URSULA K.LEGUIN’S HEROIC PURITANISM -
"WOKENESS" GOES TO HELL IN A HANDBASKET
The Gethenians do not see one another as men or women. This is almost impossible for our imaginations to accept.…They are not neuters. They are potentials; during each sexual cycle they may develop in either direction for the duration of that cycle.…One is respected and judged only as a human being. You cannot cast a Gethenian in the role of Man or Woman, while adopting towards “him” a corresponding role dependent on your expectation of the interactions between persons of the same or opposite sex. It is an appalling experience for a Terran.…
The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin is offered to us as a book full of insight, a new, fresh, and informed exploration of that stickiest of all human adventures—sex. There is, of course, an inherent limit to all such attempts: the author must finally create his or her ideas in the fog of his or her own maleness, femaleness, gayness, Terranness, whatever.
As a male, I hoped that Ms. LeGuin might be aided by her presumable ability to describe and explain the female experience, as well as by her anthropological and scientific background. Unfortunately, while these aliens can respect and judge each other “only as…human being[s]” [emphasis mine] rather than as sexual stereotypes, Ms. Leguin herself seems unprepared to respect the terms she has set forth for them. Ultimately, this failure of vision sabotages her efforts and undermines the novel's potential.
The central problem is sex. My own humanity urges me on to a vigorous and healthy fascination with the subject. So when the sample excerpt that introduces The Left Hand of Darkness suggests that this work will offer a creative new perspective on “our entire pattern of socio-sexual interaction,” it sounds like my kind of book.
After a promising start, however—a human (male) explorer on a planet of quasi-humans who are normally androgynous but who go into periodic heat during which they assume either male or female sexuality (a “male” one period may be a “female” the next)—the novel retreats in disarray (though not in déshabillé) from any real examination—let alone celebration—of sexuality. It is, finally, Hugo and Nebula notwithstanding, trite and deeply puritanical.
LeGuin explains to us that the Gethenians (the locals) have no shame about sex, that during heat they retire to what might be described (though not by her) as “fuck houses.” Would that Ms. LeGuin were similarly liberated. For all the mention of these houses and their significance for the Gethenian outlook (as well as the not unlikely interest that we mature adults who read science fiction may have in these intimate ways and means of alien species), the doors remain barred to us.
We are informed that not only is there no shame attached to sex, but that it is basically unnatural and exhausting (though not impossible) for Gethenians to remain celibate. (In this latter point, certainly, Gethenian sexuality sounds quite human; in fact, excepting the not impossible part, it echoes the ancient sexual wisdom of the average fraternity member.)
Within the action of the book, however, we see proclaimed not the joy of sex, but the heroism of abstinence. Estraven, Genly Ai's closest native friend, normally a lusty sort of character (we gather), abandons his sexuality and suffers the tortures of the celibate in the name of the quest.
Although there are other reasons offered for this decision, such a move reflects most clearly some idea of heroic preparation and ritual cleansing. But why should celibacy be “cleaner” than sex? I thought part of the point was to move a step or two beyond “dirty” sex. To add some icing to this insubstantial angel fool cake, Estraven is almost (heaven forbid!) seduced by a highly sensual political enemy.
Ah well. Perhaps LeGuin is simply shy of sex without love. Let us see. Genly and Estraven, feared and sought after by a variety of political factions, set off on an epic journey across the glacier. Estraven has saved Genly's life and continues to be the major salvation of them both, though Genly's (manly?) strength is essential as well. The two are clearly drawn closer by their situation. During the trip, Estraven goes into heat and, reacting to Genly's maleness, becomes a female. What a moment to give physical expression to the love that has been building between them! Genly, remember, has been without a partner for two years by now (a state of affairs which might well drive a lesser man to cast amorous glances at domestic pets). What happens? Well . . . why should this night be different from all other nights? Nothing happens. Estraven is too horny to be sure of much of anything, but Genly senses that it would be “wrong.”
I myself had thought that a major recognition of our liberated time was that it was the love itself that counts, and any and all forms of physical expression of that love are equally legitimate. Nor is Genly's decision a temporary one; he imagines it will be a long time before the two species join sexually (a prediction that will doubtless fall with the first crew on leave there). And the idea that Estraven is too vulnerable to know how to “defend” “herself” is hardly a justification; vulnerability is an inescapable element of love.
The problem of further romantic complications is evaded by Estraven's heroic/suicidal death. As the book concludes, a space ship from the Ekumen (Genly's organization) [think Ecumenical, for slower readers] lands. As the crew of the ship emerges, Genly makes a final depressing but predictable discovery. He has been among the Gethenians so long that he has become used to them; the earth women do not turn him on. Puritanism has slipped its final noose upon him.
Were The Left Hand of Darkness touted as a tragedy of sexual loss, it might be viable; as an exploration of the many issues of sexuality, however, it is dead at the core.
04/18/2009