Credit for the post: Masato Hirakata
Masato, as compared to some of my other classmate’s approach, was a lot more interesting and engaging in that it took the thought of the “limits of human cognition” and applied it to the scientist’s comprehension of the guests more than Solaris itself. By describing the appearance of each guest in the novel, Masato further breaks down why the guests were equally if not more incomprehensible than the planet itself, and gives thought to the idea of existing alien life. Masato’ posts not only presents a unique answer to the philosophical question of the limits of human cognition but also presents a different way to think about the novel in general.
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At that point, from the loudspeaker now connected to the rocket’s interior there came a half-whimper, half-whistle that was utterly unlike any human voice, despite which I could make out in it a repeated howl: “Kris! Kris! Kris!!” (Lem, 1040)
This passage is taken from when Kelvin encounters his guest, and locks her into a rocket with the intention of trapping her in it while he gathers his thoughts, before launching the rocket as the construct of his dead lover performs the inhuman feat of bashing the inside of the rocket so hard it rocks with its blows. In Solaris, we as the readers/audience through the eyes of Kris Kelvin are immediately confronted with the jarring inhumanity that are the constructs Snaut dubs “guests”. The sheer wrongness of them are juxtaposed suddenly and harshly against the chiefly clinical and jargon laden explanations Kelvin offers us about the science of Solaristics, and the study of the planet Solaris. While we previously cultivate the image of a strange, alien planet and thoughtfully debate questions on consciousness and sentience, that image and sense of detachment is shattered with the presence of the guests on the station. It is through these guests that Solaris begins to explore “the limits of human cognition” and the possibilities of alien life.
The first of these guests seen is Gibarian’s guest. Gibarian himself, having committed suicide immediately prior to Kelvin’s arrival on the station, is visited by a massive, half naked woman who enters his cabin, and passes by Kelvin without so much as a look. The second guest, who is Sartorius’, appears to be a child, possibly in a hat. When Kelvin checks on Gibarian’s body, the first guest is there with it, where Kelvin notes that its feet are “covered with a skin that was as thin as that on her back or hands” (Lem, 753). It is when Kelvin rests in his room that his own personal guest finally makes an appearance, in the form of his dead lover, Harey. She, out of the three guests, seems the most real, or alive. To Kelvin, he almost cannot tell if he is dreaming or not when he wakes and she is there. She talks as he remembers, acts as he remembers, looks, and feels as he remembers. She is as exactly as he remembers her, at a sharp contrast to Gibarius’ half naked woman and the glimpse of Sartorius’ laughing child. For that exact reason, the Harey construct is possibly the most unnerving.
It is perhaps a common descriptor in novels and stories of conflict for humans to be described as inhuman. The guests, and particularly Harey, are terrifying because of how human-like they appear to be, on the surface. Then, details begin to crop up. When Kelvin checks, the mark of the fatal injection that killed the real Harey is present on its arm. Its dress is not held together by the buttons, and Kelvin has to use a tool to cut open a seam for the guest to change clothing. Just like the black woman guest, the Harey guest’s feet are soft. Before Kelvin, and before us, is something that looks, acts, talks, and even believes itself to be Harey, but is not.
The guests are presumably the planet of Solaris’ attempt to communicate somehow. And yet, their purpose is something unknowable. Why would the planet attempt to communicate in this way. How would it replicate memories so perfectly? The guests are perfect simulacra of humanity, and at the same time, are not. I was instantly reminded of The Thing. The pervasive anxiety and uncertainty of identity was familiar, and the unsettling nature of something that looks human but is not human struck me very intensely. It is an interesting point, then, that the constructs are christened “guests”. The human researchers are the guests to the planet, and yet it is the constructs of Solaris that are the guests to the humans. There is much that can be said about the concepts of the “other” and aliens in the context of the Cold War, but in the context of human cognition, Solaris and the constructs it creates are so utterly disturbing precisely because they meld the known with the unknown.
It is said by Kelvin that the very existence of the planet Solaris broke known laws of science and shattered theories, as well as spawning Solaristics as a field of study. Solaris is confirmed, by factors such as its position between two stars, as possessing the power to manipulate extraordinary powers beyond human comprehension or ability. At the same time, the abilities it possesses and the actions it takes, such as copying the components of equipment of testing drones sent into it, neither confirm nor deny its sentience. This is all changed with the presence of the guests, which act with a direction. The silence of the black woman and the laughter of the unseen child are strange, but we know they seek to be close to their “hosts”. When the Harel guest cannot answer why it wants to remain close to Kelvin, we are forced to confront the fact that the constructs as phenomena are operating on rules and logic outside the comprehension of us (and Kelvin). Immediately, Lem tells us that Solaris does not conform to our expectations, and neither do the guests. It has an agenda, and we cannot possibly know it, presenting a visceral fear of the unknown into the context of science fiction, a medium that is built on logical extensions of our science.