We’re each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?

–Ursula K. Le Guin, “Nine Lives”

It is hard to maintain a grip on reality when every news headline feels like a plot point from a pandemic science fiction novel. Attempts to regain some semblance of normalcy range range from heartwarming (like the townspeople of Collesano, Italy singing Ave Maria from their balconies), to harmful and in some cases, extremely stupid (really? You want to protest social distancing restrictions because you refuse to wait a bit longer for a haircut?). Living through the era of COVID-19, it is hard to say when it will all go back to normal, and what exactly that new normal will look like. 

As humans, we are comforted by the idea that everything happens for a reason and that we have some form of control over what happens in our lives. Pair that with the uncertainty generated by a global pandemic, and you have got a recipe for existential terror with a potential side of total nihilism on your hands. As our current global situation and its potential outcome remain unclear, the importance of science fiction as a genre that dares to explore the world of “what-if” is undeniable. 

Arthur C. Clarke defines science fiction as “something that could happen – but you usually wouldn’t want it to.” But what happens when it does? With students out of school, millions out of work, and those fortunate enough holed up at home, the everyday things that we used to lean on to help define who we are–to help us feel human–have become inaccessible. As sports games, concerts, and religious services are cancelled, elbow bumps replace hugs, and phone screens replace people, what does maintaining a sense of shared humanity look like? How do we hold onto our empathy as the distance between us and the things and people that we love feels increasingly large and the world around us becomes increasingly small? As you have most likely discerned from the title, I feel that science fiction can offer an answer. 

1. I have got one word for you: positionality. Recognize yours.

If I had not attended a small liberal arts college in New England where terms like “intersectionality” and phrases like “eat the rich” are tossed around somewhat frequently, I may not have stumbled across the definition of positionality until much later in life. Essentially, it is the idea that your race, class, gender, sexuality, and ability status, personal values, and location in time and space will affect the way in which you experience the world around you. But why is this important, you ask?

In his short story “Nothing Happened in 1999,” Fabio Fernandes discusses a future in which humankind has accidentally discovered time travel. The residents of the future have begun to use time travel as a way to escape the present by returning to “Safe Years,” years in which “anything could have happened – except that it didn’t.” The narrator notes that 1999 is considered a Safe Year, although many disagree, as they argue that many things happened in 1999 “outside the Anglo-American sphere of influence–most of the things that happened in the world, actually.” Here, Fernandes acknowledges the danger of using the Anglo-world as a global reference point. If we only focused on the ways in which inhabitants of technologically developed, predominantly white, English-speaking countries perceived the world, what impression would that leave us? It becomes an issue of representation. An issue of diversity. An issue of positionality.

As many take to various forms of social media to express solidarity, the phrase “we are all in the same storm, not in the same boat” has become popular. It means that while we may all face this pandemic together, its effects seen from an individual to a larger scale will differ widely. My positionality and my reality during this pandemic are different from those of everyone else. As a college student coming from a middle-class family, I have been lucky enough to return to a safe home and finish my semester remotely with a somewhat low degree of financial stress. As a person of color, it pains me to witness the racial discrimination against Asians that has risen over the course of the pandemic. And I know that my experience here is worlds away from that of my family in the Philippines, living in the small rice farming town that my mother grew up in, hours away from a hospital with the facilities to give proper care to a patient with COVID-19. I have to recognize that, too. Understanding one’s positionality and inherent privilege, or lack thereof, is hard. And while it can be difficult to look inward before we attempt to empathize outwardly with others, that makes it even more important. 

2. Try to not be an asshole.

I hope that this one is the most straightforward. But seriously. Check pretty much any news outlet, and you can find stories of Asian-presenting people being harassed in the streets and on the subway. Cases upon cases of hand sanitizer bought to be sold at a heightened price for profit. Protestors yelling that their constitutional rights are being infringed upon because social distancing restrictions threaten their identity as freedom-loving Americans. In “Think Like A Dinosaur,” James Patrick Kelly explores a world in which society is ruled by apathetic and ruthless dinosaurs that regard human life as expendable. We know what a lack of empathy can look like. But now, our global community needs it more than ever. But what does empathy look like in a remote world? 

