The Other, the Unknown, and Ourselves
How can we ever hope to understand the unknown? In Stanislaw Lem's novel, Solaris, this question takes center stage as humanity confronts something truly alien that defies all attempts at comprehension. Widely regarded as a science fiction classic, Solaris is a tale of mystery and exploration that probes our inner humanity, the future of science as an institution, and our uneasy relationship to the unknown.
Spoilers ahead.
The story begins with psychologist Kris Kelvin’s arrival aboard a research station orbiting the planet Solaris. Sent by The Institute to study the enigmatic ocean covering the planet’s surface, Kelvin soon realizes that something is dreadfully wrong with the station's crew. One scientist is deranged, another has taken their own life, and the third refuses to leave his laboratory. Kelvin’s own understanding of reality is shaken when he is visited by a phantom: the likeness of a past lover, long dead but unnervingly real. As Kelvin seeks answers, his trips to the station's library provide rich insights into the episodic history of humanity’s attempts to study Solaris’s ocean—a vast, sentient entity whose motivations and nature remain elusive.
Humanities Mirrors: Searching for the Self in the Cosmos
Snow confronts Kelvin about his visitor.
“We take off into the cosmos, ready for anything: for solitude, for hardship, for exhaustion, death. Modesty forbids us to say so, but there are times where we think pretty highly of ourselves. And yet, if we examine it more closely, our enthusiasm turns out to be all sham. We don’t want to conquer the cosmos, we simply want to expand the boundaries of Earth to the frontiers of the cosmos. For us such and such a planet is as arid as the Sahara, another as frozen as the North Pole, yet another as much as the Amazon basin. We are humanitarian and chivalrous; we don’t want to enslave other races, we simply want to bequeath them our values and take over their heritage in exchange. We think of ourselves as the Knights of the Holy Contact. This is another lie. We are only seeking Man. We have no need for other worlds. We need mirrors. We don’t know what to do with other worlds. A single world, our own, suffices us, but we can’t except it for what it is. We are searching for an ideal image of our own world; we go in quest of a planet, of a civilization superior to our own but developed on the basis on a prototype of our primeval past. At the same time there is something inside us which we don’t like to face up to, from which we try to protect ourselves, but which nevertheless remains, since we don’t leave Earth in a state of primal innocence. We arrive here as we are in reality, and when the page is turned and that reality is revealed to us-that pat of of our reality which we would prefer to pass over in silence-then we don’t like it any more.” Solaris, Stanislaw Lem, 1961, p: 72
Snow’s monologue offers a scathing indictment of humanity’s tendency to anthropomorphize the unknown. He criticizes our conceit, cloaking self-centered endeavors in the guise of noble scientific exploration, and mocks our inability to accept ourselves for the immature, unrealized species we are. His words resonate deeply: the central, self-destructive conceit of humanity has long been the belief that we are the center of the universe—a belief that has slowly eroded since the Copernican revolution. Yet this arrogance resurfaces again and again, in a two-steps-forward, one-step-back pattern that reveals our reluctance to relinquish this comforting illusion. While we may never fully overcome this tendency, reflection suggests that progress is possible with the right tools.
To mature as a species, we must confront our narcissism with a dual approach: embracing the scientific rigor of thinkers like Bacon and Descartes, and adopting the philosophies of those like Nietzsche who advocate for the acceptance of reality as it is, rather than as we wish it to be. This echoes Carl Jung’s idea of self-realization—not only on the individual level, but on a civilizational scale. Just as an individual must integrate the shadow to achieve wholeness, humanity must face its flaws, contradictions, and limitations to grow into a more self-aware and unified species. Our story is not static; it is a continuous striving toward something greater.
“My formula for greatness in a human being is amor fati: that one wants nothing to be different, not forward, not backward, not in all eternity.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche
“If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things.”
— René Descartes
Despite our vanity, violence, and suspicion, we are also a species capable of acceptance, sacrifice, creation, and love. Snow’s critique, though harsh, offers hope. By striving to understand the unknown without projecting ourselves onto it, we might not only come to terms with alien worlds, but also gain deeper insight into ourselves. This process is arduous and unending, but it is through this striving that we may one day fulfill the aspirations of those who came before us.
The Phantoms: Simulacra and the True Self
Kelvin’s mission is interrupted by the appearance of Rheya, his past lover. Though Rheya has been dead for ten years, she stands before Kelvin, flesh and blood, exactly as she looked before her death. This shocking encounter forces Kelvin into an agonizing dilemma: how should one treat an apparent apparition of a loved one? The situation becomes even more complex when this simulacrum begins to suffer. How does one react to such suffering, knowing full well that the copy is not real—or at least not the same being that was once loved? Kelvin, driven by both instinct and guilt, does everything in his power to help Rheya. When she becomes distressed by his behavior, she tries to end her own existence by ingesting liquid oxygen, further deepening his turmoil.
