Tracing the Uncanny Valley: From Freud to Mori and the Next 150 Years
Release Date: 02/12/2025
Human Meme
You inherited a debt you never agreed to pay. I want you to consider that statement before you dismiss it. Not a financial debt, not a mortgage or a student loan with your signature on the paperwork. Something older. Something that attached itself to your bloodline before you were born, before your parents were born, before anyone now living had any say in the matter. This is not metaphor. This is how land works in America. The house you grew up in, the town where you learned to read, the state whose history you memorized in school, all of it sits on ground that belonged to someone else first....
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When we encounter disability, most of us have been trained to see deficiency. Something missing. Something wrong. A departure from the norm that requires correction, accommodation, or at minimum, sympathy. This is the meme of the broken body, and it has replicated through Western culture for centuries. The meme manifests in our language. We speak of people "suffering from" conditions rather than "living with" them. We describe someone as "wheelchair-bound" rather than "wheelchair-using," as though the chair were a prison rather than a tool. We praise disabled people for "overcoming" their...
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Here is something I did not expect to discover while writing a textbook about American Sign Language. The shoulder knows things the hand cannot say. That sentence sounds like metaphor. It is not. It is linguistics, documented and measurable, and it has been sitting in plain sight for as long as deaf people have been signing to each other. The position of the arm, the engagement of the shoulder, the extension or contraction of the elbow: these carry meaning. Not incidental meaning. Not decorative meaning. Semantic meaning that changes what a sign communicates even when the handshape stays...
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What does it mean to discover that you are kin to strangers? Not metaphorically kin, not spiritually connected, but genetically linked in ways that contradict everything you were taught about who your people are and who they are not? This is the question at the center of my new novel, "The Kinship of Strangers," the third book in the Fractional Fiction series. And it is a question that has no comfortable answer, which is precisely why I needed to write about it. We live in an age of genetic revelation. For less than a hundred dollars, you can spit into a tube and receive, six weeks later, a...
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Your grandmother was frightened before you were born. Not in the ordinary way that people are frightened, the startle at a loud noise or the anxiety before a difficult conversation. I mean something more precise. Decades before your parents met, before you existed as even a possibility, your grandmother experienced something that changed her at the molecular level. Methyl groups attached themselves to specific locations on her DNA. Genes that had been active went quiet. Genes that had been quiet began to speak. And that alteration, that chemical annotation of experience, passed forward. You...
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There is a forest in the Pacific Northwest that has been thinking for four thousand years. I want you to sit with that sentence for a moment. Not to dismiss it as metaphor, not to immediately qualify it with objections about anthropomorphization or the hard problem of consciousness. Just to consider: what would it mean if something could think without a brain? What would it mean if memory could persist across millennia without neurons, without synapses, without anything we recognize as architecture for thought? This is not speculation. This is what the science of mycorrhizal networks has been...
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There is a particular cruelty in forgetting. We dress it up in softer language. We call it moving on, healing, closure. We treat forgetting as the natural conclusion to grief, as though memory were a wound that needs to close rather than a responsibility that demands tending. But some wounds are not meant to close. Some wounds remain faithful precisely because closing them would constitute a second violence, an erasure layered upon the original harm. I have written a novel called "The Wound Remains Faithful: A Tragedy of Nora." It took me more than fifty years to write it, though I did not...
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This is the particular tragedy of sons against fathers. The father does not see it coming. The father still thinks of the son as his child, as someone he made, as someone who carries his hopes. The father may have failed the son in a hundred ways. The father may have been imperious, neglectful, demanding, disappointed. But the father did not expect the blade. The father was still, in some part of himself, waiting for the reconciliation, for the return of the prodigal, for the moment when the son would finally understand. In the wake of the death of Rob Reiner and his wife by their son Nick,...
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Martha's Vineyard. You know it now as a summer retreat for the wealthy, a place of pristine beaches and celebrity sightings. But between the late seventeenth century and the middle of the twentieth, something happened there that challenges everything we think we know about disability, about language, about what it means to belong. It began with a gene. Families from the Weald, a forested region in Kent, England, emigrated to the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the 1600s. They were Puritans seeking religious freedom, and they carried with them, unknowingly, a recessive genetic trait for congenital...
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Listen to your own voice the next time you tell the truth. Notice how it flows, uninterrupted, from thought to speech. Now pay attention when you're about to lie. Feel it? That hesitation, that gathering of alternate reality before you speak it into being. Scientists have measured this pause. They've quantified it, studied it, turned it into data points and probability curves. But they haven't explained what happens inside it. That's what we're after today. Not the lie itself, but the space before the lie, that fraction of a second where consciousness does something remarkable and terrible and...
info_outlineThe late nineteenth century marked a pivotal shift in how “the uncanny” was understood in art and literature, though the roots of eerie resemblance and disquieting near-human forms reach back further. By the 1870s, a transitional period was well underway in Europe, shaped by industrialization and the popularization of automata exhibitions. The public fascination with life-sized clockwork dolls that blinked their eyes or played musical instruments set the stage for the eerie feeling that occurs when something appears human but clearly lacks a human essence. Even before Sigmund Freud offered his famous essay “Das Unheimliche” in 1919, there were tantalizing experiments and anxieties circulating among intellectuals and the general populace. The German psychologist Ernst Jentsch, writing in 1906, introduced the word “uncanny” (in German, “unheimlich”) to discuss that peculiar shiver one feels when faced with an automaton or a wax figure that seems too close to life. His ideas laid much of the groundwork for Freud’s subsequent interpretation.