In “A Compassionate People,” David Grigg tells the story of Carl Jacobs, a doctor who had been tasked with keeping an alien survivor of a spaceship crash alive. At the beginning of the short story, Jacobs is informed by Drage, a government official, that he must terminate the alien’s life support. The project had gone on for years, and the alien was barely alive, floating inside a tank without any means of communication. Published eight years after euthanasia was legalized in Australia, its place of publication, the title “A Compassionate People” leaves room for interpretation. While Jacobs wants to keep the alien alive so that it may have the chance of reaching a form of life that surpasses simple subsistence, Drage argues that the right thing to do is free the alien from its suffering. As the characters toy with the possibility that the alien and its counterparts were traveling to Earth to warn its inhabitants of an impending supernova, it is implied that the compassionate heroes of the story could well be the since-deceased aliens, who were possibly attempting to save their human counterparts before it was too late. Here, Grigg celebrates multiple forms of compassion–the recognition of which is essential during a global crisis. 

Now, in the real world, empathy and compassion can take so many different forms. It can mean buying a gift card from a local business to help it stay afloat. Expressing solidarity with essential and healthcare workers online. Buying groceries for your elderly neighbor so that they can avoid putting themselves at risk. This is also the first and maybe the last time in our lives that by staying at home on the couch and preventing the spread of disease we can call ourselves American heroes. Take advantage of it. Be kind to others. And learn to be creative with your acts of empathy, too. 

3. A good deed a day keeps the existential dread away

It’s a lesson we’ve heard since we were in elementary school–treat others how you would want to be treated. While that once meant not cutting in the lunch line or refraining from name calling on the playground, it takes on a whole new meaning in the realm of science fiction. Some of us who are optimistic about the future of the human race say that in order to obtain a future that we want, we have to imagine it first. This brings up a crucial question of representation in future building, which can take place in many forms. Afrofuturism, for example, is a movement which involves imagining an optimistic future in which black people thrive. Feminist and other works that consider the representation of women, non-gender binary conforming individuals, and people of color are more important than ever, as they remind us that there is great empathy in daring to envision a future for people other than ourselves.

As the pandemic brings daily reminders of our human mortality and fallibility, this 

is especially relevant as our global community considers how we may begin to imagine a future for ourselves and for generations to come. In Ken Liu’s short story “Mono No Aware,” Hiroto is the last surviving member of the Japanese race aboard a spacecraft with sails propelled by solar rays. When one of the sails tears and Hiroto is the only one with the skills to leave the ship and repair it, he is forced to choose between using the last of his fuel to return back to safety or repair the ripped sail and save the lives of everyone on board. Here, there is a call for empathy and a form of collective heroism that resonates with the global crisis today. Put into words by Hiroto’s father, “individual stones are not heroes, but all the stones together are heroic.” With healthcare and other essential workers facing the virus on the frontlines, a new definition of heroism has emerged at a time in which the world needs it the most.

This is not to say that we are only able to perform acts of kindness and care during the era of COVID-19 if we are classified as essential workers. Octavia Butler’s “Speech Sounds,” written two years after the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, takes place in a society that has been ravaged by a virus that has rendered oral communication virtually impossible. With many suffering from issues of speaking or comprehension, the world has become increasingly violent, and human connection virtually inaccessible, a novum which feels especially relatable today as social distancing measures and efforts to stay safe can feel paradoxical to the human desire to build relationships. The ending of “Speech Sounds” implies that Butler’s protagonist, Valerie, chooses to save two children after their mother is killed. In the final lives of the story, Valerie introduces herself to her two new charges–a seemingly small act of kindness with incredible weight. 

We can find examples of this in real life today. Last week, my dad drew a rainbow on a piece of posterboard and hung it in the window facing our neighbor, whose husband is suffering from late stages of pancreatic cancer, to show her that we’re thinking of them. Some of my friends at school, unable to return home, have been invited to stay with local families and welcomed with open arms. As we live through times as unpredictable as these, it is so important to remember that individual acts of empathy, no matter how small, matter.

