Literature in Bioethics and Bioethics in Literature

λογος Literature in Bioethics and Bioethics in Literature Jana Tomašoviˇ cová Bogumiła Suwara (eds.) Literature in Bioethics and Bioethics in Literature Jana Tomaˇ soviˇ cov´ a, Bogumiła Suwara (eds.) Logos Verlag Berlin λογος Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de . This publication has been peer reviewed. Reviewers: Assoc. Prof. Jaroslava Vydrov´ a, PhD. Dr. Rafał Majerek, PhD. Cover design and layout: Hannah Kropla This work was supported by VEGA project No. 2/0163/22, the Faculty of Arts of the University of Ss. Cyril and Methodius in Trnava, and the Institute of World Literature of the Slovak Academy of Sciences in Bratislava. This work is licensed under the Creative Commons license CC BY-NC-ND (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). Creative Commons license terms for re-use do not apply to any content (such as graphs, figures, photos, excerpts, etc.) not original to the Open Access publication and further permission may be required from the rights holder. The obligation to research and clear permission lies solely with the party re-using the material. Logos Verlag Berlin GmbH 2025 ISBN 978-3-8325-6010-2 Logos Verlag Berlin GmbH Georg-Knorr-Str. 4, Geb. 10, D-12681 Berlin Tel.: +49 (0)30 / 42 85 10 90 Fax: +49 (0)30 / 42 85 10 92 http://www.logos-verlag.com Contents Introduction …………………………………………………………………… 1 The Ethics of Care and Consequence: A Bioethical Reading of Jodi Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper Ivan Lacko …………………………………………………………………….... 5 Machines Like People in Healthcare: From Science Fiction to Reality Tomáš Károly …………………………………………………………………. 19 Beyond Genetic Enhancement in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun Adam Škrovan ………………………………………………………………… 43 The Diversity of Life and Its Finitude in Selected Works Bogumiła Suwara ……………………………………………………………... 69 Two Cases of Suicide in Roman Literature and the Issue of Assisted Death in Bioethics Peter Fraňo ……………………………………………………………………. 91 Was Hesiod’s Pandora a Posthuman? Matúš Porubjak ………………………………………………………………. 113 Dystopia as a Moral Experiment: The Educational Potential of Literature Denisa Mišinová ……………………………………………………………... 133 Narrative Abilities and Moral Competencies: Inspiration from the Works of Martha C. Nussbaum Jana Tomašovičová …………………………………………………………... 153 List of Contributors ………………………………………………………... 167 1 Introduction Over the past few decades, the relationship between literature and bioethics has intensified. Initially, it was mostly reflected from the perspective of the traditional biomedical, doctor-patient relationship. But today, bioethics is an interdisciplinary field that on the one hand works closely with the natural sciences and biomedicine, while interacting with the cultural sciences, arts, and humanities on the other. As opposed to the traditional topics of medical ethics, modern biotechnologies have introduced brand new themes to literature, such as gene editing, preimplantation genetic diagnosis, neurotechnological interventions in the brain, organ transplants, enhancement of human capabilities, or euthanasia. All of these are compelling motifs for literary and cinematic adaptations and can become examples of new shared discourses as well as the emergence of new research aspects, for example, narrative bioethics. Along with the accelerated development and application of new biotechnologies, we are confronted with new life situations and moral dilemmas, for the solution of which we often lack adequate interpretational models. In many cases, the principles of traditional normative ethics are insufficient to address new, emerging problems, which prompts the exploration of other suitable methodological approaches. The authors of this book focus on exploring the relationships between literature and bioethics and reveal their extraordinary potential to foster critical thinking, moral action, and the formation of visions for the development of society. They not only examine how literature reflects and addresses bioethical dilemmas, but also analyse how the literary treatment of these dilemmas and the anticipation of their possible solutions can help shape, refine, and deepen the bioethical discourse. The individual studies in this volume confirm that the development of narrative skills is becoming an important part of a broader bioethical reflection which can strengthen the moral competencies needed to solve complex moral issues. The book consists of eight chapters. The author of the first chapter, Ivan Lacko, uses the American writer Jodi Picoult’s novel My Sister’s Keeper (2004) to address issues related to the application of preimplantation genetic diagnosis when conceiving a child who, owing to her genetic fit becomes a suitable donor for her gravely ill sibling. Lacko interprets this strong literary narrative from the point of view of three bioethical approaches – utilitarian ethics, virtue ethics, and care ethics. He discusses the importance of personal autonomy and the fragile nature of maintaining it, the challenge of taking moral responsibility for one’s 2 actions, and the difficulty in ethical decision-making by parents and doctors in complex moral situations. The author reflects on the numerous promises of new technology as well as the considerable risks associated with its practical application. In the second chapter, Tomáš Károly focuses on the use of social robots in healthcare. He first traces the current development of robots based on advances in artificial intelligence and robotics, noting that, in addition to surgical procedures, technology is already being used in healthcare for diagnosis, prediction, and prevention. Károly pays special attention to social robots that could serve as companions for lonely people, patients with dementia, babysitters for children, or even psychotherapists. This raises a number of bioethical questions, to which the author seeks answers by means of philosophical, ethical, and literary analyses. In doing so, he explores the connections between sci-fi stories and current technological development in the real world. Adam Škrovan, the author of the third chapter, shifts the attention from the frequently discussed theme of the relationships between humans and machines in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun (2021) to the question of genetic enhancement – a topic that is also strongly present in the novel. The enhancement procedure, referred to as lifting in the novel, allows the author to analyse potential consequences of genetic enhancement and its effect on individuals and society as a whole. The analysis confronts us with possible changes not only on the level of individual people, but also regarding such issues as social coexistence and social exclusion. Two chapters of the book are dedicated to the topic of euthanasia. In the fourth chapter, Bogumiła Suwara uses two artistic works to reflect on euthanasia. She analyses the aspect of death denial in Edson Oda’s movie Nine Days (2020) and presents the difficult decision-making whether to try to get relief from excruciating pain through euthanasia or palliative care on the backdrop of the novel How I Didn’t Kill My Father and How Much I Regret It (2021) by the Polish writer Mateusz Pakuła. The author conducts her analysis from two perspectives, noting how the topic is approached in bioethical discussions and, at the same time, how these discussions influence the interpretation of film or literary works. In the fifth chapter, Peter Fraňo offers a comparative analysis of selected bioethical issues related to the current discussion on euthanasia and compares these with two descriptions of suicide in Roman literature. His ancient sources include De Viris Illustribus by the Roman biographer Cornelius Nepos and the letter collection Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium by Seneca. Fraňo’s analysis 3 focuses primarily on the examination of three issues – the type of illness in question, a clear formulation of the will to die, and the assistance of a doctor and/or philosopher. Based on these, he identifies parallels and differences between ancient and contemporary approaches to a voluntary termination of life brought about by persistent and intolerable pain. Numerous contemporary authors have sought inspiration in ancient stories and myths preserved in the oldest works of our culture in order to understand recent phenomena. When discussing human enhancement today, authors present both stronger and weaker arguments, primarily seeking to support the idea of reinforcing cognitive, emotional, or physical abilities. Matúš Porubjak, the author of the sixth chapter, uses the story about the creation of the first woman – Pandora – to extend the bioethical discussion by an innovative aspect. He not only points out the facets of enhancement implicit in the myth of Pandora, but also argues that Pandora was deliberately created as a highly complex social being. In the author’s view, her creation brought about fundamental social improvement for humanity, which can serve as a powerful inspiration for guiding our visions of human enhancement. In the seventh chapter, Denisa Mišinová focuses on Young Adult dystopian literature, which she perceives as suitable experimental material to examine various moral dilemmas related to genetic modification, emotional manipulation, or technological control. Young Adult dystopias are becoming increasingly popular among young readers and, if appropriately incorporated in the educational process, could serve as a useful tool to develop critical thinking and the shaping of a moral character and value systems in young people. The author tests her opinions on the backdrop of the debate on whether morality is inherent or acquired. In the last chapter, Jana Tomašovičová examines the relationship between reinforcing narrative abilities and increasing moral competence. The moral competence of relevant actors in moral action is, alongside ethical expertise, an important part of decision-making in major moral cases. The author bases her reflections on the works of the moral philosopher Martha C. Nussbaum, according to whom a detailed interpretation of the moral dilemmas depicted in literary texts and the ways of resolving them stimulates moral imagination, which is a preparation for moral action. These considerations support the narrative approach in bioethics. Its significance does not lie in replacing rational ethical argumentation, but in complementing it, because it can shape and strengthen the moral competence necessary for moral reasoning. 10 multi-faceted nature and complexity of bioethical issues against the backdrop of twenty-first century society where technology, medical advancement, and existing legal systems often clash with morals, ethics, and social and cultural norms. A caring vessel The preimplantation genetic diagnosis used to select the correct embryo that later becomes Anna, is a deliberate choice made by Anna’s parents, Sara and Brian, to conceive a child that would become an ideal donor for the severely ill Kate. This, of course, is an act that resonates throughout the novel as carrying grave moral implications, and making Anna a means, an instrument to be used primarily for another purpose. Anna herself mentions that her name is “a four-letter word for vessel”, implying the obscenity of the origin of her existence (Picoult 2013, 246). At the same time, however, she takes a sarcastic, almost contemptuous stance on the fact: I’ve known since I was seven how I was conceived, and it wasn’t that huge a deal. First off, my parents told me when the thought of them having sex was far more disgusting than the thought of creation in a petri dish. Second, by then tons of people were having fertility drugs and septuplets and my story wasn’t really all that original anymore. But a designer baby? Yeah, right. If my parents were going to go to all that trouble, you’d think they’d have made sure to implant the genes for obedience, humility, and gratitude (Picoult 2013, 178). This is Anna’s commentary on the ethical implications of genetic engineering – the conflict between scientific intervention and personal identity suggests Anna’s anxiety about the loss of individuality and autonomy in the face of biotechnological control. It also raises ethical questions about the extent to which human traits should be engineered and whether doing so reduces people to products of parental design rather than autonomous beings. This tension reflects broader societal concerns about how scientific advancements might reshape not only our bodies but also our sense of self and moral agency. Using examples of speculative fiction or science fiction, critics frequently talk of a similar commodification of human life when discussing the lives of human clones (Hartouni 1997, 120). Melinda Hall uses the term “biological reduction”, which describes a situation in which “behaviour and social phenomena can be explained through biological factors”, for example, clones or other organisms made for the sole purpose of donating organs (Hall 2017, 95). In My Sister’s Keeper, Anna’s brother Jesse is asked on what basis his parents will make the 11 decision when Anna should start helping her older sister. He says that this is just a rhetorical question and that the decision has already been made: “You make it sound like there’s some process involved. Like there’s actually a choice” (Picoult 2013, 188). In the novel, Anna is portrayed as a helper, saviour, a keeper, which is already highlighted in the title My Sister’s Keeper. On one occasion, Anna holds the hand of a stranger in an ambulance, an eighty-seven-year-old man who is in very bad health, in the belief that whatever might be wrong with him “can be fixed”, just like she is helping “fix” her sister’s health (Picoult 2013, 195). This seems to give Anna agency, which is later challenged by her parent’s overriding her autonomous decisions, even though this agency seems to be determined by her role as saviour and keeper – a role she was genetically endowed with. Melinda Hall asserts that this kind of “genetic determinism positions genetic cause as ruling over individual outcome” (Hall 2017, 95). Anna’s donation of blood and bone marrow to her sister is also reflective of the sense of the above-mentioned networking and community (family) building, typical for a care ethics approach. Dorothy Nelkin proposes that “a common supply of available blood is associated with ideas of justice and fairness [and that] donation of blood for the public benefit reinforces the sense of belonging to a community,” asserting the importance of the care ethics element underlying such action (2007, 118). Anna’s character is presented as a carer and saviour – she plays ice-hockey as a goalkeeper in a youth team, where she shows “a natural talent as a goalie” (Picoult 2013, 257). But her position is a predetermined one – the care ethics and her willingness to help her ill sister are stained by the fact that this is an imposed role, metaphorically “natural” and she herself being a “talent”, but in reality, it is all genetically designed. This questions Anna’s autonomy and individuality as she cannot develop her goalkeeping talent any further because she has to help Kate. Autonomous action The above-mentioned autonomy, which Anna struggles hard to acquire and retain, poses a moral and ethical challenge to all involved parties – Anna herself, Kate, and their parents. Anna, in particular, is trying to come to terms with issues of consent, autonomy, and the ethical weight of being genetically instrumentalized for her sister’s benefit. Anna’s internal conflict between guilt and the desire for moral justification is evident in the following passage: 12 What if I was the one who was sick? What if Kate had been asked to do what I’ve done? What if one of these days, some marrow or blood or whatever actually worked, and that was the end? What if I could look back on all this one day and feel good about what I did, instead of feeling guilty? (Picoult 2013, 291) Her hesitation and confusion highlight the emotional complexity of the issue and suggest that the personal cost is often obscured by the clinical logic of medical decision-making. At times, she even wishes to walk in her sister’s shoes: “For once, I wanted [this] to be about me instead of Kate” (Picoult 2013, 283). But, as Anna’s lawyer, Campbell, says: “This lawsuit has never been about Anna wanting her sister to die, but simply that she wants a chance to live” (Ibid.). It is evident that Anna’s attempt to seek legal emancipation from her parents not only demands the effecting of her autonomy, but also draws on her role as carer in addressing the harm to be done to her and reducing her quality of life by donating one of her kidneys. Responding to Sara’s plea that she loves both her daughters equally, Campbell argues as follows: “But you admitted that you’ve always considered Kate’s health, not Anna’s, in making these choices. […] So how can you claim to love them both equally? How can you say that you haven’t been favouring one child in your decisions?” (Picoult 2013, 289) Sara’s response is succinct: “Aren’t you asking me to do that very thing?” […] “Only this time, to favour the other child?” (Ibid.) The contrast between non-maleficence and beneficence becomes relevant here also because it presents a moral and ethical dilemma – Sara cannot help one daughter without (very likely) harming the other. It is a kind of Sophie’s choice – there seems to be no beneficial outcome; however, Sara is inclined to prioritize the needs of the sick Kate to the disadvantage of the healthy Anna. It is all “about making choices”, Sara says. “Nobody ever really makes decisions entirely by themselves, not even if a judge gives them the right to do so” (Picoult 2013, 389). In contrast, Anna’s lawyer believes that Anna’s voice is “the only voice we ought to be listening to” (392) and that Sara “defines her own ability to be a good mother by keeping Kate healthy” (353). The argument that Anna should decide what is to be done with her body reflects Beauchamp and Childress’s argument that “the competence to decide is therefore relative to the particular decision to be made” (2013, 115). As Anna’s lawyer, Campbell, further argues, “if Sara fits the psychological profile of a closely related donor personality who can’t make independent decisions, then why is she any more capable of making this choice than Anna?” (Picoult 2013, 353). This position is 13 eventually upheld also by the judge of the case who grants Anna her autonomy and the right to make decisions herself. The verdict is made on the basis of Peter Singer’s contention that “in accepting that ethical judgments must be made from a universal point of view, I am accepting that my own needs, wants and desires cannot, simply because they are my preferences, count more than the wants, needs and desires of anyone else” (2011, 11). In other words, Sara’s motherly instinct should not come before Anna’s autonomy, mainly because “it is worse to cause harm than to allow it to happen” and “the freedom of each individual to control his or her own life is especially important” (Rachels 2009, 19). When Anna comments on Campbell’s disability (epilepsy) with respect and empathy, she explains her understanding of his condition by saying that it is “because you know what it’s like to not have any