No Longer Science Fiction: Seeing vs. Viewing

If you’re not familiar with the work of Isaac Asimov, you should be. Considered the “world maestro of science fiction,” Asimov held a doctorate in biochemistry before retiring to work as a full-time author. His interests were far-ranging, leading him to not only write wildly successful science-fiction stories but various textbooks, a sprawling history of North America, and a two-volume Guide to the Bible. That said, I take all of Asimov’s work seriously, including his fiction. Stories are often a powerful truth-telling medium, after all.

I recently enjoyed Isaac Asimov’s The Naked Sun. In it, a detective from Earth is shipped off to the planet Solaria to investigate a murder. Why? Because, unlike crowded and crime-ridden earth, Solaria has never had a murder before. Its population is too sparse and widely spread. People rarely see each other long enough to engage in violence, let alone to premeditate murder.

Indeed, on Solaria, seeing one another in person is taboo. Physical presence is offensive to the point of being socially and even psychologically damaging. Viewing, however, is another matter. Consider the following exchange between Baley, the detective from Earth, and Gladia, a woman from Solaria:

At first, Gladia is naked and Baley is thoroughly embarrassed. He requests that she put on some clothing before they continue their conversation, to which she responds with mild surprise: “It was only viewing, you see.”

Baley protests that he should not see her in such a state of indecency, but Gladia still cannot comprehend his discomfort.

“But that’s exactly it,” she says. “Seeing isn’t involved…I hope you don’t think I’d ever do anything like that…It was just viewing.“

“Same thing, isn’t it?” asks Baley.

“Not at all the same thing,” assures Gladia. “You’re viewing me right now. You can’t touch me, can you, or smell me, or anything like that. You could if you were seeing me. Right now, I’m two hundred miles away from you at least. So how can it be the same thing?”

“But I see you with my eyes,” says Baley.

“No, you don’t see me. You see my image. You’re viewing me.”

“And that makes a difference?”

“All the difference there is.”¹

On Solaria, citizens regularly view one another through holographic communication systems. They perform their work, chat as they walk, show off their artwork, and play chess—all from the comfort of their sanitary solitude. They lack the modesty of Earthmen, thinking nothing of nakedness when it is not accompanied by nearness. Seeing is intimate. It is distasteful and and dirty. But with viewing, all bets are off. A man can chat daily with another man’s wife. A doctor can diagnose patients without ever touching them. A woman can participate in an interview from the shower.

Frighteningly prescient for a book first published in 1956, isn’t it?

At the end of the novel, Detective Baley shares his findings with his supervisor on Earth. The supervisor scoffs at the Solarians for their illogical lifestyle. But Baley is more perceptive: the Solarians emigrated from Earth. The citizens of Earth have similar blind spots; they, too, live complacently in cognitive dissonance. Without awareness, Earth was sure to follow the moral and cultural trajectory of Solaria.

This is why we need quality science fiction: because these fantastical tales can familiarize us with ourselves. Because by traveling to far-off, futuristic realms, we see with fresh eyes the pitfalls of the present. Historical fiction can help us appreciate where we came from, but I believe that the mission of truly great science fiction is to help us understand where we are going—for better or for worse.

The Naked Sun, for all its Agatha-Christie-meets-RoboCop fun, does just this. Writing from the past about the future, Asimov forces us to admit that our present age has become much too Solarian. We are far too comfortable with projected images in place of personal intimacy. We are far too willing to broadcast our private lives via screens while avoiding those actually near to us. We are far too easily satisfied with self-centered holographic fantasies in place of the demands of genuine, embodied community—with viewing in place of seeing.