4. Appreciate communion (that goes for atheists, too).

When I say the word communion, I don’t mean to conjure reminders, for those of us that were raised christian, of the stale taste of bread and the sweetness of watered-down wine. Instead, I want to speak to a different form of communion–one that takes place when we are lucky enough to stumble upon a sense of unity with others. With those of us with access to technology glued to our screens for at least part of the day, maintaining a connection to the world around us can feel, at times, daunting. My mother, who used to go to church every week, now wakes up early on Sundays so that she can watch a livestream of a local Catholic service. My roommate and I used to study together in our apartment, but now we still facetime each other while we’re working. While we don’t have much to catch up on, sitting in each other’s presence and listening to the sounds of pencils scratching over notebooks and pages turning feels like we’re reclaiming a little, tiny piece of our old normal. 

The way in which technology can foster empathy and human connection can be seen in “Act of Faith” by Fadzlishah Johanabas, which follows the life of a robot purchased by Jamil, the worried son of Daud, a widower of ten years. Daud names the robot Sallehuddin, and treats him as a son. With Jamil worried about his father but unable to live at home because of his line of work, Sallehuddin suggests that Jamil purchase an application that would allow him to communicate with his father through Sallehudin. When Daud has a heart attack, Sallehuddin calls on Jamil using the program, and Daud is able to hear Jamil’s voice through Sallehuddin’s lips. Through Sallehuddin, Jamil is able to comfort his father in a manner which would not have been possible if not for the technological advancements made in their fictional society. While we are far from a form of technology as advanced as Sallehudin, those of us that have access to electricity and wifi to stay connected via text messages, Facebook, What’sApp and various other messaging platforms. Speaking from personal experience, by no means does it replace being physically close to my friends and family. But it is comforting, all the same. 

At the same time, as humans, our need for human connection extends far past what we are able to simulate through our use of technology. We need something more–a feeling that we can connect with others on an emotional and spiritual level that can be quite powerful and at times, inexplicable. Ursula K. Le Guin’s “Nine Lives” follows the actions of nine young and extremely capable clones as they attempt to work with Pugh and Martin, two survivors of a famine that ravaged the planet Earth. When an earthquake occurs causing a collapse in the mine in which the clones were working, Pugh and Martin are able to find only one survivor, a clone named Kaph, who has extreme difficulty in understanding how to interact with his non-clone counterparts. When an earthquake occurs as Martin is working by himself in the field, Pugh risks his life to save him, prompting Kaph to ask him whether he loves his partner, and how he would know if he did. I referenced Pugh’s reply at the beginning of this manifesto; he’s not sure, but he tells Kaph “we’re each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?”

In a way, many of us resemble Kaph. We have had our worlds turned upside down, and are now trying to make sense out of the pieces left behind while still holding on to our humanity in the process. By no means is it easy. But boy, is it important. Earlier, I mentioned how essential communion is now, as the human race faces a crisis that we did not predict nor see coming. The question of how we hold onto our empathy, our ability to connect, when we can no longer do so physically is one that we must answer. 

At the end of “Nine Lives,” as Kaph and Pugh crawl into their sleeping bags, Kaph looks at Pugh, “the stranger who held his hand out in the dark,” as he says goodnight, before Kaph finally replies, “repeating across darkness, benediction.” Especially now, remembering our empathy and everything else that makes us human, it can feel just like that. 

Benediction.  

One observation I’ve made throughout this course is that I’ve been drawn to works of science fiction that feel as if they are strongly rooted in a world with which I can identify with. A lot of my interests are grounded in language and human mechanisms–I’m curious about what makes people tick, and I enjoy reading stories that examine social phenomena like religion and culture through a different and creative lens (hence the popularity of “god,” “story,” “practices,” and “culture”).