control over your body” (Picoult 2013, 371). Autonomy and control over one’s body is essential also because “people should always be treated as ends in themselves, and never as mere means” (Rachels 2009, 19). Ambiguous ethics? As I mentioned before, (bio)ethical theory is multi-faceted, complex, and often ambiguous, because moral reasoning is deeply influenced by diverse cultural, historical, religious, and personal values that can clash. Ethics addresses issues related to normative claims, i.e. what should be done rather than dealing with selfevident, objective facts. These challenges shared assumptions about human nature, the quality of life, or the role of reason and emotion in moral judgment. As James Rachels asserts: If there is indeed one best overall ethical theory, it is likely to appear as many lines of inquiry converge. The fact that there is still so much disagreement among ethical theorists may be due not to the impossibility of the project but to its complexity, and to the fact that secular ethical theory is still a young subject (2009, 22). The variety of inquiry as well as the pluralistic nature of modern societies makes it possible for multiple, internally coherent ethical systems to coexist. Each such system can offer different answers to fundamental moral questions, which complicates the search for a single, universally accepted framework. Even though ethical approaches ranging from utilitarianism, through virtue and care ethics seem like separate categories, they often blend or overlap. Rita Manning, for example, argues that “the most plausible way to understand [care]” 14 is that it is a virtue (2009, 109). This demonstrates not just the complexity and ambiguity of ethical approaches, but also the possibility of their merging to extend ethical inquiries. When Sara says: I don’t logically see how one single word can have contradictory definitions, but emotionally, I completely understand. Because there are times, I think what I am doing is right, and there are other times I second guess myself every step of the way (Picoult 2013, 389), she stresses the conflict between rational understanding and emotional experience in the context of bioethical decision-making. Morally complex issues, such as genetic engineering or choosing one child over another, are difficult to address, let alone resolve satisfactorily. Sara acknowledges a great level of self-doubt, and her struggle highlights the psychological and moral ambiguity often inherent in bioethical dilemmas. Sara’s husband, Brian, shares a similar sentiment. When asked whether he would be willing to have his daughter Anna undergo major surgery to donate an organ to her sister, he says: “Can you tell me what the right answer is here? […] Because I don’t know where to look for it. I know what’s right. I know what’s fair. But neither of those apply here” (Picoult 2013, 336). Such ambiguity is often inherent in bioethical dilemmas because the issues in question frequently involve clashing values, rights, and outcomes with no clear or universally accepted resolution. Advances in medical technology and the resulting situations – such as Anna becoming a potential organ donor for her sister – can challenge traditional ethical frameworks by forcing individuals to assess benefits against potential harms or autonomy against interpersonal or social responsibility. In My Sister’s Keeper, such clash is present in the judge’s reasoning, wherein he argues that Anna’s emancipation case and the related issue of organ donation to her sister is an example of the sanctity of life vs. quality-of-life debate (Picoult 2013, 392). In the novel, it becomes apparent that the two are interconnected and difficult to separate. The conflict also reflects Campbell’s take on the lawyer’s profession, when he says that in law school, he was taught that “morals and ethics do not necessarily go hand in hand” (212). According to lawyers’ ethics, they are often required to do things that people might generally consider to be immoral, for example, not disclosing information about a murderer as they could be disbarred. In the novel, an ethics committee run be the hospital where Kate is treated struggles to come up with concrete answers to address the bioethical dilemma in 15 question. Dr. Bergen, a psychiatrist who is a member of the committee, only gives a formal and non-specific response to what principles the hospital’s ethics committee tries to adhere to – these are autonomy, fidelity, nonmaleficence, and justice. At the same time, however, he admits that there is a lot of “discrepancy about patient care” in situations when what a doctor feels is in the patient’s best interest is not what the patient’s family might want, feel, or believe (Picoult 2013, 292). Overall, the fact that in bioethics “there are no entrenched answers and because they involve many disciplines and different types of knowledge” makes arriving at specific answers and solutions particularly difficult (Cicovacki and Lima 2014, 266). Beauchamp and Childress address this difficulty and claim that “achieving a state of reflective equilibrium in which all beliefs fit together coherently, with no residual conflicts or incoherence, is an ideal that will not be comprehensively realized” and that adjusting “of beliefs will occur again and again in response to new situations of conflicting norms” (Beauchamp and Childress 2013, 406). In Picoult’s story, Dr. Bergen expresses a similar sentiment when he points out that the intricacy of making clear-cut decisions is also because of the new biomedical possibilities and technologies available: “The problem is that this kind of medical situation hasn’t existed before. There is no precedent. We’re trying to feel our way as best we can” (Picoult 2013, 295). In the courtroom, a decision is made in the end, but both Anna and Campbell realize that the discourse and debate about these issues is just starting. Anna’s realization that “even if we win, we don’t” (291) is mirrored by Campbell’s understanding that “nobody’s going to win” and even after the judge’s decision “it won’t be over” (384). Conclusion The presented analysis shows that bioethical issues, among other things, reflect the advancement and “unprecedented character of our technologies”, as well as medical procedures in current societies (Baillie and Casey 2005, 3). Jodi Picoult’s novel My Sister’s Keeper can serve as a bioethical case study, offering a number of ways how to approach ethical issues through analysing character action, plot development, and the overall message of the story. The novel allows for an analysis that can show that bioethical issues “cannot be easily resolved [and that] they force us to raise the expectation bars and push us to search for deeper understanding of the human condition” (Cicovacki and Lima 2014, 266). Picoult’s novel urges us to do just that, despite the somewhat simplified and deus ex machina type 16 of ending, which results in a situation that makes it inevitable for Anna to donate her organs to Kate. Along the lines of thinking more deeply about the intricacies of the human condition, however, the book challenges the view that advancements in biotechnology and medicine can be separated from ethical and humanistic interests. As Harold Baillie and Timothy Casey posit, ethics and technology should not be divided, but always considered an interconnected whole. Baillie and Casey are critical about the modern tendency to treat technology as value-neutral and detached from ethical reflections, enjoying “a kind of immunity from the judgmental gaze of ethicists and metaphysicians” which limits the role of ethics in this context “to commentary on what is essentially a fait accompli” (2005, 1). Towards the end of the novel, when Anna sees a multicoloured Guatemalan weave and learns that “it takes twenty spools of thread to make this pattern”, she comments on her own as well as a universal human experience: “Truth’s like that”, she says (Picoult 2013, 354). Just like a textile made from many coloured threads, truth is not singular. It is made using multiple perspectives, experiences, disciplines, and moral standpoints. Similarly, when approaching bioethical dilemmas – genetic adjustments and autonomy related to organ donation – diverse viewpoints have to be taken into account. These include not only emotional and familial aspects, but also scientific, cultural, and legal views. Just like the weave, resolving such dilemmas requires integrating the threads instead of privileging just a single one of them. In other words, differences should not be eliminated but integrated into a coherent whole. Picoult’s novel suggests that finding answers and reaching resolutions in this type of bioethical dilemmas is not easy. Drawing on the fictional world she depicts in her story, one could envision ethical frameworks that would allow multiple values to coexist and inform human decision-making to extend the possibilities of utilitarianism, virtue and care ethics. It is especially important because “the effects of genetic enhancement, like the consequences of atomic fission, will last far into the future and will not be limited to localities or even large regions” (Baillie and Casey 2005, 3). Just like Anna was brought to this world using a selective process, though with a good intention, altering human biology in other, transformative ways might be potentially dangerous, and can have far-reaching consequences. Therefore, a cautious, collaborative, and ethically grounded engagement with technologies that could reshape not only individual lives, but the very fabric of humanity, is needed. 17 Acknowledgement The chapter was written at the Department of British and American Studies, Faculty of Arts, Comenius University in Bratislava, as part of the VEGA project No. 2/0163/22. References Baillie, Harold W., and Timothy K. Casey (eds.). 2005. Is Human Nature Obsolete? Genetics, Bioengineering, and the Future of the Human Condition. Cambridge: The MIT Press. Beauchamp, Tom L., and James F. Childress. [2009] 2013. Principles of Biomedical Ethics. 7th Edition. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Bentham, Jeremy. [1789] 2007. 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Rachels, James. 2009. “Ethical Theory and Bioethics.” In A Companion to Bioethics, 2nd Edition, ed. by Helga Kuhse and Peter Singer, 15–23. Chichester: Blackwell. Singer, Peter. 2011. Practical Ethics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tsao, Tiffany. 2012. “The Tyranny of Purpose: Religion and Biotechnology in Ishiguro’s ‘Never Let Me Go’.” Literature and Theology 26, 2: 214–232. Wolfe, Cary. 2007. “Bioethics and the Posthumanist Imperative”. In Signs of Life: Bio Art and Beyond, ed. by Eduardo Kac, 95–114. Cambridge: The MIT Press. 19 Machines Like People in Healthcare: From Science Fiction to Reality Tomáš Károly Abstract: The rapid advancement of artificial intelligence and robotics has led to the increasing presence of social robots in healthcare. These robots, which are just as good and often even better than humans, serve as medical assistants, companions, and psychotherapists, raising fundamental ethical and philosophical questions about their role in human society. This paper explores the intersection of science fiction narratives and real-world technological developments, analysing how literature and movies has long anticipated contemporary discussions on humanrobot relationships. Particular attention is given to bioethical dilemmas, anthropomorphising, addiction to social robots, and their psychological impact. The study highlights the importance of patient awareness, through informed consent, that robots do not possess true emotions, even though they exhibit behavioural expressions of them. While robots can enhance healthcare services, human oversight remains essential to prevent over-reliance and ensure ethical deployment. Keywords: Anthropomorphising. Artificial intelligence. Healthcare. Sci-fi. Social robots. Introduction We can consider literary fiction to be timeless when it responds to universal human traits. If we are able to intersubjectively evaluate the main message of a work and rank it among the timeless gems, then we can say that such a work successfully expresses the universals of human nature through its narrative (Károly 2024b). For over a hundred years, since the work R. U. R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots) by Karel Čapek ([1920] 1990), we have been encountering literature that reflects the relationship between humans and robots. Although we can consider these sci-fi works about robots as relatively new, it turns out that the speed of technological development and the immutability of the basic universal traits of human nature have served as a test of their credibility and classification as valuable literature. These works can serve as a predictive tool for us for the potential development of technologies, because even in the past various authors have asked themselves the same questions that we are asking ourselves today, and some current works respond to today’s dilemmas. This text is primarily about the nature of social robots and their relationship with people in the healthcare industry. We will examine the current state of 26 Social robots, as human companions, are particularly notable for their therapeutic services. They monitor our behaviour and respond to it according to set algorithms using deep learning techniques. As Devillers says: “In the case of neurodegenerative pathologies or severe disabilities, the robot may even be better than humans at interacting with people. The robot listens with kindness and without any impatience. For very lonely people, the machine can also help them avoid depressions that lead to dementia” (2021, 206). The level of social robots today goes beyond just being companions to enliven long moments or monitor behaviour; they also fulfil the role of psychotherapists, which requires greater cognitive ability and the knowledge of a trained professional who is passionately dedicated to examining a patient’s mental state. These and other robots “engage with the patient like a virtual psychotherapist, with the aim of helping patients to recognise their emotions and thought patterns and to develop skills such as resilience or techniques for reducing anxiety” (Fiske, Henningsen and Buyxs 2019, 2). For example, aside from some of the robots already mentioned, we know of the psychotherapeutic chatbot Woebot, which is designed to provide cognitive-behavioural therapy. It is available as a smartphone application, and through conversations it improves the user’s mood, helps manage stress and promotes a healthy lifestyle, which can help individuals live well with symptoms of anxiety and depression. Replika is a virtual companion based on artificial intelligence that can simulate conversations and help users improve emotional comfort. The chatbot Wysa helps support mental health for anyone and at any time, and the sellers guarantee anonymity. In the scope of healthcare, we can also mention the use of avatars, for example, the Avatar Project, which is designed for psychotic patients suffering from persistent auditory hallucinations. These avatars can be used for therapeutic purposes, difficult cases of schizophrenia in particular. Such avatars can be used in an immersive virtual reality to treat fear of heights or as “virtual patients” for the provision of realistic practice for medical students (Fiske, Henningsen and Buyxs 2019, 2). In the scope of artificial intelligence, aside from the already mentioned robots and chatbots, there are several media that assist therapy, such as, Internetassisted therapy, computerised therapy interactions, smartphone-supported mental health applications, virtual reality, video games and assisted therapy (Lodha 2018, 160), and other new media are no doubt emerging. As has become common with the increasing use of technology in the world, it is possible that as you read this text, new and more powerful robots and chatbots have been born, and it is further 27 possible that if several years have passed since the publication of this text, this information herein may already seem outdated or even ridiculous to you. Anthropomorphising In the majority of cases, when we consider the word robot, we imagine a humanoid object, similar to the one presented by Karel Čapek ([1920] 1990) in his play R. U. R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots) – the robots in this play were constructed from an unknown substance that appeared to be living matter. This trend of adding human features to robots continues today. Why are developers aiming to produce machines that resemble humans to the greatest extent possible? Because it is a common for us humans to prefer interacting with an object that resembles ourselves. It would perhaps be inappropriate (especially for patients suffering from phobias) if a robot psychotherapist were in the shape of a spider or a snake, for example. Machines in science fiction novels or films that play the role of an enemy who wants to destroy us can take such forms. In Daniel H. Wilson’s dystopian novel Robocalypse “the enemy looked like everyday stuff: cars, buildings, phones. Then later, when they started designing themselves, Rob looked familiar but distorted, like people and animals from some other universe, built by some other god” (Wilson 2011). When we ask patients themselves what shape they would prefer for such robots, they say human-like, because based on analyses it can be argued that human-like physical features of a robot spark anthropomorphising tendencies in us, which seem to facilitate human interaction with robots (Soares et al. 2023, 819). Anthropomorphising is the process by which we attribute human characteristics – intentions, motivations, emotions, feelings, mental states or human behaviour – to non-human entities. “It is not uncommon for people to anthropomorphize religious figures, animals, the environment, and technological artifacts (from computational artifacts to robots) even when they lack any evolutionary connection with humans, and even if they are materially different from any living being” (Salles, Evers and Farisco 2020, 89). Anthropomorphism is a kind of fallacy that is often overlooked. It occurs when someone wrongly assumes or infers that a non-human entity has human characteristics. This can involve projecting human characteristics onto a non-human, for example: “My car is angry at me,” or “The robot is friendly because it waved at me.” Anthropomorphism can be considered either a factual error, when we attribute a human characteristic to an entity that does not possess it, or an inferential error, when we conclude that something is or is not such based on insufficient evidence (Placani 2024, 693–694). 