generally more positive storying of technology and its effects on humanity. While the cyborg, as imagined in SF, was still very much a creature of fiction, much as it was during the heyday of cyberpunk, postcyberpunk stories, such as Ghost in the Shell, imagine a speculative future where the cyborg, and posthumanism in general, does not necessarily spell an end to humanity. Instead, Ghost in the Shell depicts posthumanism as an opportunity to change, or advance, humanity. Much like the theories of Haraway and More, the film moves away from seeing the human as a fixed entity. Where many of Neuromancer’s fears are in line with Fukuyama’s and Lyotard’s concerns that the organic human whole must remain unaltered for fear of becoming something less-than-human, Ghost in the Shell opts to rather question what it means to be human, and if it is still worthwhile to cling to that definition. Like the transhumanist writings of More and Wertheim, Ghost in the Shell argues that the human is not necessarily a wholly organic entity, and that we could embrace different modes of embodiment, without the fear that it would somehow mean humanity becomes something less. Once we remind ourselves that the human is not, and never was, a finished product, posthumanism is a gateway to taking control of our evolution.

In view of all this, evidently no matter what constitutes an enclave, the fantasies which inhabit it are always in a constant state of flux, provided these enclaves “remain as it were momentarily beyond the reach of the social” (Jameson, 2007: 16). By this, Jameson refers to the fact that as long as an enclave remains just outside the reach of institutionalised thinking, it will continue to pique our imaginations. This is precisely why posthumanism lends itself to an enclave status: while advanced artificial intelligence and complex prosthetic devices are more commonplace today,

14 Barring the music, which, as shown in the fourth chapter, does convey much of the Ghost in the Shell’s postcyberpunk thematics. 115 posthuman visions of disembodied consciousnesses and superhuman cyborgs popularised by cyberpunk and postcyberpunk stories are still situated in the imagination. While humanity might be dependent on our technology, so much so that Haraway (1991: 149) argues that the cyborg is a “creature of social reality”, we are still a while away from thermo-optic camouflage skin or having our disembodied minds frolic around the internet while our “meat” remains behind.

Yet, the question remains: how long before such fancies become real? Many so- called futuristic technologies eventually end up a reality, in some form or another. While we might not yet have Neuromancer’s matrix, we are already connected by a vast information network. So if this is the case, and we assume that cyberpunk-like cyborgs are more a matter of when rather than if, the question is still whether we can expect humanity to wholeheartedly embrace the idea of the technological posthuman. If, as an example, a human head grafted onto a machine body does step out of some future hospital, realising the visions of numerous SF authors, it is unlikely that society will suddenly stop discussing, or fearing, the consequences of posthumanism. This is perhaps, in part, due to the term itself: posthumanism. The moment there is a discussion regarding what comes after the human, the knee-jerk reaction seems to be a societal pushback — reinforced by concerned voices15 from a wide scope of disciplines and beliefs — abound with concerns about the potential loss of what it means to be human. A reason for this is likely to be because the term posthuman has, among its several definitions, also come to be synonymous with anti-human. This, in turn, has led to the term serving as a kind of makeshift refuse bin where a whole host of undesirable interpretations of the non-human are lumped together. Among these objectionable depictions are the refugee and the zombie. In an essay outlining the similar space occupied by both the refugee and the zombie, Claire Mouflard (2016: 6) notes how the “various ways in which the Syrian refugee crisis has been handled throughout Europe since 2012 can certainly be said to be post-human if we assume the term to mean in this case ‘anti-human’”. It would seem that because these refugees “do not occupy a sedentary space in the manner of established Western populations, they are portrayed in the media as perpetual nomads, the subjects of a Eurocentric discursive construct of the non-modern, and,

15 Bill Gates, Stephen Hawkings and Elon Musk have raised concerns regarding the dangers of AI. 116 consequently, the non-human.” (6) In other words, from a Western perspective a tendency to classify and compartmentalise the human is still very much a societal norm. If even the figure of the refugee is subject to a process of dehumanisation, then it is fair to assume the first cyberpunk-esque cyborg will not be met with open arms. This is not to say that the posthuman will always be mired in fearful trepidation only, since doing so would conceivably nullify the entirety of this field of research, but if one were to take account of recent depictions of AI or cyborgs, especially in SF films16 , the go-to story would most likely be the tried-and-tested one where humanity is threatened by these posthuman figures.