Towards the end of the semester, I’ve found myself more interested in what I’d consider solutions-based science fiction, which most likely accounts for the more common terms like “solar punk,” “design,” “sustainable,” “change,” and “everyday.” While I sometimes feel as if I get bogged down by science fiction that deals with more advanced technological inventions, I love reading stories that address issues that we face today, and envision possible solutions. I intend to pursue an honors project next year about solutions-based global climate fiction, and I hope to examine the ways in which different authors attempt to bring to life news ways in which we may interact with and appreciate the world around us, and how their visions for the future may be affected by where in the world they call home. For “design” to be one of the more popular terms, I’d say that has something to do with leaning towards more optimistic sci-fi–not only am I drawn to works that espouse a message of hope, but also ones that aim to implement a well-thought out structure to enact the change they wish to see.

I also notice more identifiably human terms pop up, including “cultural,” “people,” “filipino,” “religious,” “social,” and “asian.” I think this touches on a concept that has really resonated with me so far in this course–that in envisioning the future, it is important that we have representation of racial minorities and of other underrepresented peoples. In this sense, perhaps I’ve been drawn to searching for authors and works of SF in which I can see myself, which would explain why “filipino” and “asian” were more common terms in my visualization.

It’s also interesting to note what’s not present here–there is no mention of dystopia, nor cyberpunk, nor more tech-y terms like “wetware” or really any of the terms from the WSF terminology quizlet we studied at the beginning of the semester. I feel like this may speak to a primary interest I have in examining and critiquing the cultural structures and world in which we live, before attempting to envision a place and time that can feel so distant to me now. This may be a symptom of our current situation–with life feeling more and more unpredictable, perhaps I’ve been drawn to work that feels as if it is grounded in reality, in whichever way we may define the term.

Feb. 24: The Trump administration asks Congress for $1.25 billion for coronavirus response

After weeks of looking, I’ve finally relocated to a cozy new spot right above Franklin Street in Greenpoint. My friend Otu warned me that Brooklyn is overrun by young twenty-somethings that cover themselves with ripped fabrics and engage in daily mithridatism practices by chugging green liquids from see-through vials. I don’t pay him much attention. Otu’s a newbie–I’ve got particulate matter that’s been around since Theodore Roosevelt was in office. The oldest he’s got, at best, is from the Nixon administration. And we all know how well that ended.

Besides, I like it here. It doesn’t hurt that my new neighbor is a total looker. I’ve decided to call her Jenny. Jenny spends at least an hour a day perched in her fire escape window, absentmindedly sneaking in handfuls of chocolate chips between American Spirit Blues. I can tell by the smell of ‘em–they’re my favorite. I haven’t been lucky enough to find a neighbor with a nicotine fix since I lived over in Hell’s Kitchen above Chuck, who smoked Marlboro Ultra Lights. Which, everyone knows, are for total wusses.

Mar. 6: Five days before President Trump blocks most visitors from continental Europe

Something feels a little off. Jenny’s on the phone way more often now. I used to admire her lips, slightly parted as she’d lazily roll a cigarette between her red-lacquered fingertips. Now, her mouth is pursed as she paces outside, talking agitatedly into her cellphone. Maybe she just went through a break-up. He probably didn’t deserve her, anyway. I want to tell her that she should go back inside, that it’s winter in New York and you’re wearing nothing but flannel pants and a see-through tank top–which I appreciate–and you could catch a cold, you ninny.

On the bright side, with all of the energy she’s expending, I can almost feel a warm draft up here, 2,000 feet in the air. 

Mar. 13: President Trump declares a national emergency

The streets aren’t nearly as busy as they used to be. I heard all this hype about Brooklyn being a cool, trendy neighborhood and now it’s been seventeen minutes since I’ve even seen a yellow cab. Or at the very least seen someone almost get hit by one…I should have known. An old speck like me, I probably belong somewhere more dependable, like the Upper East Side. I’ve heard their crime rates are incredibly low.

Jenny must be taking the breakup pretty hard. She hasn’t gone to work since last week. Maybe her job is giving her paid emotional leave or something. I do miss seeing her in that blue uniform. It hugged her just right.