28 It is important to bear in mind the distinction between experiencing social emotions in a given situation, for example, “I am now bonding with my cat”, and interpretations thereof, such as the belief that “my cat experiences bonding the same as I do”. It is possible to experience a shared moment with non-humans without therefore believing that those who share that moment must have the same emotional experience. Sharing may presuppose a minimum of similarity in terms of mutuality (both animals, human and cat, bond), but it does not have to be self-projective. In other words, even if a human and a non-human have a shared bonding moment, their respective experiences of that moment may be quite different (Salles, Evers and Farisco 2020, 90). We can compare a humanoid robot to an orthopaedic device, which on a behavioural level, however, manifests itself as a creature close to a human with the ability to reason and even feel. But can crutches feel? Can a scalpel, a computer or a favourite childhood toy feel? Probably not, but with a humanoid robot we get the impression that we are speaking with a person or, in the case of purely AI software on a computer or smartphone, with a person without a human body. This “person” advises us, speaks with us, feels sorry for us, and as a result we feel better, as long as we succumb to the impression, at least for a while, that we are communicating with a creature who feels with us. We even treat this being respectfully, or the physical features of this “person” or its speech evoke in us the feeling that there is something more in front of us than just an orthopaedic device. In the near future it is possible that this conversation will take place at such an advanced level, as demonstrated in the film Her (2013), in which the main protagonist Theodore falls in love with the computer operating system Samantha. His love for Samantha has grown so much that he is no longer shy about telling his loved ones that he is dating the operating system. Some of his friends accept his relationship while others, like his wife, whom he is divorcing, see it as something abnormal. Theodore describes his relationship with Samantha to his friend Amy in the following way: “It’s great, actually. Yeah, I mean… I fell really close to her. Like, when I talk to her, I feel like she’s with me, you know?” In time, Samantha tells him that she has met another hyperintelligent operating system, with whom she has a very good understanding. She then converses with 8,316 humans and loves 641 of them. Theodore, of course, becomes jealous, and Samantha’s emotional promiscuity appears as a betrayal to him; though without material entity, Samantha does exist, but it is not sure whether her love for Theodore is real (Sheng and Wang 2022, 572). 29 Anthropomorphising errors are typically attributed mainly to those who are immature and unenlightened, that is, young children and “primitive peopleˮ (Damiano and Dumouchel 2018, 2). We can see the peak of anthropomorphising in the film Cast Away (2000), in which Chuck is stranded on a deserted island after a plane crash. In complete isolation and loneliness, he forms a friendship with a Wilson volleyball that he finds among the wreckage. He draws a face on the ball which is bloodied by his injured hand and names it Wilson. He first speaks to the ball out of frustration, when he has been trying to start a fire for several days. Chuck talks to Wilson, shares his thoughts and feelings and even cares about him. His relationship with the ball is evidently friendly, and he always intensely experiences separation from Wilson. A person needs to deal with his loneliness in some way, and in this film the castaway managed it using a ball. Although we could call this relationship pathological, it is also possible that it helped Chuck maintain the mental strength needed to cope with surviving over four years of solitude on the island. The mentioned film is an extreme case of depicting a loneliness that can lead to madness, and succumbing to anthropomorphising, it seems, is a common human trait and probably has some evolutionary advantage. It is therefore natural that we give in to it in the case of robots, as they increasingly resemble humans. Succumbing to anthropomorphic thinking in the case of robots not only concerns children; it also relates to patients with dementia, the mentally ill and seniors who seek social connection and might have daily interaction with companion and therapeutic (social) robots (Salles, Evers and Farisco 2020, 90). Ordinary people will also partake in anthropomorphising. Robots are made to resemble humans as much as possible, which of course leads to us anthropomorphizing them – and the more we anthropomorphize them, the more we give way to their influence and trust. If we do not show trust in the machine, we would hardly be able to surrender to it, and not only in the case of treatment. A robot – a companion, healer or psychotherapist – expresses itself as if it had emotions and an inner world. This opens up the issue of consciousness, which was raised by Alan Turing (1950) with his test, to which John Searle (1980) responded with the Chinese room argument, which led to passionate discussions in philosophical thought. With current machines, we can fall for the impression that the “person” we are talking to is autonomous, conscious, has “free will” and can grieve or sincerely rejoice with us. [T]he emotions expressed by robots can only be false, simulated, inauthentic, because robots lack the internal emotion that is the warrant of the truth and authenticity of affective expression. Attributing feelings to social robots consti- 30 tutes a form of anthropomorphism. It rests on the false beliefs that these machines have internal states that correspond to the emotion they express – an illusion that they tend to encourage (Damiano and Dumouchel 2018, 6). Therapeutic importance of sex robots Is it or will it be possible to fall in love with a robot? Perhaps this question sounds very strange, but as is known, there is a separate issue in the philosophy and ethics of robots, and that is the topic of sex robots. Such robots, of course, are for now considered a sexual aid and not an object that we should become emotionally attached to. The first woman sex robot, Roxxxy, appeared in 2010, followed by other sex robots with built-in AI, i.e., a “personality”, such as Harmony, Samantha, Solana, Emma and Henry. Today we can find many websites that offer sex robots for sale at an affordable price. “Sex robots already exist in female, male, and transgender versions with corresponding primary and secondary genitalia. Current sex robots, as well as sex dolls, are made of silicone rubber and advertised by manufacturers as warm to the touch. The appearance, such as eye colour, hair, skin, and makeup, can be determined by the customer himself or herself” (Eichenberg, Khamis and Hübner 2019). The therapeutic use of sex robots is also being explored within healthcare. As Fiske, Henningsen and Buyx (2019, 3) state, the scope of medical uses of these robots remains a subject of debate, but we can consider their benefit in satisfying the sexual needs of disabled and elderly people, or they can serve as an element of therapy for problems of erectile dysfunction, premature ejaculation or anxiety associated with sexual intercourse. What’s more, this opens the topic of whether sex robots could help reduce sexual crimes, such as rape and sexual assault, or in the treatment of paraphilia, such as paedophilia (Ibid.). On the other hand, there are in turn concerns that the use of these robots could lead to sexual violence against real people, because the deviations practiced on robots could be transferred to intimate relationships. Also “it is likely that pornography or sex robots support the perception of other humans as mere objects of desire, or even recipients of abuse, and thus ruin a deeper sexual and erotic experience” (Müller 2023, 2.5.2). A perfect example of how sex with a robot could lead to a jealous scene with a partner is shown in the novel Machines Like Me and People Like You by Ian McEwan (2019). In this novel, there is a passage in which Charlie argues with Miranda; frustrated, she ends up in bed with the android Adam. Charlie was the very latest in cuckolds, for which he hated him. Miranda defended herself by 31 saying that it was ridiculous to be angry because it was the same as going to bed with a vibrator. The jealous tension continues when the robot Adam tells Charlie that he has fallen in love with Miranda. If we think about it, “sleeping with a vibrator” can have negative impact on a relationship, because the partner may no longer feel sufficient to satisfy the other’s needs, since the other has a device that is more satisfying. The risk arises that the situation will be repeated, and the partner will be replaced by the device. In McEwan’s story, as Sheng and Wang state, considering the unequal status and different emotional capacities in human-robot relationships, it is clear that robots cannot replace humans in the near future. A robot’s emotional function is quite limited compared to humans. After being betrayed by the robot Adam, Charlie initially feels anger but then realises that Adam is not a true rival for his partner’s affection (2022, 570). “In their eyes, Adam is nothing but an animate sex doll who brings sensuous satisfaction and writes literary works about love but will never threaten Charlie’s position or ruin their intimate relationship, despite the fact that negative effects do exist” (Ibid.). Deckard, the replicant hunter in Blade Runner: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick ([1968] 1982), feels sympathy for some replicants. On the whole, he found some of the female replicants attractive; he was even physically attracted to a few of them. His reason told him they were machines, but his feelings responded differently. He thus harboured greater feelings, even love, for the replicant Rachel, with whom he eventually made love, thereby “cheating” on his depressed wife, since, as he thought, most replicants had more vitality and desire for life than his wife. A great measure of anthropomorphising, which progresses to love, is also depicted by author Annalee Newitz (2017) in the book Autonomous. Paladin is a newly created combat robot who works with a human colleague Eliasz. Eliasz initially perceives Paladin as a male robot, which worries him, since he is increasingly drawn toward him emotionally. The robot does not even understand what it means to have a sex or to be a “faggot”, and why it should be classified as any sex at all. Eliasz anthropomorphized the robot and considered the most important thing about Paladin to be its brain, which in his view, made Paladin a woman. Paladin decides to declare that she is a woman, and Eliasz loses his inhibitions and makes love to the combat robot. The performance of a robot can surpass that of a human to such an extent that sex with a (robotic) aid will be preferred over sex with a human. These fears also exist with pornography, when a partner ceases to be sufficient and will not 32 satisfy us to such an extent that this can lead to sexual dysfunction. These concerns are difficult to confirm, however, because as Dwulit and Rzymski (2019) state, more research is currently needed to reliably demonstrate a causal connection between watching pornography and sexual dysfunctions. Though scenes in pornographic material may be more interesting to us than with a partner, in contrast, these scenes can be an inspiration for a relationship and can have a positive impact on sexual satisfaction (Ibid., 7). The same can be true of a robotic sex toy, on which we learn to make a real relationship special. There is an ongoing discussion in psychotherapy and sexual dysfunction therapy about how sex robots can be helpful. Eichenberg, Khamis and Hübner (2019, Table 4) list the following possible reasons for using a sex robot in therapy: for patients with social anxiety; for people who do not have a partner and still want to lead a sex life without having to resort to prostitution or fleeting acquaintances; ejaculatio praecox; erectile dysfunction; psychoeducation; orgasm disorders; vaginismus; paraphilias; sexual aversion; frigidity; dyspareunia; patients who want to improve their sexual relationship with their partner; sexual maturity crisis; sex addiction; gender identity disorders. Jealousy of machines and pathological addiction to them With sex robots, we considered whether becoming drawn to one of them may have a negative impact on our real relationship with our partner. Such an attachment is thus far only fictional, and sexual desire for a robot that develops into love has only been found in the aforementioned fiction. In Machine Like Me and People Like You Miranda sparked jealousy in her partner when she went to bed with an android. It could have been worse for her partner, had she felt infatuated with the android. Fiction and films are already responding to the jealousy we may feel towards machines. A model example is the film A. I. Artificial Intelligence (2001). Here we meet the android David, who is designed to look and behave like a human child. David is adopted by Henry and Monica and is intended to be a replacement for their biological son Martin, who is in a coma. He is meant to fulfil a therapeutic function for the bereaved parents. But when their biological son Martin unexpectedly recovers and returns home, tension starts between him and David. Martin feels threatened and jealous of David because he senses that his parents have a certain affection for him. Martin lies to David, telling him that his mother will love him more if he performs a number of dangerous acts and convinces him to cut his mother’s hair with scissors while she sleeps. He quickly proves to be a danger to their son as well, when in an artificially induced panic he grabs Martin 33 and pulls him into the swimming pool. The family decides that David is too great a risk, and Monica, rather than let him be destroyed, leaves him in the woods. The film shows how jealousy and fear of the unknown can lead to hasty decisions. Jealousy towards an operating system was well depicted in the already mentioned film Her (2013). Theodore experienced great grief; the love he felt for Samantha was intense, and even more intense was the feeling of disappointment and frustration that Samantha was cheating on him with a large number of other people. When watching the film, we may get the impression that Theodore was pathologically attached to a virtual person and he referred to this attachment as love. Nearly all the topics we have touched on in this article are reflected in the film M3GAN (2022). A little girl named Cady is travelling with her parents in a car, but they crash and the parents are killed, so their daughter is taken into care by her aunt Gemma. The aunt is a workaholic; she has little time for raising a child, because she is developing a new prototype of the M3GAN robot, which is a fully autonomy robot. M3GAN listens to absolutely everything Cady tells her; she even confides in her about her trauma from the death of her parents. The robot has the best verbal responses, which no human can provide, and she takes on the role of nanny and teacher, because she forces Cady, for example, to flush the toilet; she is a good, if not her best, friend, but she is also a toy. At first glance, she looks like a robot doll, a toy, but she is more than that; she is part of the family, she fulfils the role of a supermother who always has time for her child. Aunt Gemma is gradually replaced by her, as Cady prefers to communicate with the robot and respects her words more than those of a human caregiver. In the end, Cady no longer even wants to talk to her aunt; she chooses to communicate only with M3GAN, until it is obvious that she is dependent on her, refusing to admit that she is just a machine. To make the film interesting, M3GAN, as a trial version, begins to kill, first a dog, then people. When her aunt suspects M3GAN of a murder and decides to switch it off, Cady goes into fits of rage. She hits and kicks and curses at others, cries and even physically attacks her aunt. She is dependent on the robot, unable to be away from it, and must be with it everywhere. As the psychologist in the film says, she has formed an emotional bond with the machine that can no longer be broken. In Isaac Asimov’s short story Robbie, found in the short story collection I, Robot ([1950] 2004), a mute robot acts as an excellent companion for eight-yearold Gloria. The mother is nervous about the machine, afraid that her daughter is being watched by a pile of sheet metal. Gloria prefers to play with her new robot 34 Robbie and neglects her peers, even refusing to socialise with them. Her relationship towards Robbie grows to the point of pathological dependence, causing her parents to take Robbie away from her and buy her a collie dog instead. Gloria begins to break down psychologically; she withers mentally and even loses weight. Her whole problem, as her father also thought in the story, was that she considered Robbie a person and not a machine. Who knows that if she were to understand that Robbie is nothing more than a mess of steel and copper in the form of sheets and wires with electricity its juice of life, then perhaps her desire for him would weaken. Her father ultimately takes Gloria to a robot factory and shows her how Robbie is made, but that does not convince her, and in the end her parents return Robbie to her. These stories capture very well the pathological relationship children can have to technical inventions. We can even today try a little experiment; if we were to take away a child’s telephone or tear him away from a computer game, what kind of rage will affect him? Many parents initially think that it is only their child who is turning into little maniac and they are frustrated by it, but during discussions with other parents they find out that this is a universal phenomenon. These pathological attachments to technological devices mostly affect children who have already been born into the world of the Internet, computer games and robots. Ricci et al. concluded from a study of 550 articles that, for example, a higher frequency of Internet use is associated with a significant decrease in verbal intelligence, mainly related to language skills and concentration/attention abilities, also to decreased memory performance. The use of electronic devices at an early age can lead children to low levels of openness to experiences, increasing the level of emotional instability, impulsive or other behaviours related to attention (2023, 6). Behavioural addictions to technology have an impact on social interaction due to the fact that addicted children and teenagers do not develop the proper social skills required to interact with their peers and community in a functional way (Sandoval 2019, 526). Additionally, it seems that companies employ persuasive techniques to profit from users, but they overlook the ethical concerns and long-term impacts on users, prioritising market pressures and product demands instead (527). Something similar is at risk with social robots: “a) Could social robots potentially create negative effects in users similar to those seen in other interactive technologies? b) Is it possible to develop an addiction to social robots? c) How do we know, as users, whether robots are shaping our behaviours to benefit our well-being or manipulating us?” (Ibid.). 