This scenario confronts us with a fascinating question: how would we react to seeing a phantom of someone we love suffer, even knowing they are not “real”? When the heart sees one reality and the brain another, and when all concepts of morality point to futile action, what should one do? To me, the moral imperative remains clear: we should try to help. In this case, there appears to be no immediate consequence to Kelvin in aiding Rheya, and her suffering feels all too real. Even though these phantoms are functionally immortal—or at least replaced by identical copies with no memory of previous events—the sensation of their pain is genuine.
The dilemma becomes far more compelling when helping comes at a cost. What if alleviating the phantom’s suffering required personal injury, sacrifice, or even death? In such a situation, the logical choice seems obvious: prioritize one’s own survival. Yet the emotional weight of the moment might overwhelm logic, forcing one to act against reason. This conflict between rationality and compassion lies at the heart of Kelvin’s struggle, making it one of the most poignant elements of Solaris.
The Incomprehensibility of the Alien
The description of Solaris’s symmetriads exemplifies humanity’s encounter with the incomprehensible. Lem writes:
“The symmetriad is a million—a billion, rather—raised to the power of N: it is incomprehensible. We pass through vast halls... like hearing the vibration of a single string in an orchestra of supergiants. We know, but cannot grasp, that above and below, beyond the limits of perception or imagination, thousands and millions of simultaneous transformations are at work, interlinked like a musical score by mathematical counterpoint. It has been described as a symphony in geometry, but we lack the ears to hear it.”
Solaris, Stanislaw Lem, 1961, p: 120
This passage captures the profound mystery of the alien. We observe fragments of its vast processes, yet their purpose and meaning remain beyond our grasp. Such encounters force us to confront the limits of human perception and imagination, raising the question: what if we encounter another intelligence and are unable to make contact?
Striving to understand the incomprehensible is, I believe, a testament to the human spirit. While some ventures might ultimately fail, it is through risking failure that we grow—as individuals and as a species. But why do we yearn for contact in the first place? Looking out at the vast, empty cosmos, we seek connection, perhaps out of a yearning for brotherhood—a separate and equal intelligence with which to exchange ideas, or even compete. On another level, we might be searching for motherhood: a superior civilization to guide us toward self-realization. Yet these hopes, as noble as they may seem, reflect the same anthropomorphism Snow critiques. By projecting our own values and desires onto the unknown, we limit our ability to truly encounter the alien on its own terms.
What we may find in the cosmos, if we find anything at all, will likely be so far outside our experience that it could provoke suspicion, even fear. This instinct, like staring into the dark depths of a cave, has served humanity well. Yet opposing this is another defining aspect of our nature: curiosity. These two forces—suspicion and curiosity—have always shaped our civilization. At any moment, we are not a monolithic society but a collection of individuals, some cautious and some daring. It is our curiosity that drives optimistic adventurers to push the frontier forward, risking everything to explore the unknown. At the same time, our caution tempers this impulse, ensuring we do not dive too deep before we learn how to swim. Both sides are essential, balancing humanity’s growth with its survival.
The Final Frontier Within
In Solaris, Stanisław Lem crafts a profound meditation on humanity’s quest to understand the unknown. Through Kelvin’s confrontation with his phantom lover, Snow’s scathing critique of our anthropocentric mindset, and the incomprehensible grandeur of the symmetriads, the novel forces us to examine not just the limits of our understanding, but the nature of our desire to understand. The alien becomes a mirror for our deepest fears, flaws, and aspirations, exposing our tendency to project ourselves onto the cosmos rather than embracing its true otherness.
Yet, it is precisely this struggle that defines us. To venture into the unknown, to strive for connection, and to risk failure are not just actions of survival—they are expressions of our humanity. Whether through curiosity or caution, we navigate a delicate balance between fear and wonder, a dynamic that drives both individual growth and collective progress.
Solaris leaves us with questions rather than answers. Can we ever truly understand the alien—or even ourselves? Must we confront the darkness within before we can gaze into the infinite without? Perhaps the greatest insight lies in Lem’s refusal to resolve these tensions. By leaving the alien unknowable, he challenges us to continue the journey—not to conquer, but to explore, to learn, and, above all, to grow. In doing so, Solaris becomes not just a story of alien contact, but a timeless reflection on the human condition and our place in the vast, indifferent universe.