Whether this predisposition towards fearing the posthuman is congenital, or cultural, remains a possible avenue for further discussion. For while Ghost in the Shell is an ideal example of postcyberpunk’s predisposition towards posthumanism, an account of the film’s cultural context does raise the question of how much of its approach to posthumanism was because of it being animated in the mid-nineties — which coincides with the rise of postcyberpunk — or of the fact that it was a product of a pro-technological17 Japanese society with a pluralistic view of spirituality. As mentioned in the previous chapter, Ghost in the Shell drew inspiration from both Buddhism and Shintoism. Shintoism, the predominant religion in Japan, espouses a more animistic doctrine, believing that humans, animals, and even non-organic geographical features have their own distinct spiritual essence, leading to the view that the human is no more special than, say, a river, or a dog. Consequently, an idea such as posthumanism does not evoke the same reaction among the Japanese as it does in the West. Casper Bruun Jensen and Anders Blok, in their analysis of animism in contemporary Japan (2013: 84), state that “Japan has been described as a land of Shinto-infused ‘techno-animism’: exhibiting a ‘polymorphous perversity’ that resolutely ignores boundaries between human, animal, spiritual and mechanical beings.” The human is therefore not placed upon a pedestal, and altering it, through technology or other means, does not automatically imply it is suddenly something less. This seems to be in stark contrast to the West’s leaning towards a monotheism which extols humankind as an extension of a singular divine. Despite a large part of

16 See 2015’s box-office hit Avengers: Age of Ultron or 2014’s critically lauded Ex-Machina. 17 Even though Ghost in the Shell is an exemplum of post cyberpunk, there are many other Japanese anime that predate it, which offer a more positive approach to posthumanism. Among them being Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy (1952), which was eventually adapted for television in 1963, and also, Katsuhito Akiyama’s Bubblegum Crisis, which aired from 1987-1991. 117

Western society identifying as atheist, the fact remains that an ancient creation myth of divine origin still influences Western thinking regarding the human. Thus, using technology to radically alter the body will instinctively conjure up fears of interfering with some divine instrument, whereas “robots and cyborgs arguably finds stronger resonance in Japanese Shinto cosmograms than it ever has in a Christian, European imagination” (Jensen and Blok, 2013: 105). This distinction in the interpretation of posthumanism between Japan and the West is reflected in the 2017 live-action remake of Ghost in the Shell which was produced, written, and directed by a mostly Western crew. Similarly, the lead character was played by the decidedly non-Japanese Scarlett Johansson, and the music composed by Clint Mansell, whose score, while competent, lacked the depth of Kawai’s original version. While the film is visually true to the anime, thematically it veers away from the original’s complexity, playing out more like a techno-sceptic cyberpunk film. Instead of showing posthumanism as a space of productive change, the remake opts to portray posthumanism as a forced transformation that threatens individual identity. The main character is only “whole” again when she embraces her pre-cyborg human identity, a far cry from Haraway’s (1991: 151) proclamation that the cyborg has no interest in origin. What appeared on screen is a bowdlerised version of the anime that veered from Oshii’s original vision, preferring to instead align its reimagining along a more techno-sceptic Western perspective.

In conclusion then, as long as the human, however it may be defined, continues to inhabit an apparently anointed space, the idea of posthumanism will by its very nature be mired in controversy. While it has been shown in this study that the concept can play host to both utopian and dystopian speculations, especially in the SF subgenres cyberpunk and postcyberpunk, it is unlikely that humanity will ever fully embrace the idea of becoming part-machine. While the ideas and themes explored in postcyberpunk do show a marked preference for embracing posthumanism, postcyberpunk was also a reaction against the primarily technophobic cyberpunk subgenre, indicating that posthumanism instinctively (more so in the West) evokes pessimism and fear, and re-evaluating its potential tends to happen after the fact. The fact that AI, cyborgs, or some other version of the posthuman still make reliable narrative foils to the usually mostly organic protagonists in even contemporary SF stories, suggests that as long as the organic

118 human is seen as a sacrosanct entity, posthumanism will continue to elicit fears and dystopian imaginings, regardless of more optimistic counterarguments.

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