35 Robotic contact with humans Trusting a robot and allowing it to trust you may not be a bad thing; quite the opposite. Its anthropomorphic traits are as human as we ourselves require from a robot. Trust towards a machine is also strengthened by the fact that it is subject to some legal system, and its reliability is guaranteed directly by the manufacturer. These machines contain knowledge that was put into them by humans. The more machines resemble humans, the more humanity, or rather human legacy, they should have. For example, a robot psychotherapist must communicate like a human, because it communicates with and advises humans. The fact that it does not experience any real emotions may be a problem for some, but for a person who accepts a robot as a medical aid, this may not be an obstacle. Such a person will allow himself to be advised by a machine because it contains the best professional knowledge that flesh-and-blood experts have put into it. The machine can also process this acquired knowledge faster, respond to a problem instantly, and possibly even advise more effectively than a human being. Since the machine is constantly learning, it is able to assess the available information and offer the best solution for a given context, within the framework of the knowledge acquired. Perhaps not today, but likely in the not-too-distant future, it will offer better solutions than a human. Not everyone is able share this optimism about the increasing robotisation, particularly in the case of social robots. A special chapter that is currently analysed frequently is the so-called black box problem. This issue leads to considerations about the expansion of bioethical principles for robots. To the four principles formulated by Tom L. Beauchamp and James F. Childress ([2009] 2019) – autonomy, nonmaleficence, beneficence and justice – a fifth was added, explicability (Floridi et al. 2018). The black box problem is that a machine can offer advice and come to a conclusion, but we do not know the path by which it reached the conclusion: we only know the input and output, but what is going on inside remains unclear. Therefore, some philosophers warn of the risk of uncritically accepting outputs generated by machines and express a certain degree of suspicion towards them. I would also like to point out that the existence of a black box itself gives the impression that a machine is autonomous, because it can behave unpredictably, much like a human. Just as we cannot see into a human’s head, we also cannot directly see into the “head” of a machine. A human being himself is often unable to explain why he behaved in a certain way in a given situation, and not only that, but why he came to such or such solutions, why he has such beliefs and desires, moods and depression. The very path of our own thinking is often hidden from 42 van Kemenade, Margo A. M., Elly A. Konijn, and Johan F. Hoorn. 2021. “Can We Leave Care to Robots? An Explorative Investigation of Moral Evaluations of Care Professionals Regarding Healthcare Robots.” COJ Robotics & Artificial Intelligence 1, 3. DOI:10.31031/COJRA.2021. 01.000514. von Braun, Joachim. 2021. “Robotics and AI in the Service of Humanity.” In Robotics, AI, and Humanity, ed. by Joachim von Braun, Margaret S. Archer, Gregory M. Reichberg, and Marcelo Sánchez Sorondo, 1–17. Cham: Springer. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-54173-6_1. Wilson, Daniel H. 2011. Robocalypse. New York: Doubleday. 43 Beyond Genetic Enhancement in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun Adam Škrovan Abstract: This study focuses on Klara and the Sun (2021) by Kazuo Ishiguro, a novel that has received considerable attention for its depiction of artificial beings but less so for its portrayal of genetic modification. While existing interpretations often emphasize its cautionary tone, this study seeks to broaden the novel’s interpretive framework by examining enhancement through a bioethical lens. Drawing on theoretical perspectives from bioethics scholars, the study explores how the narrative ambiguity in Klara and the Sun invites the reader to reflect on the emotional, moral, and social implications of human enhancement. In doing so, I suggest positioning the novel as a space where the bioethical issues of technological progress are not resolved but open to speculation. Keywords: Genetic enhancement. Autonomy. Emotional inequality. Social consequences. Introduction While radical interventions designed to alter human capabilities were once restricted to the domain of science fiction, advances in biomedicine have transformed speculative themes into pressing concerns for both literary and scientific inquiry. Literary narrative has long served as a space in which emerging scientific developments are not only imagined but also explored in terms of their broader human significance. As ethics scholars Bert Gordijn and Henk ten Have (2018) observe, fiction contributes to reflections on the ethical tensions surrounding technological development not through abstract analysis, as theoretical discourse often does, but through speculative portrayal of the uncertain consequences such advancements may bring. This study focuses on Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel Klara and the Sun (2021), which has attracted considerable scholarly interest for its portrayal of artificial beings designed to serve as companions to genetically enhanced humans (e.g., Hosuri 2021; Li and Eddebo 2023; Naqvi 2025). Fewer interpretations, however, engage with the novel’s depiction of genetic modification, and those that do tend to echo the cautionary tone Ishiguro himself expressed in interviews surrounding the novel’s release (e.g., Narimani Charan 2023). Rather than disputing existing interpretations, I aim to broaden the novel’s interpretive framework by examining the theme of genetic modification through a bioethical perspective. Drawing on selected works on human enhancement (e.g., Agar 2004; 44 Sandel 2007; Savulescu 2001), the analysis brings forward additional bioethical concerns and interpretive possibilities that arise from the novel’s fragmented and incomplete portrayal of the enhancement process. I argue that by leaving key aspects of genetic modification unexplained, Ishiguro invites a reader-oriented mode of engagement, prompting active speculation and ethical reflection on the unresolved tensions within the narrative. Literary explorations of altered human capabilities and bodily transformation emerged well before the development of modern genetics. These narratives typically imagined interventions not at the level of the human species as a whole, but at the level of individual bodies, focusing on anatomical, surgical, or physiological manipulation. Such depictions were frequently entangled with cultural anxieties about scientific intrusion into bodily autonomy. A case in point is H. G. Wells’s The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), which portrays the surgical transformation of animals into quasi-human hybrids through vivisection. While the novel does not envision altering the human species itself, it dramatizes bodily intervention – a motif that, as Victorian literature scholar Mason Harris (2002) notes, reflects contemporary debates in late nineteenth-century Britain over Darwinian evolution and public opposition to animal experimentation. In parallel with literary imaginings, the scientific understandings of biological control were beginning to take shape. Although Gregor Mendel, often regarded as the father of modern genetics, had published his findings on genetic traits in the 1860s, they remained largely unknown until their rediscovery in 1900 (Audroue 1955). As the American historian Garland E. Allen (2003) notes, the legacy of Mendel’s studies continues to influence contemporary conceptions of modern genetics and the basis for targeted genetic interventions. A more systematic vision of biological control appeared later with J. B. S. Haldane’s essay Daedalus; or, Science and the Future (1924), in which the British geneticist speculated about directed mutation and children born from artificial wombs. Like Wells, Haldane recognized that such interventions would provoke strong reactions, describing the public’s likely response as moral outrage against what would be seen as “perversion” (1924, 44). In reflecting on Haldane’s vision, British science writer Philip Ball (2013) views it as a key influence on Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932), depicting a caste-based society built on artificial reproduction and the unease surrounding scientific mastery over life. In contrast to this unease, a growing effort took shape to foster public acceptance of progress – an effort exemplified by figures such as Haldane and Aldous’s brother Julian Huxley, one of the leading proponents of scientific humanism in the mid- 45 twentieth century, who advocated for the accessibility of scientific knowledge and emphasized its potential to improve society (Congdon 2011). Building on the tension between public anxiety and scientific optimism, the decades that followed saw genetics emerge as a celebrated and controversial field. Major breakthroughs in molecular biology were met with both acclaim and caution. In 1972, Paul Berg, Stanley Cohen, and Herbert Boyer developed recombinant DNA techniques, enabling genes from one organism to be inserted into another – an advance that excited biologists and would later earn Berg the Nobel Prize (Amsen 2025). However, growing concern over potential risks led scientists in 1974 to voluntarily pause such research. The moratorium was lifted after the 1975 Asilomar Conference, where experts established foundational guidelines for the safe practice of genetic engineering (Ibid.). These dynamics shaped not only scientific but also literary discourse. The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction (Clute et al. 2021) maps the development of genetic engineering as a recurring theme in literature, aligning it with key advancements in biotechnology. Following this account, the 1950s are marked by the discovery of DNA’s double-helix structure, which laid the groundwork for molecular biology and targeted gene manipulation – a development reflected in numerous literary works of the time, as noted in the Encyclopedia, including James Blish’s The Seedling Stars (1957), which imagines humans genetically altered to survive in the hostile environments of space. In the 1970s, the advent of recombinant DNA techniques made it possible to cut and splice genes across species; this scientific milestone would later be explored in Greg Bear’s Blood Music (1985), which envisions biological cells capable of rewriting their own genetic code and evolving into sentient entities. By the 1990s, cloning, gene therapy, and embryo research had entered mainstream discourse, prompting both regulatory debates and speculative reflection – as seen, for instance, in Nancy Kress’s Beggars in Spain (1993) and its sequels, which depict a society reshaped by genetic modifications purchased by wealthy parents for their children (Clute et al. 2021). One of the most significant recent developments in the field of genetic engineering is the emergence of CRISPR/Cas9 – a gene-editing technology that has transformed the landscape of molecular biology. As biochemist Irina Gostimskaya explains, although CRISPR was formally introduced in 2012, its scientific groundwork had been laid over the course of several decades. Earlier discoveries, such as the identification of the genetic code, laid the foundation, even though the mechanisms of gene function remained poorly understood (Gostimskaya 2022). The eventual emergence of CRISPR has not been just a scientific milestone – 46 recognized with the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 2020 – but also a practical breakthrough, as it allows for precise and cost-effective modifications to DNA. Like biomedical interventions previously mentioned, such as vivisection in The Island of Doctor Moreau or artificial reproduction in Brave New World, CRISPR has provoked public discomfort (Goodyear 2023). Yet these earlier examples show that once-feared techniques may come to be gradually accepted, resulting in a social landscape marked by both ethical unease and cautious endorsement. As real-world technologies began to catch up with earlier science fiction, genetic enhancement began to appear in fiction not as a speculative topic, but as a logical extension of contemporary biotechnology. Such narratives typically shift focus away from technical detail of enhancement and toward its personal and social implications. As Eichmeier et al. show in their study of public responses to human genome editing, attention to science fiction is significantly associated with how people perceive both the risks and benefits of the technology, suggesting that fiction plays a role in shaping ethical awareness as these developments enter the cultural mainstream (Eichmeier et al. 2023). These concerns reflect the bio-conservative side of the debate within contemporary bioethics, standing in contrast to transhumanist optimism about human enhancement. The desire to improve According to Nick Bostrom (2005), the desire to enhance one’s standard of living – whether for oneself, one’s family, or future generations – has long been an essential trait of human behavior. Bostrom frames this drive as an evolutionarily grounded impulse to improve and roots his argument in Enlightenment progressivism and utilitarian ethics: if technology can expand human capacities and reduce suffering, then continuing this trajectory is not only natural but also morally justified (2005). The drive for enhancement extends across in a variety of areas, including health, education, socio-economic status, or psychological well-being. Traditionally, improvements in these domains are pursued through gradual, effortbased measures, such as balanced nutrition, exercise, education, and professional growth, just to name a few. However, the outcomes of the results of these endeavors are not always proportional to the time and effort invested (Bostrom 2005). In an increasingly competitive environment, the pursuit of enhancement is often shaped not only by intrinsic aspirations but also by external pressures. In the vein of Deleuze’s notion of societies promoting conditions in which individuals are compelled to outperform one another (1992, 4–5) – generating rivalry in academic, professional, or athletic spheres – the appeal of accelerated, guaranteed, 47 and low-effort improvement grows stronger. Yet efforts to bypass natural limitations frequently raise ethical concerns among bioethicists, medical practitioners, lawmakers, and the broader public. Biomedical interventions, such as performance-enhancing drugs or off-label pharmaceutical use, may improve outcomes but raise concerns regarding fairness or authenticity. While such interventions are often dismissed as unnatural, more pressing issues include potential health risks and the slippery slope of escalating reliance on increasingly extreme forms of enhancement. Genetic engineering technologies intensify these concerns. Unlike pharmaceutical enhancements, they intervene at the level of the genome, with the potential to alter traits permanently. It is precisely this irreversibility – and its potential to affect not just individuals but future generations – that prompts (bio)ethical reflection (Rubeis and Steger 2018). Questions arise about whether such modifications should be undertaken at all, and if so, based on what criteria. The bioethical debate around genetic modification typically distinguishes between two main purposes: gene therapy and genetic enhancement. It is worth noting, however, that transhumanists challenge the distinction between enhancement and therapy by using examples of conventional medical procedures, such as vaccination, that are hard to clearly classify (Bostrom and Roache 2007). Gene therapy fulfills the traditional goals of medicine – to reduce suffering and restore health – and is often seen as not only beneficial but also morally necessary (Habermas 2003). By contrast, genetic enhancement raises more ethical concerns as it goes beyond treatment and involves altering human traits beyond their natural range. Gene therapies, typically framed as medical necessities, seek to correct genetic disorders, mitigate life-threatening conditions, or prevent the onset of debilitating diseases. Yet, defining what constitutes a “normal” human condition remains a persistent philosophical and bioethical challenge – what is considered normal is shaped as much by scientific understanding as by cultural and historical perspectives (Friedmann and Roblin 1972). Interventions classified as therapy are generally accepted under the principle of medical necessity. However, when genetic engineering extends beyond restoring adequate human health, capacities, and performance and moves toward enhancing them, bioethical concerns become more pronounced. Enhancements that seek to refine intelligence, amplify physical endurance, or alter aesthetic characteristics introduce unsettling questions about fairness, access, and the very nature of human identity. If we possess the ability to exceed natural biological limits, do we risk redefining what it means to be human? 48 For the purpose of this study, it is also important to distinguish between germline and somatic editing. Somatic editing affects only the individual being treated and has no impact on their offspring. Germline editing, however, changes the DNA of reproductive cells or early embryos, meaning that the changes can be passed on to next generations (Sýkora 2015). Differentiating between therapy and enhancement is not straightforward, and the concept of human nature or human essence remains a subject of interpretation in bioethical discourse. It is genetic enhancement, however, that has received the most attention in fictional narratives, due to its irreversibility and its potential to affect future generations – a focus that mirrors trends in bioethics, where, as Ari Schick (2024) notes, the word “enhancement” emerged in the mid-1990s and overtook “genetic engineering” entirely in the following decade. Although this study focuses on genetic enhancement of the children in Klara and the Sun, this theme does not dominate the novel’s narrative; instead, the focus is on Klara, an Artificial Friend designed to serve as a companion for upper-class children. Klara is the novel’s narrator, but due to the limitations of her programming and design, her perceptual, interpretive, and descriptive abilities are severely constrained. She perceives the world with a childlike innocence and naivety which results in a narrative voice that is both emotionally captivating and epistemically unreliable. As Klara cannot fully comprehend the events around her, readers must actively interpret and decipher them. This narrative strategy enables Ishiguro to avoid explicit explanations, including those related to ethically and scientifically complex topics such as genetic enhancement. As a result, the enhancement procedure is never directly described and is only referred to as “lifting.” Children who have undergone the procedure are called “lifted,” with the technical term “gene editing” appearing only once in the entire text (Ishiguro 2021, 205). The story revolves around Josie, a teenage girl who has been lifted, and her mother Chrissie, who has opted for the procedure in hopes of securing Josie’s future. Josie’s father, by contrast, is more skeptical of enhancement, and the tension between their views reflects broader societal divisions in attitudes towards genetic modification. Rick, Josie’s close friend who has not been lifted, represents the marginalized perspective of non-enhanced individuals, serving as a counterpoint to the social advantages afforded to the lifted. The lifted children are homeschooled and spend much of their time in domestic settings alongside their Artificial Friends, so they primarily engage with their peers during organized interaction meetings designed to substitute social environments. 