I can’t tell whether I should worry about her. I haven’t seen her friends, two of which I’ve affectionately dubbed blondie and ol’ red, in days. Maybe she’s just going through a phase…hell, I’ve had friends that’ve gone through all three states in a matter of hours.

Mar. 15: The C.D.C. recommends no gatherings of 50 or more people in the U.S.

The streets are empty. When I do spot the less-than-occasional passerby, they’re usually walking quickly with colorful cloth over the bottom half of their faces. Otu did say this was a hipster neighborhood, I guess. Maybe it’s a new trend…

I’ve barely seen Jenny in two days. She rarely leaves the apartment, and spends more and more time in her bedroom, out of view. She’s also cut down to only one cigarette per day…I’ll admit, the girl’s got willpower. But god, do I resent her for cutting off my supply, too.

Maybe it’s for the better. I haven’t been able to breathe this well since, well, I don’t know when. Maybe it is true what Otu says about nicotine after all…But he and N. say they’ve been breathing better too, and they purposefully sought out neighbors that only take their drugs in bottle form.

Damned straight-edge assholes.

Mar. 26: The US leads the world in confirmed coronavirus cases

It’s like a ghost town here. I could count on two hands the number of cars I’ve seen since yesterday…that is, if I had hands. I also haven’t had a smoke in over a week. Since when did the people of New York suddenly decide to care about their respiratory health? I’ve been stewing in smoke, soot, and only god knows what for decades. Now, I can’t even feel the breath rattling in my imaginary lungs…

Birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and I’m starting to see patches of green on nearby trees…I wish that Jenny would come out and enjoy this weather. The girl could use it. Hell, everyone could…

Speaking of which, where the fuck is everyone?

Mar. 28: The C.D.C. issues a travel advisory for the New York region

Something terrible is happening here.

You know when you wake up from a bad dream only to realize that reality is actually way, way worse? Well, I’ve woken up. And boy, is reality a doozy.

There are EMTs driving ambulances in hazmat suits. Grandmothers being wheeled out of buildings, their mouths giving form to prayers in languages that I can barely understand. Soccer dads emerging from grocery stores with carts stacked high with frozen vegetables and bottles of bleach. And what the fuck is the deal with all the toilet paper?

Mar. 30: More states issue stay-at-home directives

What’s really got me is the quiet. God, the quiet. It’s like I’m living in a silent film, but at least you know that’ll end after less than two hours. I’ve started hallucinating, seeing things that aren’t there. I’m imagining divorcées in fur coats with dogs that are way too small and suits with superiority complexes that are way too big and little kids, the dreamers that walk with their faces turned towards the sky ‘cause they’re bodies might be on a crowded city street but you just know that their minds, their minds are far, far away from here.

But this can’t be the new normal. Can it?

Apr. 4: Today

This is all just some big weird fluke.

Everything should be okay. Everything has to be okay. Everything will be okay.

They’ll all be okay, right?

Just read Mark Galarrita’s “How Your Filipino Science Fiction Novel Will Be Adapted for Film.” An interesting satirical piece that touches on issues of representation of non-Anglo/U.S. work in  publication of science fiction. Recommend checking it out! Here’s the link: https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/how-your-filipino-science-fiction-novel-will-be-adapted-for-film

After reading Massimo Mongai’s “Galactic Guidebook for the Gourmet,” I was fascinated by the author’s attention to detail in crafting bilingual word play. This week, I found an interview with Isabel Yap, a Filipino writer of speculative fiction and poetry, who addresses the question of whether bilingual writers should italicize foreign words in their writing. While she notes that she never thought much about italicizing Tagalog words in her English writing, a teacher in a fiction workshop made the point that, “when you italicize, it draws attention to the text. This is a word that’s not in English, and therefore it’s sort of like you’re catering to a white audience. Whereas if you just leave it in there, it’s more like whatever your background is, you can just read this and take the text as it is, and you may recognize this word or not.”

