Nicolai Fyodorov (Fedorov, in English) was an obscure (in
the sense not very well known in the West in the twenty-first century)
nineteenth century Russian philosopher, who pontificated about the perfection
of the human race and, by extension, extension of human life. An idea Fyodorov
wrote extensively on was resurrection and immortality. Death and after-death
experiences, Fyodorov argued, must be examined scientifically. The mankind’s ‘common task’, Fyodorov
declared, was struggle against death. Continuation of human consciousness,
Fyodorov helpfully explained, need not happen in the same body—the outer
carapace, as we know, is imperfect, in any case—but the human existence can be
replicated by transplantation of consciousness into another form that controls
mind, and can be renewed infinitely. Sounds crazy? It probably is, in light of
what we know of the human biology today; but, I guess, in the nineteenth
century Russia, Fyodorov’s ideas were not dismissed out of hand. He even had
celebrity admirers, one of them Tolstoy.
Nicolai Fydorov’s transhumanistic (for the want of better
phrase) philosophy is the inspiration behind the literary thriller, Strange
Bodies, by the British novelist Marcel Theroux –the son of American
novelist, Paul Theroux.
The protagonist of Strange Bodies is Nicolas Slopen, an
academician and expert on Samuel Johnson. A man admitted to the secure unit of
the Maudsley mental hospital, referred to in the psychiatrists’ notes as ‘Q’,
claims that he is Nicolas Slopen. Indeed ‘Q’ was apprehended by the police for
stalking Slopen’s ex-wife and their children. It is, however, impossible that
‘Q’ can be Slopen, as Slopen had died in a road traffic accident several months
earlier. Yet, to the puzzlement of the psychiatrist, ‘Q’ seems to know many
details of Slopen’s life that are personal and unlikely to have been in the
public domain. The novel then tells the story of the real Slopen or the dead
Slopen. Slopen’s story begins a couple of years earlier, when he is hired by an
eccentric American music producer, Hunter Gould, to authenticate hitherto
unpublished letters of Dr Samuel Johnson, offered to him by a rich and dodgy
(is there any other type?) man (named Sinan Malevin), from Dagestan, which, the
novel informs, is a Russian Republic in the Caucasus. Slopen reads the Johnson
letters and comes to the not unsurprising conclusion that while the letters are
written in the unmistakable style of Samuel Johnson, they are forgeries. When
Slopen informs Gould of his conclusions Gould advises him to meet Malevin and
see for himself. So Slopen turns up at Malevin’s palatial residence in the
central London, where he meets the mysterious Vera, who is Russian and claims
to be Malevin’s house-help. In Malevin’s house further surprises await Slopen.
In the basement of the house he is shown a man who looks like the first cousin
of Jaba the Hut, but who speaks and behaves as if he were Samuel Johnson. Some
more time in the company of this man who is introduced as Vera’s brother—an
idiot savant—leaves no doubt in
Slopen’s mind that the man genuinely thinks that he is Samuel Johnson. This
‘discovery’ draws Slopen—who is going through a turmoil in his personal life,
namely his wife has informed him that she was shagging his rich friend behind
his back and has now decided to leave Slopen: the adulteress wants a
divorce—further into a web of intrigues, and into Russia, with the help of the
mysterious Vera, who is into it up to her nipples, but now wants out because
she has made a discovery of her own: she has conscience. In Russia Slopen
discovers the sinister plan (is there any other type?) some rogue Russian
scientists have conjured up in order to bring into reality the vision of Federov.
The only way to expose the skulduggery of the dastardly Russians is to create a
doppelganger of Slopen himself, using
the Procedure (which is never explained).
(Why not use ‘Samuel Johnson’ to expose the Russians? I hear you asking.
It can’t be done for several reasons. Let me explain. Firstly, that would have
made the plot straightforward and deprived Theroux the opportunity to introduce
further twists in the plot, as also more philosophical pontifications on the
concept of self (very readable, I hasten to add); secondly, even if ‘Samuel
Johnson’ were available, it would have been difficult to convince the sceptical
media that he carried the consciousness of the original Samuel Johnson, the
original Samuel Johnson having been dead for more than two hundred years and
unavailable for close scrutiny; thirdly (and lastly), ‘Samuel Johnson’—the fake
Samuel Johnson, that is, although he is not strictly a fake, as he does carry
the consciousness of the original Samuel Johnson—is also dead (how convenient
is that?). By the way, he is no relation of Vera; he was just a convict picked
out of a Russian prisoner by the evil scientists involved in this sinister
project.) With the help of Vera, Slopen manages to have his consciousness
transplanted (if that is the word) into another Russian toerag. So there are
now two Slopens: the original Slopen, and the Russian toerag who also carries
Slopen’s consciousness and sensibilities. So far so good. All that remains now
is for the two Slopens to slip out of Russia, into the UK, and reveal
themselves as each other’s doppelgangers.
Quite how this would have proven to the sceptical public and media into
believing that the two guys were not just freaks who shared a delusion (or,
worse, con-artists), but were a proof, if proof be needed that the Russians,
despite the collapse of the Soviet Union, were up to no good, is not easy to
fathom. Perhaps Theroux wrestled with the same problem, and decided to
introduce another twist to the plot. Slopen—the original Slopen, that is—dies (or
is he bumped off?) and the doppelganger ends up in the looney bin because of
his extreme reluctance to part with the notion that he is Nicholas Slopen.
Strange Bodies is written in different forms, including a
psychiatrist’s notes on ‘Q’—Slopen’s doppelganger (a psychiatrist who is losing
her own grip on reality judged by the evidence), ‘Q’s memoir, and Slopen’s own
account. All the sections of the novel are well written, almost erudite at
times, although they all sound the same. (The memoir of the Russian toe-rag is
a tad unconvincing: in the opening sections of the ‘memoir’ the Russian toe-rag
and Nicholas Slopen travel together, and the ‘memoir’ leaves no doubt in the
reader’s mind that the toe-rag retains his original identity plus Nicholas
Slopen’s identity in his mind: in other words the doppelganger is fully and painfully aware that he is different from
Nicholas Slopen, and, in that sense, is not Nicholas Slopen. Is that what
Federov envisioned? On the other hand, it would be a fair guess that Federov
did not know what the hell he was talking about, and neither does Theroux.) Marcel
Theroux does have a way of telling a story that is nothing short of entrancing.
As you whizz through the chapters, you are engrossed by the story notwithstanding
the outlandishness of the plot. The novel, I must admit, is hard to put down
once you begin.
Is Strange Bodies a genre novel, a
science fiction thriller, or is it literary fiction? It doesn’t really matter;
however, for what it is worth, I think that Strange Bodies, while it
has the outer trappings of genre (science) fiction (like Kazuo Ishiguro’s
superb Never Let Me Go), at its heart it is literary fiction. Theroux
muses in the novel on what forms the core of humans, what makes us the unique
(in a narrow sense of the word) individuals that we all are. Theroux comes up
with the interesting and entertaining (if not wholly convincing) notion that
it’s language that makes us what we are: we are all made of words. The novel
brims with literary allusions, which Theroux liberally makes use of to
illustrate his point, from Milton to Nabokov to Assia Wevill, in a manner that
is not show-offy.
Strange Bodies, despites the silly plot, is an absorbing—at
times thought proving—a read. Give it a go.