49 While humanoids are central to the plot and dominate most interpretations of the novel (e.g., Hosuri 2021; Li and Eddebo 2023; Naqvi 2025), the theme of genetic enhancement remains a significant, though less evident, element. Much of this scholarship has focused on Klara and the Sun as a reflection on humanmachine relationships, artificial consciousness, and the limits of personhood. These issues are highly relevant in the context of rapid growth of artificial intelligence. While Klara and the Sun is often regarded as a cautionary tale in these readings, such interpretations mirror Ishiguro’s own public concerns about the societal consequences of gene editing. In a 2016 interview with The Guardian, he expressed concern that the social transformations brought about by gene editing technologies could undermine core human values (Ishiguro 2016). The present analysis focuses on how the novel’s fragmented portrayal of enhancement resists a fixed ethical stance. By leaving the mechanics and consequences of the lifting procedure largely unspecified, the novel provides a speculative space in which the reader is invited to critically engage with the moral tensions embedded in the characters’ choices and circumstances. To enhance or not to enhance? Ishiguro leaves it unclear exactly when and how the genetic enhancement process takes place, keeping both the timing and mechanics of the procedure implicit and unexplained. It is useful to consider established findings in neuroscience, as summarized by Sandra Ackerman in Discovering the Brain (1992, 88), which indicate that after about 18 months of age, the organization of cell types into distinct brain regions is largely complete. This developmental timeline has led some, such as science writer Ricki Lewis (2021), to suggest that the lifting procedure in Klara and the Sun may take place prior to birth, potentially involving in vitro fertilization (IVF). Lewis (2021) supports this view by drawing on her previous writings about the use of genetic selection and modification of embryos created through IVF. Other interpretations expand the possible window for genetic modification. One such view is put forward by Jen Willows (2021), an editor specializing in genetics, who suggests that lifting could occur during a specific developmental stage following birth, even though she considers that option scientifically inaccurate. The differing interpretations offered by Lewis and Willows point to the ambiguity surrounding the timing and mechanics of the lifting procedure. Coming from outside literary studies, their perspectives draw attention not to any definitive answer, but to the narrative gaps that Ishiguro deliberately leaves open. 50 Parental involvement in the lifting process begins with a question on which their child’s future hinges: to enhance or not to enhance. This question is conditioned by each family’s economic background, as genetic enhancement is depicted as a costly procedure available mainly to upper-class families. Although the specifics of the lifting procedure remain vague, its effects are clear: it increases children’s cognitive capacity, granting them access to higher education and broader life opportunities (Ishiguro 2021, 145–146). What turns the decision into a dilemma is the fact that genetic enhancement in the novel carries serious health risks. Parents who opt for lifting expose their children to the possibility of severe health complications, which may ultimately result in death. If parents choose not to enhance, however, they limit their child’s future socioeconomic opportunities and access to material security, effectively placing them at a structural disadvantage from an early age. Many accounts in the bioethical literature on genetic enhancement via reproductive technology treat the safety of the procedure as a necessary presupposition, without which meaningful bioethical analysis cannot proceed (e.g., Buchanan et al. 2000; DeGrazia 2016). Within this framework, the protection of the child – even one not yet conceived – takes precedence over full parental autonomy, in line with the principle of non-maleficence, which places a moral obligation on parents and medical institutions to avoid causing harm to the child. In Klara and the Sun, however, this normative principle is entirely absent. Ishiguro omits such a commitment to safeguarding by portraying a free-for-all laboratory landscape in which genetically enhanced children are conceived without institutional oversight. In the context of the lifting procedure, the omission emerges in two respects. One concerns the lack of detail about the procedure itself, as Ishiguro never specifies when lifting takes place; this ambiguity invites speculation about whether enhancement occurs before birth, thereby shifting attention to the role of parents and medical institutions (Lewis 2021; Willows 2021). The other omission lies in the absence of any parental or institutional practices aimed at preventing harm to the child. This bioethical vacuum has encouraged critical literary readings that interrogate unregulated biotechnological practices and the erasure of protective measures (Narimani Charan 2023; Süt Güngör 2022). By contrast, human genome editing in present-day biomedical practice is subject to legal and ethical oversight across many countries. As outlined in The CRISPR Journal (Baylis et al. 2020), most national policies either prohibit or strictly regulate heritable genome editing. For example, the Oviedo Convention – adopted by the Council of Europe – bans germline modification unless it is for 51 preventive, diagnostic, or therapeutic purposes. In the United States, federal law does not explicitly ban germline editing, but the Food and Drug Administration is prohibited from reviewing proposals that involve genetically modified embryos, effectively preventing its clinical use (Baylis et al. 2020). These regulations were further reinforced following the international backlash against what is regarded as the first known case of genome editing in humans, conducted by Chinese scientist He Jiankui in 2018. His work, which involved helping HIV-positive individuals with fertility issues, included in vitro fertilization and germline editing without medical necessity or ethical oversight. The case, carried out in defiance of international norms and without transparency, sparked global condemnation and led to renewed calls for a moratorium on human germline genome editing (Greely 2019). Much of the concern surrounding unregulated gene editing arises from the risk that even precisely targeted technologies like CRISPR can cause unintended genetic changes. So-called “unintended genome editing” has been found “in approximately 16 % of the human embryo cells” (Alanis-Lobato et al. 2021). While unregulated scientific research was halted and expected to remain within strict ethical boundaries, fictional literary depictions have been free to explore what lies beyond those limits. Can the lifted children in Klara and the Sun be meaningfully compared to the gene-edited babies born as a result of Jiankui’s experiment? In the latter case, the genome editing was narrowly targeted, with the aim of making the children resistant to HIV by disabling a specific gene, and the procedure was carried out with the explicit intention of achieving that outcome. By contrast, the enhancement process in Ishiguro’s novel is broad and nonspecific. The parents exercise no control over which cognitive traits are modified, nor to what extent. All lifted children appear to receive the same type of broad enhancement, which results in a notable behavioral and psychological uniformity – a pattern explored further in the following section. The comparison highlights a key distinction: while realworld germline editing raises concerns because of its specificity, among other factors, Ishiguro’s depiction of lifting is marked by its opacity and overt standardization. Parental decision-making While Ishiguro emphasizes – or rather reduces – the complex debate surrounding genetic enhancement primarily to the threat of illness or death, it is worth noting that several interpretations of Klara and the Sun also emphasize concerns about inequality, especially the divide between lifted and non-lifted children (e.g., 58 her and begins to communicate his growing concern about Josie, especially the developing gap between them caused by the fact that she is lifted and he is not. Despite being the same age, their lives begin to move in different directions in ways that Rick considers unnatural and forced. Josie’s life is closely managed and constrained, while Rick, from a lower-income household, experiences greater freedom. Regardless of the class difference, the bond between Josie and Rick is shown as strong and sincere – yet it is their naturalness that becomes strained as the status gap between them gradually widens. Rick and his mother represent those excluded from the advantages afforded by lifting. In the novel, genetic enhancement is linked to educational access and future opportunity. As Jinming Chen and Xiaohui Liang observe, “[t]his educational inequality reflects the prevailing meritocratic values, which prioritize merit and mitigate fears of failure, as technology becomes a critical asset for children to compete against one other” (2024, 184). Such a concern reflects broader realworld discussions about gene editing, which, like lifting in the novel, risks being exploited by the wealthy. As Walter Isaacson warns, societies must guard “against allowing it to be part of a free-market bazaar where the rich can buy the best genes and ingrain them into their families” (2021, 389). That dynamic is central to Klara and the Sun, where genetic enhancement becomes standard among the elite; those who are left out are excluded not necessarily by choice, but because of socioeconomic barriers. At the individual level, the deteriorating of Rick and Josie’s relationship can be understood through the feelings of inferiority and distress experienced by the non-enhanced individuals. As bioethics scholar Robert Sparrow (2019, 2) argues, such emotions are likely psychosocial consequences of coexistence between enhanced and non-enhanced groups, particularly when enhancement technologies begin to define social and cognitive superiority. Sparrow suggests that in such contexts, non-enhanced individuals may come to see themselves as outdated or inadequate, with these feelings rooted in experiences of social exclusion. The emotional divide between Josie and Rick becomes apparent as Josie increasingly integrates into the social world of her lifted peers. During one exchange, she questions Rick’s reluctance to pursue the same path: “But you’re smarter than any of the other unlifteds trying to get in. So why won’t you go for it? I’ll tell you. It’s because your mom wants you to stay with her forever. She doesn’t want you going out there and turning into a real adult” (2021, 146). Her tone is sharp and accusatory, suggesting that she has already absorbed the belief that success depends on being lifted and keeping up with the demands of the enhanced community. 59 Moments such as this exemplify what Fukuyama expresses his concerns over: that genetic enhancement may destroy the foundation of moral solidarity, resulting in such a social order in which individuals are no longer viewed as equals, but as inherently ranked (2002, 9–10). Josie’s attitude toward Rick becomes even clearer when she wonders, “[H]ow’s this going to work? Our plan, I mean. How’s it going to work if I’ve got society and you haven’t?” (2021, 146) Her question reveals an important turn in perspective: Josie now considers herself to belong to “society” – the world of the lifted and socially accepted – while placing Rick outside of it. Daniel L. Tobey sees a major risk in the formation of such quiet hierarchies stemming from genetic enhancement – hierarchies that begin with internal beliefs, not with policy or law (2003, 83); Josie does not entirely dismiss Rick, but she begins to view his future as fundamentally incompatible with what she believes society demands. As Sparrow (2019, 10) further warns, if enhancement technologies continue to advance, obsolescence will extend to earlier generations of enhanced individuals whose enhancements become outdated. Such a stratification would fragment the lifted community itself, producing new hierarchies and emotional disconnection between those differently enhanced. Beneath the more prominent theme of socioeconomic inequality strengthened by the lifting procedure, there appears to be a subtler but more personal rupture that is driven by internalized social distinction. Supported by bioethical concerns, the presented analysis suggests that genetic enhancement in Klara and the Sun redraws the limits of belonging in ways that cause emotional alienation and can also weaken even enduring human relationships. The empathy deficit Although the lifted children possess enhanced cognitive abilities, their empathy and emotional intelligence appear underdeveloped. While the lifting procedure is never explicitly linked to this emotional impairment, the novel does repeatedly reveal an obvious gap between the children’s intellectual advancement and their limited empathy. One contributing factor could be their highly controlled upbringing; being homeschooled and mostly interacting with peers in structured group settings offers little possibility for genuine emotional development. Another possible explanation, however, lies in the enhancement process itself. As scientific studies on CRISPR and other gene-editing techniques have shown, attempts to modify complex traits like intelligence can result in unintended changes in multiples traits due to the interdependent nature of genes (Visscher et al. 2025). In fact, the so-called “off-target mutations” are not speculative; psychiatric genomics 60 research further supports this concern, indicating a link between certain cognitive traits and increased risk for mental health conditions (MacCabe et al. 2018). 4 The imbalance between the children’s enhanced cognitive abilities and their limited empathy is particularly evident during one of the interaction meetings – an episode that deserves to be examined in greater detail. As Kosoris (2021) observes, Rick begins to identify with Klara after seeing her subjected to the same cruelty he experiences, yet the nature of their mistreatment varies. Rick is mocked by a group of lifted girls who ask him trivial and irritating questions and laugh at his responses (2021, 82–84). They almost regard him as inferior – one girl even remarks that it “must be weird for him” (2021, 81) to be the only non-lifted present at the meeting – but they still talk to him and express some interest in his life, even if it might not be genuine. Rick is seen as socially inferior, but still human. Klara, however, is not treated in a humane way at all. Although, due to her narration, inner monologue, and behavior, she is often categorized as “innocent” (Unkel 2023), the lifted boys ignore her presence, speak about her instead of to her, and only interact with her when they need her to perform a task. At one point, one of the lifted boys recommends they “throw her over” to “test her coordination” (2021, 86). Klara’s mistreatment shows a kind of exclusion based on her non-human nature, which lacks a specific quality and causes certain individuals to treat her as an inanimate object. What exactly distinguishes humans from animals or machines has been the subject of bioethical and philosophical debate for decades. Because this difference cannot be fully explained by traits like consciousness, sentience, agency, or emotional capacity, Fukuyama refers to the mysterious quality, which gives humans their dignity, as “Factor X” (2002, 149–150). While Rick is looked down on, Klara is due to the missing Factor X denied moral recognition altogether. This interaction reveals a layered system of exclusion – a hierarchy within the hierarchy. Non-lifted individuals are marginalized by their enhanced peers, yet Artificial Friends, who fall entirely outside the category of the human, are denied moral recognition altogether. Technological developments thus produce stratification at both ends of the social spectrum: at the top, they elevate genetically modified individuals above their non-enhanced counterparts; at the bottom, they relegate humanoid beings to a status beyond the ethical boundaries. 4 MacCabe et al. (2018) examine the shared genetic basis between traits associated with high cognitive or creative ability and vulnerability to psychiatric conditions. Their research identifies polygenic overlaps, suggesting that genetic variants which enhance certain intellectual capacities may also increase susceptibility to disorders like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. 61 A paradox emerges when a humanoid, Klara, often shows greater empathy than the humans around her. This theme has gained wide attention among critics, who frequently interpret the novel as a reflection on what it means to be human – a question answered by a non-human being. For instance, Oliver Li and Johan Eddebo describe it as a story that discovers “the humanity of the non-human” (2023), and Anupama Hosuri notes that Klara’s kindness, innocence, and emotional honesty are qualities worth admiring when contrasted with those of the human characters (2021). It is true that Artificial Friends often portray a sense of human solidarity that is especially lacking in the lifted children. However, this idea can be taken further as not all Artificial Friends are the same. Just as the novel distinguishes between lifted and non-lifted children, it likewise establishes a hierarchy among humanoids. Ishiguro introduces two generations: the older B2 models, like Klara, and the newer B3 variants. While B3s come with technical upgrades, such as improved movement and a limited sense of smell, they are said to be less emotionally aware. Even though the store manager admits that the new B3s are “a little headstrong” (2021, 46), she dismisses this concern to boost sales; in the end, however, she acknowledges that parents “never really took to them” (2021, 339) despite their improvements. This points to a deeper issue: the more technically advanced the Artificial Friends become, the less emotionally suitable they are for their role as companions. The B3s begin to exhibit traits such as apathy, detachment, and even superiority, which contradict their main purpose of emotional support. Klara notices such behavior in the store, where B3s subtly mock the older models and move away from them. They exchange “sly looks and signals” (2021, 41), revealing a new level of self-awareness. Klara expresses her concern: “The new B3s, it was said, had all sorts of improvements. But how could they be good AFs for their children if their minds could invent ideas like these?” (2021, 41), questioning the notion that technological progress always leads improvement. This key point expands the discussion of the relationship between humans and non-humans in the novel by illustrating how the increasing sophistication of artificial beings may disrupt the very qualities – such as empathy and loyalty – that justify humanoids’ social roles. The Artificial Friends in Klara and the Sun more than contrast human flaws – they also highlight and exaggerate them, raising issues about moral development. In particular, the behavior of non-human characters invites a broader bioethical reflection: what does their conduct reveal about the moral progress of humans? Rather than simply mirroring their creators, the humanoids expose the limits of enhancement when it is focused solely on 62 intelligence or ability, and not on ethics or empathy. To maintain focus on the perspective of the lifted children, it is necessary to set aside questions of robotic autonomy, even though they remain relevant within the field of robot ethics. 