I think this speaks to an important point when discussing diversity in the genre. While we’ve discussed in class the prevalence of SF written in the US and the UK, and how that has affected the development of a distinct SF literary style in other countries, the question of style is just as essential as the question of intended audience. To this, Yap responded: “I write for whoever wants to read my stuff…if you have to force me to pick a group, I’d be writing for Filipino students…’cos it’s essentially me writing for myself.”

Full interview: https://medium.com/the-baton/isabel-yap-on-writing-filipino-fiction-and-the-comfort-of-being-sad-together-a6ea5228e528

Zen Cho’s “Unterminator” is an it-narrative that follows a robot’s realization that it has arrived on Earth too late to fulfill it’s mission: to avert the nuclear apocalypse. This story adds an interesting element to our previous class discussions of whether or not robots or other forms of machinery should be gendered or considered to have human characteristics. “Unterminator” is written in the second person, which not only allows the reader to sympathize more deeply with the robot, but also gives it a distinctly eerie feel–while “you” recognize that “you were not programmed to be lonely” and that “you are not permitted despair,” these emotions come through Cho’s writing in a manner which allows us, as readers, to sympathize in a way that the robot is not able.

The story is only 300 words long, and gives little orienting information aside from loose temporal guidance. I think that this only further contributes to an attempt to make the robot relatable–no matter what race, age, or gender with which one may identify, almost anyone can understand the very human emotions evoked by the robot’s story.

Link to story: https://zencho.org/unterminator/

More of Zen Cho’s work (“Stuff You Can Read for Free Online”): https://zencho.org/short-fiction/#online

After exploring artistic renderings of utopian visions of human relationships with the Earth last week, I became curious about how such imaginations have materialized in other categories of pop culture (specifically, music). Specifically, Billie Eilish’s “all the good girls go to hell” (2019) is a particularly poignant visualization of a dystopian (not so distant) future, in which the human race has ignored the concerns of climate change and ensured our eventual destruction. The lyrics of the song as they stand alone are disturbing, as Eilish notes that man is “poisoning themselves now” and questions “Man is such a fool / Why are we saving him?” Yet coupled with the affecting visuals of the music video, the song takes on a whole different tone.

Eilish, dressed as a fallen angel who has landed in a tar pit and begun to trudge through the streets of Los Angeles, eventually catches fire as everything burns around her.

A burning message (pun intended) to call attention to the dire consequences of climate change for our generation, Eilish makes a direct and haunting appeal to the ignorance and apathy too often directed towards questions of our response to climate change, reciting “Hills burn in California / my turn to ignore ya / don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

While in my search, I found songs dating back to the 60s and 80s, with Marvin Gaye’s “Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)” (1968) and the Talking Head’s “Nothing But Flowers” (1988) lamenting on a future in which there are no more “blue skies” or “shopping malls,” Eilish’s grim visions of a dystopian future, in the context of what we know about the growing climate catastrophe today, rings all the more close to the heart.

In Always Coming Home (1985), Ursula K. Le Guin coins the term “heyiya” to refer to a collective process and way of life in which a community may find pleasure in ecosocial connection as well as foster a sense of hope despite some of the overwhelming realities of our society today. Interested in how others may have visualized a future in which our society has found hope and created innovation in the face of climate change, I did some more digging into An Ecotopian Lexicon. A collection of thirty “loanwords” from various languages and works of speculative fictions, all of the terms explored give a new sense of how our society may flourish despite socio-ecological adversity. The editors also asked fourteen different artists to respond to selected entries in the lexicon to add an “additional imaginative layer.” While I think one of the best things about science fiction is that it allows us to imagine a future we’d like to have that’s better than our present, adding an artistic visual interpretation is such a beautiful way to bring some of these concepts to life. I’ve included some of my favorites below. It was hard to choose only seven; I recommend checking all fourteen out if you have time: https://www.ecotopianlexicon.com/the-artwork

From left to right:

1. “Blockadia (Ya Basta!)” by Nicolás de Jesús
2. “Untitled 2018 [Dàtóng]” by Rirkrit Tiravanija
3. “Plant Time” by Natasha Bowdoin
4. “Water-Wind (Qi)” by Moonassi
5. “ildsjel” by Lori Damiano
6. “Sueño” by Susa Monteiro
7. “Pachamama” by Yellena James

In the short story “Repent, Harlequin! Said the Ticktockman” (1965), Harlan Ellison submerges the reader in a dictatorial society in which conformity and adherence to social norms are not only expected, but demanded. He establishes a tension between the two main characters of the story: the Ticktockman, the master Timekeeper and authoritarian leader who is a physical embodiment of the society’s need for temporal order, and Harlequin, a lower-level citizen whose seeming lack of ability and desire to be on time poses a dangerous threat to the foundation of temporal standards upon which their society is built. While one may read Harlequin’s ultimate capture by the Ticktockman (and subsequent reconditioning and release) as a testament to the notion that individual rebellion is futile, the way in which Harlequin’s interaction with the Ticktockman appears to impact the latter suggests that personal acts of rebellion are both important and necessary. They expose the flawed nature of the very institutions against which they take place. Ellison’s employment of syntactic and typographic structures that go against current conventions serves as a visual manifestation of Harlequin’s incessant refusal to conform to societal standards, thus furthering a larger argument underscoring the text that individual actions and resistance, no matter how small, matter. To explore this, I will examine the way in which Harlequin’s presence disrupts the Ticktockman’s normal speech patterns and the contrast between sentence length and narrative voice in reference to time and Harlequin. I will then look at the ambiguity of the interaction between Harlequin and the Ticktockman, accompanied by a deterioration in the latter’s speech patterns, as a signal to the reader that Harlequin’s individual rebellion has ultimately proved impactful.

Before the reader meets Harlequin, Ellison first highlights the way in which the individual rebellion represented by the former introduces chaos into the Ticktockman’s otherwise orderly existence. This is exemplified by the Ticktockman’s temporally disorganized dialogue. Early on in the short story, the Ticktockman questions Harlequin’s rebellious existence, ruminating that he knows “what he is” but he “[has] to know who this what is” (Ellison, p. 370). While the Ticktockman’s words reveal a concern at this abnormality at large in their society, he is still regimented in his speech. There is a natural progression to the logic of his questioning, and key words are italicized in a manner which allows the reader to easily identify the core of his concerns. However, the narrator observes that “he was not purring smoothly” and that “timewise, it was jangle” (Ellison, p. 370). The manner in which Ellison associates the simple contemplation of Harlequin’s existence and the Ticktockman’s temporal “jangle” is significant. One may presume that the Master Timekeeper is, by nature of his authoritative position, precise and calculated in his words and his actions. However, the Ticktockman’s discombobulation in this moment reveals that Harlequin’s antagonistic and rebellious presence has already begun to affect the very individual responsible for ensuring that the members of their society adhere to the temporal norms demanded of them. 

This main ideological conflict between societal authority and civilian resistance is underlined by the juxtaposition between the short, clipped sentences used to refer to the Ticktockman and the society’s rigid conception of time and the long and overwhelming sentences depicting the flow of Harlequin’s thoughts. For example, Ellison employs one-word sentences to describe the middle-class opinion of Harlequin as “vulgar ostentation. Anarchistic. Shameful” (Ellison, p. 369). Here, these adjectives not only demonstrate the way in which Harlequin’s inexactitude has earned him a “shameful” reputation amongst certain social circles, but also perform the very exactness that the “anarchistic” Harlequin lacks. One may also posit that these short sentences replicate the ticking movement of the clock in the short and clipped addition of each word to the progression of the excerpt, therefore embodying the very mechanism (time) on which the society runs. 

In stark contrast to the regimented speech exhibited by the Ticktockman, Harlequin’s scattered and rambling narrative voice breaks up the timely rhythm and order which the Master Timekeeper attempts to uphold. Ellison introduces the reader to Harlequin with a monologue on jelly beans and the “millions and billions of purples and yellows and greens and licorice and grape and raspberry and mint and round and smooth and crunchy outside and soft-nealy inside and sugary and bouncing jouncing tumbling” (and so on and so forth) snacks that they are (Ellison, p. 371). This meditation on the sugary candy spans almost two pages. Reading through the above excerpt is exhausting to the eye; Harlequin’s narrative voice bursts with chaotic energy that Ellison scarcely breaks with any form of punctuation. Harlequin’s run-on stream of consciousness clashes with the timely and clipped speech used to describe the society in a manner which highlights the central ideological differences between Harlequin and the Ticktockman. The Ticktockman represents temporal precision, whereas Harlequin is his “bouncing jouncing tumbling” opposite. Here, not only does Harlequin defy societal order, but he also disregards syntactic conventions in a manner which emphasizes his rebellious nature. 

Ellison ends “Repent, Harlequin! Said the Ticktockman” with an interaction between Harlequin and the Ticktockman that makes the reader question: to what extent is individual rebellion futile? When the Ticktockman and his forces finally capture Harlequin, the two characters have a bizarre exchange in which the Ticktockman changes his mind about turning Harlequin off mid-conversation. Harlequin is sent to “Coventry,” from which he emerges “appearing elfin and dimpled and bright-eyed, and not at all brainwashed, and he said he had been wrong, that it was a good, a very good thing indeed, to belong” (Ellison, p. 378). In this utilization of polysyndeton, Ellison syntactically signals to the reader that Harlequin has not been “brainwashed” by his experience through the perseverance of the chaotic run-on nature of the latter’s narrative voice.

The reader may, however, notice a small yet significant change in the Ticktockman. In the final lines of the short story, the Ticktockman himself is three minutes late. When informed by his assistant of his tardiness, the Ticktockman dismisses this accusation, murmuring “that’s ridiculous!” and retreating to his office, “going mrmee, mrmee, mrmee, mrmee” (Ellison, p. 378). Here, the reader may note a crack in the Ticktockman’s meticulous exterior. Not only is the Master Timekeeper late, but he leaves the interaction citing what appears to be a nonsensical refrain of “mrmee.” One may posit that the malfunction that the Ticktockman exhibits when speaking of Harlequin is exacerbated by a face-to-face interaction with the temporal rebel–what was once a timeless “jangle”of speech has devolved into gibberish. Before this meeting with Harlequin, despite the observed disruption in the Ticktockman’s normally regimented speech, there was still an emphasis on what would appear to be the important, keywords of the sentence. Here, Ellison’s typographic emphasis on a made-up word, a tactic reminiscent of the way in which he also characterizes Harlequin’s speech, suggests that Harlequin’s interaction with the Ticktockman has more gravely affected the latter. Another reader may posit that the creaking repetition of “mrmee, mrmee” serves as an important marker to denote the deterioration of the Ticktockman; when faced with opposition in the form of Harlequin, he breaks down. 

Ultimately, Ellison imbues the Ticktockman’s actions with an unsolvable ambiguity which serves as the most powerful testament to the success of Harlequin’s individual rebellion. Not only does the Ticktockman display behavior that conflicts with his commitment to temporal and societal order, but he also mimics Harlequin’s narrative voice in a way that challenges convention, thus highlighting the impact of Harlequin’s rebellion. Through Ellison’s play with syntactic and typographic structure, he emphasizes the power of Harlequin’s individual resistance and leaves the reader with an important message: that no matter how small the impact, we can be agents of change in our own lives, too. 

Works Cited

Ellison, Harlan. “Repent, Harlequin! Said the Ticktockman” (1965). The Wesleyan Anthology of Science Fiction. Ed. Arthur B. Evans, et al. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2019. 367-378.

On a more light-hearted note, Nathan Pyle, a NY-based comic artist, has created a project with cute aliens performing everyday human activities. While there are no real punch lines in the comic strips, the humor is embedded within the dialogue itself.

It’s a funny way to look at theinteresting novums of our daily lives that we take for granted. Account: @nathanwpylestraneplanet