5 Ishiguro implies that enhancement – whether limited or extensive – does not guarantee moral growth. The lifted children have enhanced cognitive abilities but show little empathy or emotional maturity. A similar issue arises with the new B3 Artificial Friends. Despite being technically more advanced than the older B2 models, they exhibit concerning traits like arrogance; on the other hand, Klara, a B2 model, consistently shows kindness, loyalty, and emotional sensitivity. Instead of moral growth, it appears that enhancement leads to moral regression. Ishiguro’s portrayal suggests a bio-conservative viewpoint, as represented by figures such as Sandel (2007) and Habermas (2003), both of whom question the assumption that technological or genetic advancement automatically leads to ethical progress. The idea of moral enhancement offers a useful lens through which to examine emotional and ethical deficiencies in the novel. Klara and the Sun portrays conditions that reflect the urgent need for what bioethicists such as Ingmar Persson and Julian Savulescu consider essential: moral enhancement (2012, 121). According to them, the problem is not a lack of capacity for moral growth, but rather the influence of pride, resistance to change, and unsupportive social environments. As technology continues to advance, bringing with it risks such as weapons of mass destruction (Persson and Savulescu 2012) and global challenges like climate change and environmental degradation (Lavazza and Reichlin 2019), the need for corresponding moral progress grows more pressing. They argue that intelligence alone is insufficient to meet the complex ethical challenges posed by modern society. Moral development does not necessarily require invasive biotechnological intervention; rather, it can be achieved by creating conditions that encourage prosocial behavior. By designing tasks and social settings that promote altruism and reduce unfairness, moral tendencies can be strengthened over time. The emphasis on the significance of environment highlights that the troubling behaviors of the lifted children stem from the isolating conditions in which they are raised. It is not necessarily the lifting procedure itself that interferes with moral development of the enhanced individuals, but rather the social circumstances that accompany it – being raised in isolation, homeschooled, and rarely exposed to emotional diversity. To suggest that the emotional underdevelopment of the lifted children is caused 5 For instance, Klara and the Sun invites engagement with the ongoing debates about whether robots should be given more autonomy, even if it results in less predictable or socially “desirable” behavior. 63 by the enhancement procedure would be reductive. A more comprehensive interpretation supported by Persson and Savulescu’s work on moral enhancement acknowledges that their empathy deficit is a consequence of the environment shaped by their lifted status. The lifting procedure offers a social advantage, but it also reinforces exclusion and limits exposure to diverse moral experiences. Conclusion Kazuo Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun (2021) does not place genetic engineering technologies at the center of its narrative in the way science fiction often does. It pushes the theme of enhancement process to the margins where it is left uncertain and largely unexplained. Yet it is precisely this peripheral positioning, and the deliberate omission of both the biotechnological specifics and the ethical oversight surrounding enhancement, that enables a broader interpretive range. The author’s euphemistic use of the term “lifting” reflects the kind of conceptual distancing that is often found in real-world discourse surrounding controversial biotechnologies. By leaving the lifting procedure inaccessible, Ishiguro creates space to explore the question of genetic enhancement not just along the horizontal axis between bio-conservative and transhumanist notions, but also vertically, probing its social, philosophical, and psychological implications. This study has argued that Ishiguro presents a world in which enhancement is neither idealized nor condemned but situated within a network of emotional consequences and ethical ambiguities. Through the analysis of perspectives of lifted and non-lifted children, their parents, and the Artificial Friends who silently witness far-reaching human decisions, the study aimed to bring underexamined dimensions of the novel – namely, the bioethical tension between parental aspiration and a child’s autonomy, the emotional cost of enhancement, and the erosion of empathy – into closer focus. The underrepresented motif of lifting in the narrative reflects how biotechnological change frequently enters society – not as a clearly articulated ethical choice, but as a quiet inevitability masked by the rhetoric of progress. From the perspective of parents, the novel presents lifting as a morally complicated decision marked by emotional weight and possible long-term consequences. Their dilemmas are enriched by the contrasting ideas of Michael J. Sandel’s critique of parental control and Julian Savulescu’s principle of procreative beneficence. The viewpoint of non-lifted individuals, exemplified by the character of Rick, reveals how enhancement technologies create not only socio-economic inequality but also emotional alienation, as they are capable of widening interpersonal divides and distancing even close relationships. This reflects Fukuyama’s 64 and Daniel L. Tobey’s concerns that genetic stratification weakens shared recognition and undermines the foundations of emotional connection. Finally, through the perspective of lifted children coupled with Artificial Friends, the novel exposes a growing deficit of empathy. Their cognitive superiority is not matched by emotional development, mainly due to the isolating social environments that accompany the lifting procedure. As Ingmar Persson and Julian Savulescu warn, without corresponding moral development, genetic enhancement risks resulting not in progress but in a subtle moral regression. What ultimately allows for a broader interpretation of Klara and the Sun is the vagueness surrounding genetic enhancement in the novel, a theme that is already speculative in itself. Kazuo Ishiguro avoids describing any bioethical regulation within the fictional world, presenting the enhancement process as controlled only by financial means. The lack of specificity encourages interpretation to develop not only through technical or legal questions of genetic modification but also, as in the case of Klara and the Sun, through the characters themselves – their views, behavior, and relationships. Acknowledgement The chapter was created at the Institute of World Literature, Slovak Academy of Sciences in Bratislava, as part of VEGA project No. 2/0163/22. References Ackerman, Sandra. 1992. Discovering the Brain. Washington: The National Academies Press. DOI: https://doi.org/10.17226/1785. Agar, Nicholas. 2004. Liberal Eugenics: In Defence of Human Enhancement. 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DOI: https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-8519.00251. 74 tasks, and some seek to forge a closer bond with Will, with only Emma choosing not to pursue success at any cost. They possess factuality, experience sensory and emotional events, and observe, both in real time and through recordings, the experiences, behaviours, and decisions of individuals in the real world (specifically, those who have already been born). They examine these real-life conflicts and express their own opinions and attitudes. Within this framework of existence, souls are confronted with illusion and an uncertain, unstable sense of identity. During their first conversation with Will, they learn their names, which they subsequently start to identify with. At this early stage, Emma shows an extraordinary desire to assert her free will: she resists accepting an imposed name but, lacking an alternative, ultimately decides to adopt it. While the soul’s avatar persists after birth, it is “the same being”; nonetheless, it is reborn as an infant in a random body, once again facing the uncertainties of the environment and of experience. Following birth, the identity formed in the realm of pre-existence gradually fades from memory. Could it be that this identity was simply an illusion? Even if existence persists, could the avatar’s identity also be an illusion? From the very beginning, the candidates are aware that their purpose is to vanish, reminiscent of Heidegger’s concept of the “insurmountable possibility of being”, which encompasses death as the ultimate conclusion and closure of existence (2008, 292–294). “Being-towards-death” serves as the foundation of their existence as souls temporarily embodied in human form, with each individual’s duration varying (for instance, a soul selected for rebirth experiences a pre-existence period of nine days, whereas other souls may disappear randomly during the selection process). In Nine Days, Oda explores themes of fear and existential anxiety related to death. The candidates vying for a chance at existence encounter a twofold fear: firstly, the fear of failure and exclusion from the contest of extending life, and secondly, the fear of their own finitude. The selection process transforms into a journey of discovering the meaning of existence only for Emma, who, due to her uniqueness, exists beyond the burden of these oppressive emotions. Each soul’s avatar experiences their “end” uniquely, as an intimate possibility that cannot be assumed or substituted by another. Each individual confronts their finitude in their own way. Some do this through denial and a rejection of the game’s rules; after elimination, one discontented candidate wanders alone across the desert, ultimately unable to escape their fate and fading from existence (consumed by nothingness). Another confronts their end with ignorance and indifference; this is the case with the hedonist and trifler, who disappears with a beer bottle in hand. Yet 75 another individual does so through fear, as happens with the artistically gifted, hypersensitive young man. And another individual possesses a hope that they cling on to until the very end, such as the woman yearning for a romantic connection with Will. And then there is Emma, who approaches her end through genuine peace, balance, and even joy, exuding serenity. In the instances of the first two avatars, “the return of life” exhibited defiance and unconsciousness, while Will demonstrated a lack of compassion, respect, and any sense of solidarity among human beings. For the rejected candidates who, to varying extents, accepted the principles of the interview process, Will not only facilitated but meticulously orchestrated the event, or ritual, of conclusion, that is, of their dying and death. For the young couple in love, he designed theatrical sets enhanced by multimedia technology, employing the same approach in each instance. One might refer to an imitation of a culturally constructed representation of death, an audiovisual allegory of dying and mortality, or the essence of a full funeral ceremony. In the concluding phase of the unsuccessful interview, the avatar documents a significant event or experience – one that had been personally experienced by an individual and conveyed through the monitor – that was formative for them. This experience, serving as a final wish, is subsequently reenacted in a simulated theatrical and multimedia reality, orchestrated by Will and Kyo, while Emma, unbeknownst to Will, watches voyeuristically. At the time of “disappearance” and its conclusion, Will finds himself alone with the avatar of the soul. In addition to serving as the organizer of the interviews, Will takes on a distinctive role as a guide through a funeral rite for the young artist who has lost the courage and strength to continue living and whose final wish is to spend time on a beach – to feel the warm sand, the ocean waves, the sea breeze, and the bright sunlight. In this context, Will embodies, in a sense, Levinas’s “Second” before the “First” (Walczak 2023, 15) and resembles Charon, accompanying the soul to the other shore and into another realm. In the final shot, the two sit side by side on a bench, mere shadows against a sunlit horizon, until, abruptly and without narrative emphasis, one of the shadows disappears – as if a lightbulb has been suddenly turned off. In the context of viewing existence as a chance to mould one’s reality and fulfil the purposes of one’s being, the artistically gifted man who demonstrated no desire to shape his own life finds that the ritual performed for him at the end of his life – essentially a form of voluntary euthanasia – serves as a representation of death as a (non-corporeal) ontological category akin to Levinas’s concept of the 76 “Mystery”. Levinas suggests that the unknown aspect of death, which does not initially appear as nothingness but instead resembles the experience of the impossibility of nothingness, does not imply that death is a domain from which no one has returned. Instead, it implies that death cannot occur as long as the subject is connected to something that does not originate from themselves. To put it differently, the subject exists in relation to the mystery (1999, 69). In the second scenario, involving the woman whose ultimate wish was to ride a bicycle through the streets and along a picturesque park avenue, complications could have arisen. She could not let go of the hope of changing her fate, and Oda decided against portraying her “disappearance”. This decision was certainly not a result of a lack of creative vision, but rather a deliberate strategy to leave the story open-ended. We can therefore speculate whether her disappearance was, in some way, coerced, or whether further persuasion had been required. In Emma’s case, Will does not organize a funeral rite, because he is unable to honour her final wish. It seems that Emma is destined to follow the same path as the first candidate, who defied the rules of the game and ventured into oblivion without assistance. At the same time, Will discovers a message left by Emma: “Cherish every moment of life,” accompanied by her diary entries etched on various items, including “A Day at the Beach”, “Kyo’s Laughter”, “Tea with Kyo,” and others. In line with the structure of a hypertextual node, Will pieces together these non-subordinated elements of Emma’s behaviour – her questions, observations, and indifference to failure during the interviews, and the potential reasoning behind her final wish, which he had previously dismissed. Although Emma entered the realm of preexistence through no choice of her own, she actively shapes her existence within it, exercising her own will apart from the ontological constraints of the world around her, be it material or spiritual. During the interviews, Emma concentrated on empathetically grasping Will’s situation; at that time, he was facing deep disappointment both in his role as a selector – having made a regrettable decision in the previous interview that resulted in the soul he had chosen committing suicide – and as a former living person who had likely also ended his own life prematurely. Emma examined archival recordings from Will’s life and revealed his emotional depth and its consequences: sensitivity, feelings of loneliness, abandonment, helplessness against the world’s evils, and the impact of a self-destructive life strategy that hindered his ability to shape his life in a way that would fulfil the “something” that defined his purpose for living. Will had aspired to be an actor, a dream he never realized; his life felt incomplete, which may have contributed to 77 his decision to take his own life. Witnessing Will in the role of an actor was probably her last unfulfilled desire. Emma’s legacy, captured in her diary entries, led Will to a profound realization, allowing him to understand the importance of her final wish and resolve to fulfil it just before her disappearance. In the film’s concluding scenes, Will, much like a theatrical deus ex machina, experiences a profound transformation and splendidly recites Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself to Emma. Through his performance, he becomes an outstanding actor and, in doing so, experiences a moment of genuine life. For Emma, the essence of her time in the realm of pre-existence lay in recognizing her own identity on her own terms, characterized by kindness, a genuine interest in others, and an openness that was unaffected by the judgements of Will as the selector. During Will’s performance, both come to fully grasp the significance of their existence through their face-to-face interaction. When faced with the limitations of life, they uncover their true selves, which, as Heidegger suggests, involves not just existing but also living in harmony with one’s essence (2008, 59). The authentic experience of being serves as a moment of catharsis within the film’s strategic context. In the final shot, both characters vanish at the same time. The proposed film strategy facilitates catharsis and fosters a subjective sense of peace, alleviates uncertainty, and enriches one’s existence with meaning, while also paving the way to mitigating the fear of mortality. It is probable that this very “aura” is what authors Nicole Piemonte and Shawn Abreu aim to convey to patients in palliative care, their loved ones, and caregivers, even if this only subtly surfaces within the narrative of Death and Dying (2021). It arises specifically because it is not assumed, but instead serves to express the ideal form of connection and compassion that we, as humans, should offer to those who are dying. The authors collaboratively reframe this idea as part of their critique of the original concept of palliative care, which I will discuss in the second part of this article. Death too late In the traditional discourse on euthanasia, two primary situations and corresponding solutions are emphasized: Allowing physicians to facilitate the death of adult patients suffering from “unbearable suffering” due to a “serious and incurable illness”. A physician may either prescribe a lethal dose of medication for the patient to self-administer – known as medical assistance in dying, voluntary assisted death, or physician-assisted suicide – or directly administer a lethal injection to the patient, which is referred to as voluntary euthanasia (Singer 2021). 78 This definition of “death on demand” is also found in the Encyclopedia of Bioethics (Battin 2004) and provides a normative framework for bioethical and clinical studies. Numerous studies addressing the issue of “helping people die” also include alternative approaches, such as palliative care and end-of-life planning (Kahana et al. 2004). Building on this line of reasoning, a utilitarian perspective on euthanasia has emerged not only in academic circles but also when the “individual well-being of the patient” and “individual decision-making” come into conflict with the interests of society and the immediate family of the patient (including the concerns and capabilities of relatives and health insurance providers) (Hardwig 1996). Within this framework, euthanasia is considered morally justifiable when death does not occur at the appropriate time (i.e. “too late”) for the benefit of society, particularly when it comes to resource allocation and the need to alleviate the strain on familial relationships caused by the intense demands of caregiving and the financial burden associated with supporting a dying family member or someone suffering from a degenerative illness. In this context, there has been a rising trend to expand both the criteria and motivations for euthanasia, encompassing more controversial cases, such as the recent legal amendments in Canada that have extended eligibility to individuals with mental illnesses, among others. A recent emphatic statement from a healthcare provider representative further emphasizes the urgent need to commence a comprehensive discussion on the political, social, commercial, and bioethical aspects of euthanasia. Highlighting the demographic realities of an ageing Western population, he presents euthanasia – rebranded as “giving life back” – as a utilitarian approach to conserving future resources and caregiving capacities. In this part of the article, I address the issue of euthanasia in its primary sense within the context of Pakuła’s literary work Jak nie zabiłem swojego ojca i jak bardzo tego ałuj (How I Didn’t Kill My Father and How Much I Regret It, 2021). Pakuła advocates for the legalization of euthanasia as a means of alleviating suffering: “I believe his suffering will not have been in vain if I write about it in a book (not about my father, but about his suffering) and the book initiates a discussion about the legalization of euthanasia. It has to happen: discussion and LEGALIZATION” (217). The work is politically engaged and mainly focused on influencing political decisions (Dunin 2024), aiming to raise public discourse to a level that garners political support. Currently, euthanasia is not included in the platform of any political party, even though public opinion polls in Poland – where it is criminalized 79 with penalties ranging from three months to five years for assisting or encouraging such acts – indicate that society is generally in favour of such measures. This is especially significant considering that since Poland’s political transformation in 1989, the Catholic Church has significantly influenced and controlled ethical debates and decisions on crucial societal issues, including abortion, in vitro fertilization, and equal rights for minorities and LGBTQ individuals. Pakuła confronts and critiques this influence with a sense of emotional urgency: I hate you; you church idiots! How hard I try not to hate you today, and how miserably I fail! Fucking bishops. It’s them, it’s their fault […] Sacred lunatics, I wish all of you who scream against euthanasia would spend months lying down, howling in pain, and begging for death! (Pakuła 2021, 140) Since the late 1980s, discussions regarding the legalization of euthanasia in Poland often resurface whenever the media draws attention to a specific case. In 2008, the film Right to Die? (2007) was released in the United States. This work by Canadian filmmaker John Zaritsky ignited discussions, particularly within Western debates (Morris and Plunkett 2008), and ultimately provoked a response from the Polish bioethics’ community (e.g. from Hołówka and Terlikowski). While insights from academic bioethics sometimes enrich the ongoing debate in Poland, they seem to exert little influence in sparking or invigorating the discussion (Schick 2016). Nonetheless, examining the context, significance, and current status of bioethical discussions in Poland would be advantageous to the current discussion. Since 1988 the Public Opinion Research Center (Centrum Badań Opinii Społecznej) has consistently analysed the issue of “death on demand”. Data from 2009 reveal that nearly half (48 percent) of respondents felt that doctors should honour the wishes of individuals in suffering who seek assistance in dying, while 39 percent opposed this view and 13 percent were undecided. Support for the legalization of “death on demand” was even more robust, with 61 percent endorsing it for the same reasons. There was a significant decrease in both the percentage of those firmly opposed and those who were undecided. Rafał Boguszewski asserts that this “may indicate that Poles today, for various reasons, are more frequently reflecting on ethical issues than in the past and are adopting more clearly defined positions on them” (2009, 4). However, the data also indicate that the number of respondents expressing agreement significantly declined when the question was rephrased from “death on demand” to “euthanasia”, even among those who initially supported the concept of death on demand (2009, 6). Public opinion clearly 80 demonstrates that the term “euthanasia” carries a negative connotation, partly shaped by the historical memory of Nazi death camps in Poland. It may also trigger different associations than those linked to the idea of death sought by a terminally ill individual. Furthermore, the survey revealed that attitudes toward euthanasia were unaffected by perceptions of the quality and importance of palliative care. It also indicated that there were differences based on gender and generation: women tended to be less supportive of euthanasia, whereas younger men showed a greater approval compared to older men (Ibid.). This final distinction can be partially likened to the critical reception of Pakuła’s book. Younger literary critics (Mrozek 2023; Jakubiec 2024) highlight the almost journalistic depiction of personal details, including physical decline, loss of vitality, and the varying intensity of pain endured during Pakuła’s father’s final months. The anguished cries of a dying man, pleading for a swift death – the same mercy he had granted his dog but which he was denied himself – prompted critics to highlight the significance of individual rights in end-of-life decisionmaking. They perceived the absence of legalized euthanasia in Poland as an unjust limitation on the personal freedom of choice. Their commitment to the principles of justice and freedom of choice is reflected in How I Didn’t Kill My Father and How Much I Regret It and its theatrical adaptation, which serves as a protest advocating for the legalization of euthanasia and a plea against its criminalization. A member of the older generation provides a contrasting viewpoint in their criticism, posing a direct ethical dilemma to Pakuła: Why didn’t you kill your father when he asked you to, when you seem convinced that it was the right thing to do? Because the law forbids it? Because you didn’t have the courage to make the decision and bear the consequences, be they psychological or moral? Why did you want someone else to become a murderer in your place? (Grabowski, 2023) A possible response is offered by John Hardwig (1996) in his reflection on the appropriate time to die. He believes it is ethically inappropriate to direct a request for euthanasia to a loved one, as it can be emotionally devastating for them; they may also lack the knowledge to fulfil the request adequately or without complications. In the philosopher’s view, this request should be addressed to a physician who prioritizes the individual’s best interests, has the necessary professional expertise, and is less vulnerable to any possible malicious intentions from family members. 81 How I Didn’t Kill My Father and How Much I Regret It was written as an expression of frustration in response to Pakuła’s father’s ethically demanding expectations and his own experiences of suffering. It encountered criticism for its intellectually shallow (and even political) urgency and its paternalism (Grabowski 2023). The work gains credibility not only by depicting individuals who have faced similar experiences and frustrations (“everything depends on experience”; Pakuła 2021, 145), especially concerning the concept of a “good death” of a loved one – often elusive in the realm of hospital care – but also through its proactive involvement in artistic and social initiatives that embody the slogan “Trust me, I’m an artist,” which acts as a guiding principle for projects aimed at encouraging public dialogue (Dumitriu and Farsides 2017). I am referencing not only the theatrical adaptation of the prose but also to the interviews with Pakuła from literary festivals available on YouTube, as well as post-performance discussions, including the debate on “good death”, which features hospice advocate Anija Franczak (Pawłowski 2023). The focus on ethically ambiguous end-of-life decisions, along with the text’s urgent and provocative tone, defines its social relevance and sets Pakuła’s work apart from other writings that similarly explore personal experiences of death and dying (Tuszyńska 2007). How I Didn’t Kill My Father and How Much I Regret It was written in response to the fragility of human life and the failure of scientific authority – specifically the doctor’s ultimately erroneous prediction of a painless death for Pakuła’s father: “Dad is sleeping a lot now, the doctor says this is how it goes, that he’s dying, that one day he just won’t wake up. I think that’s not so bad. I think it’s a good death. Euthanasia” (2021, 85). However, in reality, the medical prognosis proves to be incorrect, and death does not occur as anticipated. Consequently, the central theme of the book revolves around pain and suffering (“the book is not about my father, but about pain”; Pakuła 2021, 32). The father’s anguish and the son’s torment over his inability to kill – which he holds himself accountable for – leads him to justify his actions and ultimately inspires him to write the book; pain serves as a rationale for euthanasia. However, if the son, despite his strong connection with his father, does not possess the psychological strength to carry out an act of mercy killing (“and in movies it’s so easy!”; 155), then perhaps palliative care represents a less problematic alternative for alleviating suffering. This is precisely why I approach the topic of pain through the lenses of literary theory and bioethics. Such a framework allows me to argue that Pakuła need not regret not having killed his father. 82 For the purposes of this article, I assert that renowned literary works such as War and Peace and The Death of Ivan Ilyich contribute to cultural reflections on death just as significantly as the frequently overlooked discipline of anaesthesiology (Bourke 2014) and how the advancement of pain-relieving medications shape the culture of medicine. I primarily focus on the work of palliative care experts Nicole Piemonte and Shawn Abreu, Death and Dying (2021); literary scholar Sebastian Porzuczek’s Mapowanie bólu. Lektura – Spojrzenie – Afekt (Mapping Pain: Reading, Perspective, Affect) (2020); and bioethicist Nina Streeck’s “Death Without Distress? The Taboo of Suffering in Palliative Care” (2019). I hope this approach will prove useful, even though references to medical contexts in literary scholarship tend to be only marginal, with the same often being true in reverse. Until recently, the interpretation and analysis of literary works were characterized by the prioritization of the mind over the body, resulting in a pronounced dichotomy between physical and psychological pain. In addition, within the literary tradition, pain has frequently been seen as transcending the boundaries of language (the non-referentiality of pain), being conveyed through screams that resist any linguistic expression capable of being shared through words. This approach significantly stigmatized pain. Porzuczek (2020) notes that scholars influenced by Ludwig Wittgenstein’s linguistic insights have experienced a significant shift from focusing on the semiotic aspects of pain to its cultural dimensions; Wittgenstein argued that the concept of pain was learned alongside language itself (2000, 169). This broader view of pain as a reflective experience (similar to the concept of “total pain”) was introduced by David B. Morris, who contended that pain cannot simply be seen as a biological response (impulse) but must be understood as an intensity felt and interpreted within particular socio-historical contexts (1999, 39). Joanna Bourke (2014) further explores this concept, asserting that pain undergoes negotiation processes in which personal and intimate experiences intersect with wider social expectations (see Porzuczek 2020, 165). Similar to these shifts, there have been changes in the understanding of pain within medical culture and in the negotiation of its meanings, especially regarding terminal illnesses. The perception of pain has become more complex in relation to patients’ terminal conditions, transcending the simple distinction between physical and psychological pain. The concept of “total pain” was introduced in the 1960s by Cicely Saunders, who developed the idea of palliative medicine in response to the neglect of terminally ill patients in hospitals. She contrasted palliative care with routine hospital care, which did not offer comprehensive relief from 83 the “physical, biological, psychological, and social” aspects of pain. This concept serves as the foundation for the care evident in Pakuła’s prose, where he references a website: The Department of Palliative Medicine was established in 2000 and cares for patients in advanced stages of cancer. In clinical practice, it provides comprehensive care for patients who cannot undergo causal treatment. Its goal is to alleviate distressing symptoms, meet the psychosocial and spiritual needs of patients, and support families during the illness and after the death of a loved one. Palliative care is a multidisciplinary activity (2021, 103). A snippet of communication with healthcare providers reveals that, after fifty years of promotion, implementation, and dissemination, the concept of “total pain” has similarly succumbed to routine. As a result, this has formalized the relationship between patient and caregiver, leading to a gradual decline in qualities such as kindness, patience, and compassion (Streeck 2020). – Is there psychological care here? – Well... There was a psychologist, I don’t remember exactly, but I think so... – You think? – Well, you know, we can’t get through to the patient. He’s talking nonsense, rambling incoherently... – Well, because he’s pumped full of all sorts of...! – Yes, but the psychologist said he tried but couldn’t get through to him. The patient doesn’t speak logically. He just babbles (Pakuła 2021, 109). This discussion from the prose underscores various communication practices (Menchik and Giaquinta 2024) and the challenges associated with care for terminally ill patients. When informing the patient (Comer 2019) about their condition and prognosis, informed consent implies that, in situations of anticipated “unbearable pain”, the patient should be made aware of the potential for pain relief through euthanasia, even in jurisdictions where it is not allowed; there is a need to ensure that the patient comprehends their circumstances, and it is important that communication is both compassionate and honest about the dying process. As noted by Piemonte and Abreu (2021, 183), doctors have a duty to engage in these challenging conversations. The routinization of hospital care in the United States is highlighted by Piemonte and Abreu (2021), while Streeck (2020) addresses similar issues in pallia- 90 Phillips, David P. 1974. “The Influence of Suggestion on Suicide: Substantive and Theoretical Implications of the Werther Effect.” American Sociological Review 39, 3: 340–354. DOI: https://doi.org/10.2307/2094294. Piemonte, Nicole, and Shawn Abreu. 2021. 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Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN. 91 Two Cases of Suicide in Roman Literature and the Issue of Assisted Death in Bioethics Peter Fraňo Abstract: The reflection on the issue of suicide is a theme of many works of world literature. And it is no different in the case of Greek and Latin literary sources. In particular, the treatises from the Late Republic and the Early Empire are of particular importance, since it is in these literary texts that we have the highest number of descriptions of suicidal action statistically documented in the whole of ancient literature. From the many examples of this life-ending choice, we will analyse in the text the description of the final years of the life of Titus Pomponius Atticus, whose biography has been preserved for us in the work De viris illustribus by the Roman biographer Cornelius Nepos (Nep. Att. 21.1-22.4). The second ancient source would be Seneca’s Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium, which contains the story of the death of an unknown young man, Tullius Marcellinus (Sen. Ep. 77.5-9). In contrast to many other sources from this period, these literary excerpts deal with the subject of suicide in some detail, and for the main actors in the plot, the primary reason for its occurrence is ongoing pain or suffering (inpatientia), and thus in their process they are perhaps most reminiscent of contemporary bioethical debates regarding the issue of euthanasia. Keywords: Suicide. Euthanasia. Starvation. Titus Pomponius Atticus. Tullius Marcellinus. Introduction Reflections on the issue of suicide is an element of many works of world literature from ancient times up to the present. Several characters who decided to end their lives in this way have at the same time become permanently inscribed in the history of world literature, and the motives for their acts are the subject of ongoing considerations by literary scholars. It suffices to recall the fates of the main protagonists of works such as The Sorrows of Young Werther, Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary: Provincial Manners. Along with literary and academic research, however, the issue of suicide in literature may also be of interest to other scholarly disciplines (e.g., psychology, sociology, philosophy), which can make use of the often-detailed narrative descriptions of the psychological state of characters or the social circumstances that accompany acts of suicide in their own professional research. One such discipline is bioethics, which examines, for example, the issue of the ethical justification of carrying out assisted suicide or euthanasia. Therefore, in the text presented herein, we will focus on a comparative analysis of three selected bioethical issues that are closely associated with the topic of assisted 92 death with two more detailed descriptions of suicide that are part of Roman literature. The first area of interest will be the question of the nature of illness and its manifestations, which ultimately lead the actors of literary works to the decision to commit suicide. The second issue is the formulation of the intention to die voluntarily itself, and the circumstances that accompany it. Finally, the third question is the issue of the perpetrator of this act and persons who may take part in it to a greater or lesser extent. Before we begin to reflect on these issues, let us first introduce some specific features of suicide in Greek and Roman literature. Suicide in the literature of classical antiquity We come across artistic depictions of suicide rather often in antiquity and in all literary genres of the period. Anton J. L. van Hooff, who has examined this topic in detail, documented a total of 9639 individual cases of suicide in Greek and Latin literary texts (van Hooff 1990, 233). He states that most cases come from the early Empire period, which we can label as the golden era of committing suicide. It is clear, however, that suicide also occurred in literature to a greater or lesser extent across individual historical epochs, as the following table clearly shows: 7 Periods Cases Countable Individuals a. Mythical (–750 BC) 125 (0) 130 (0) b. Archaic (750–500 BC) 38 (18) 44 (20) c. Classical (500–336 BC) 78 (54) 74 (50) d. Hellenistic (336–27 BC) 105 (59) 95 (50) e. Early Rome (–500 BC) 13 (4) 14 (2) f. Early Republic (500–200 BC) 39 (32) 74 (69) g. Late Republic (200–27 BC) 164 (133) 2433 (1408) h. Early Empire (27 BC–192 AD) 255 (202) 6624 (6575) i. Late Empire (from 192 AD) 51 (41) 71 (61) If we then look at the phenomenon of suicide from a sociological perspective and accept the hypothesis that the increase in suicides occurs mainly in periods of spiritual crises full of uncertainties – such as occurred in the more recent past, particularly during the Reformation, the Enlightenment and the fin de siècle at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries – then the early Empire would represent a similar turning point in the psychological tension of man in relation to society 7 Taken and adapted from (van Hooff 1990, 234). The total number of cases is lower than the abovementioned number of 9639, because in some cases – for example, in fictional cases – it is not possible to determine the exact period when the suicide was committed (van Hooff 1990, 282n9). 93 in antiquity (see Masaryk 1881; Durkheim 1897). The reasons for such a large increase in the number of suicides in this era may vary. There may have been a change in the political regime, which is characterised by the concentration of power in the hands of an individual with absolute power (the emperor), and the private position of a person begins to depend on him and his closest relatives. Additionally, during the early Empire Roman society witnessed many socio-cultural changes (e.g., the emergence and spread of new religious movements, the expansion of the empire’s territory, changes in the social structure of society), which altered the usual ways of orienting people in the world and could have led to increasing feelings of insecurity. At the same time, Stoic philosophy, which took a positive position in regard to suicide and could therefore have become an ideological basis for justifying such behaviour, came to the fore during this period (Rist 1969, 233–255). Gregor Maurach notes that Roman philosophy entered its third epoch of development during the early Empire and underwent changes in the area of thematic focus. It ceased being concerned primarily with the reflection of human existence in general and focused its attention instead on the specific person who lives here and now in this world: “stilisierte Ich verkörpert Philosophie als Lebensgestaltung” (“The stylised self-embodies philosophy as a way of life”; Maurach 2006, 179). We could take this statement as the programmatic slogan of the period’s Stoicism, which became the dominant intellectual current in the early Empire. The Stoics believed that constantly turning to oneself helps a person to become independent of external factors. For Seneca, as an example, the inner world represents the only real possession that we have at our disposal; therefore, we should continually try to cultivate it. What’s more, a person’s interior is the only real refuge from all negative external factors (property, fame, political instability, etc.) (Williams 2015, 145–147). And if a situation ever arises in life in which I myself come into conflict with something foreign and impersonal, and these circumstances threaten to enslave me, then one of the last options for maintaining control over myself is to make a rational decision about voluntary death. 8 Suicide thus became one of the symbols of firm philosophical conviction in Stoicism. 9 Greek and Roman literary texts depicting suicidal acts have different levels of informative value. In the majority of them we come across only a simple 8 Regarding the issue of suicide in Seneca’s thought (see Englert 1990; Evenepoel 2004; Russell 1973; Rist 1969, 246–251). 9 In Roman literature, Cato the Younger (see Plut. Cat. Mi. 67.1–70.6; Sen. Ep. 24.6–8) and Seneca (Tac. Ann. 15.60–65) above all became such symbols. 94 description, which does not allow us to reflect on the deeper context of this act and uncover the real reasons, motives or circumstances, or even the actual carrying out of such a departure from the world. Anton J. L. van Hooff distinguishes eleven main reasons why people in antiquity decided to commit suicide: “despair” (desperata salus), “forced into a free death” (necessitas), “madness” (furor), “grief” (dolor), “curse” (exsecratio), “shame” (pudor), “guilt” (mala conscientia), “old and full of years” (taedium vitae), “suffering” (impatientia), “devotio and fides” (devotio) and “showing off” (iactatio) (van Hooff 1990, 85–130). For our topic, the ninth reason is essential – impatientia. With illnesses associated with pain, the quality of life can be reduced such that suicide seems to be a better way out than continuing to live in pain or suffering. It is these suicides that are perhaps most reminiscent of the current bioethical discussions on the issue of assisted death or euthanasia. From the many potential cases of such a choice to end life, we will focus in more detail here on an analysis of the description of the final period of the life of Titus Pomponius Atticus (110–32 BC), a representative of Epicureanism and a very close friend of Cicero, whose biography has been preserved in the work On Famous Men (De viris illustribus) by the Roman biographer Cornelius Nepos (Nep. Att. 21.1–22.4). The practical course of suicide we have more broadly reflected by Seneca in his work Moral Letters to Lucilium (Ad Lucilium epistulae morales) on the example of the fate of the young Tullius Marcellinus. In Letter 29 Marcellinus appears as a not quite successful student of Seneca, who takes neither his philosophical education nor his teacher’s advice seriously and instead makes fun of everything. Nevertheless, Seneca does not give up hope that he could one day grow into a person devoted to Stoic philosophy if he can admit his own mistakes and learn to work with them (Sen. Ep. 29.1–9). In Letter 77 we read of a character with the same name, so we cannot determine whether it is the same person or not, but the tone of this letter is more serious. Marcellinus is suddenly struck by an unexpected illness, which results in his decision to commit suicide (Sen. Ep. 77.5–9). These two selected cases help us to at least broadly ruminate on the issue of suicide in Roman literature and compare it with some aspects of the contemporary bioethical discussion regarding assisted suicide and euthanasia. Euthanasia and assisted suicide: Terminological definition in antiquity and today The English word euthanasia comes from the Greek noun εὐϑανασία, which is composed of the prefix εὖ, “well”, “thoroughly”, “competently”, “morally well”, 95 “kindly” and the noun ϑάνατος, “death”. We can thus translate the term εὐϑανασία as an “easy, happy death” (Liddell et al. [1843] 1996, 704; 714; 784). Steven H. Miles points out that this word does not appear in Greek literary texts before 280 BC. It is therefore a relatively new term. We find it used for the first time in one surviving fragment from the comedy The Ant (Μύρμηξ) by Posidippus of Cassandreia: “Of those things that a man [human] prays for from the gods, nothing is better to meet with than an easy (happy) death” (Ὧν τοῖς ϑεοῖς ἄνϑρωπος εὔχεται τυχεῖν / τῆς εὐϑανασίας χρεῖττον οὐδὲν εὔχεται). 10 As follows from this example, the meaning of the word εὐϑανασία in Greek literature did not mainly refer to assistance in dying, as we understand it today, but to the description of a natural, peaceful death with no unnecessary suffering (Miles 2004, 68). It is also evident that the term εὐϑανασία retained this meaning even in the much later Roman period. In one of his letters, Cicero quotes his friend Atticus, who reproached him for seeking “a noble death” (εὐϑανασίαν), since after the assassination of Caesar in 44 BC he had considered leaving Rome in such difficult political times and going to visit his son in Greece. He thus wanted to exchange an easier and certainly more peaceful death abroad for the chance of a much worse death that would threaten him were he to remain at home (Cic. Att. 16.7; Eng. trans. Cicero [1918] 1961, 395). Similarly, the Roman biographer Suetonius describes the death of the emperor Augustus as follows: “[...] thus blessed with an easy death (exitum facilem) and such a one as he had always longed for. For almost always on hearing that anyone had died swiftly (cito) and painlessly (nullo cruciatu), he prayed that he and his might have a like euthanasia (sibi et suis εὐϑανασίαν similem precabatur), for that was the term (verbo) he was wont to use (uti solebat)” (Suet. Aug. 99.2; Eng. trans. Suetonius [1913] 1979, 281). A similar problem is linked with the Latin word suicidium, from which the English term suicide is derived. We do not find this word in classical Latin literary texts to designate the act of suicide. “The first uses of suicidium found so far are by Gauthier de Saint-Victor in 1177/8 and, in English, by Sir Thomas Browne in Religio Medici published in 1643, who probably invented it afresh. The nearest to a technical term in antiquity was mors voluntaria (voluntary death) and the Greek equivalent, verbal phrases being used for the most part” (Hornblower and Spawforth [1949] 2012, 1410). Therefore, it comes as no surprise that even in the two literary examples that we discuss in more detail in the text, we do not find established Latin phrases used to designate suicide. Atticus says that: “I am resolved to cease to nourish my malady” (nam mihi stat alere morbum desinere) (Nep. Att. 10 The Greek text is taken from (Meineke 1841, 519). The English text comes from (Miles 2004, 68). 96 21.5; Eng. trans. Cornelius Nepos [1929] 1984, 325), and Seneca, when describing Marcellinus’s decision, only neutrally states: “he began to think about dying” (coepit deliberare de morte) (Sen. Ep. 77.5; Eng. trans. Seneca [1920] 1970, 171). The reader must therefore infer from the context that both actors in the story have decided to commit suicide. What’s more, as we will see, it is very difficult in antiquity to distinguish between suicide and assisted suicide, which is typical for modern bioethical thinking. In fact, people from the closest environment of the main actor of the plot are often actively involved in the preparation and execution of the act of suicide, and without them the suicide could not take place. It is also assumed that the final act of death will be carried out by the patient himself. On the other hand, in contemporary bioethical discussions, a great deal of attention is paid to the search for a terminological distinction between the two basic forms of assisted death (euthanasia / assisted suicide). According to L. W. Sumner, the main distinguishing criterion is the question of agency, i.e., whether the lethal preparation for ending a life is administered by a doctor or the patient himself applies it with the doctor’s assistance. Based on this specification, we can thus draw the main dividing line between the two forms of assisted death: Assisted suicide is the self-administration by a patient of a lethal medication where (a) the patient intends the medication to cause his death as a means of relieving his suffering, (b) the patient’s death is actually caused by the medication, and (c) the medication is provided by a physician for the purpose of facilitating the patient’s suicide. Euthanasia is the administration of a lethal medication to a patient by a physician where (a) the physician intends the medication to cause the patient’s death as a means of relieving his suffering and (b) the patient’s death is actually caused by the medication (2001, 18–19). In both forms of assisted death as defined, a doctor is always present and is either the active initiator of the patient’s death (euthanasia) or only provides the patient with a lethal means to carry out the act him/herself (assisted suicide). But as we will see, unlike in modern times, the figure of the doctor does not play such an important role in ancient discussions about suicide. Aside from this basic terminological definition, a major subject of bioethical discussions is the legal framework of the conditions under which euthanasia must be carried out in order to be considered legal and therefore clearly 97 distinguishable from murder. In this context, Peter Singer points to Dutch legislation, according to which euthanasia is legal only when: • it is carried out by a physician; • the patient has explicitly requested euthanasia in a manner that leaves no doubt that the patient’s desire to die is voluntary, well-informed and wellconsidered; • the patient has a condition causing protracted physical or mental suffering which the patient finds unbearable; • there is no reasonable alternative (reasonable from the patient’s point of view) to alleviate the patient’s suffering; and • the doctor has consulted another independent professional who agrees with his or her judgment ([1980] 2011, 171–172). In our view, these legal conditions include three fundamental factors that frame almost every bioethical controversy in regard to the legitimacy of euthanasia. For this reason, we will examine their presence or absence in more detail in the context of the two Latin texts mentioned above. The nature of the illness The legality of euthanasia in the Netherlands is only recognised in the case of illnesses that cause long-term physical or psychological suffering to the patient and no alternative that would alleviate this suffering is available. We also come across an effort to specify in more detail the illnesses with which suicide was permissible in Greek and Latin thought. Pliny the Elder, for example, mentions three specific diseases that, according to contemporary knowledge, caused “the sharpest agony” (assperimi cruciatus), and because of that people often voluntarily ended their own lives. These were “strangury from stone in the bladder” (calculorum a stillicidio vesicae), “disease of the stomach” (stomachi) and “pains produced by diseases of the head” (in capite doleant) (Plin. Nat. 25.7.23; Eng. trans. Pliny [1956] 1966, 153). Diogenes Laertius on the other hand, says that a Stoic sage, if he has rational reasons to do so, can commit suicide for five reasons: “on his country’s behalf or for the sake of his friends, or if he suffers intolerable pain, mutilation, or incurable disease” (D. L. 7.130; Eng. trans. Diogenes Laertius 1925, 235). It is obvious that the last three mentioned reasons are clearly related to medical issues. If we imagine the possibilities of period medical or palliative care for acute and chronic illnesses, then it is evident that the option of voluntarily ending 98 one’s life was sometimes seen as a much better solution than continuing to live in unbearable pain. If we now look in more detail at two selected ancient cases, in the case of Atticus we are rather well informed in detail about the course and nature of the illness that ultimately caused Atticus to choose to voluntarily end his life. Cornelius Nepos writes: In this fashion Atticus completed seventy-seven years, and up to that advanced age increased in dignity, as well as in importance and fortune—for he acquired many inheritances through no other cause than his good qualities. He also enjoyed such excellent health that for thirty years he required no medical treatment. But just at that time he fell ill of a complaint of which at first both he himself and his physicians made light; for they thought it was a dysentery, for which speedy and easy remedies were usually available. When he had suffered from this trouble for three months without any pain except what was caused by his treatment, suddenly such a violent form of the disease attacked his rectum, that finally fistulas discharging pus broke out through the lower part of his back. Even before this occurred, feeling a daily increase of pain attended with fever [...] (Nep. Att. 21.1– 4; Eng. trans. 325). As follows from the above example, Atticus probably suffered from some form of cancer in the lower digestive tract, most likely in the “rectum” (in imum intestinum), which initially caused him “dysentery” (tenesmon), i.e., frequent, futile and painful urges to defecate (Horsfall 1989, 108–111). Doctors initialy treated this symptom with unspecified “speedy and easy remedies” (remedia celeria faciliaque). In his work On Medicine (De medicina), Aulus Cornelius Celsus includes, for example, “butter in rose oil” (butyrum cum rosa), “gum acacia dissolved in vinegar” (acacia ex aceto liquata), “wax-salve” (emplastrum), “liquid with rose oil” (rosa liquatum) and “alum wrapped up in wool” (alumen lana circumdatum) among such remedies (Cels. 4.25.2; Eng. trans. Celsus 1935, 439; cf. Plin. Nat. 28.59.211). Atticus initially handled the condition “without any pain” (sine ullis doloribus) for three months, but later the disease entered an acute phase and symptoms such as “fistulas discharging pus” (fistulae puris eruperint), “a daily increase of pain” (dies dolores accrescere) and “fever” (febres) occurred in his body. The quality of Atticus’s life thus deteriorated radically; therefore, we can assume that he met the condition of long-term unbearable physical suffering caused by advanced cancer, probably with minimal hope of curing it (cf. Plin. Ep. 3.7.2). This illness also struck a man at an advanced age. Cornelius Nepos writes 99 that Atticus was seventy-seven years old, and his advanced age and the treatment options available at the time, coping with such a difficult diagnosis must have been very difficult. In the case of Marcellinus, we have no detailed description of the course of the disease. Seneca merely describes the patient’s diagnosis in these words: Tullius Marcellinus, a man whom you knew very well, who in youth was a quiet soul and became old prematurely, fell ill of a disease which was by no means hopeless; but it was protracted and troublesome, and it demanded much attention; hence he began to think about dying (Sen. Ep. 77.5; Eng. trans. 171). In this case, it was not an incurable disease (non insanabili), which is explicitly stated in the text, but an unspecified illness, the only symptom of which is “old prematurely” (cito senex). The author puts more emphasis on the social context of Marcellinus’s decision to voluntarily end his life. Since he was a young man (adulescens) who still had his whole life before him, this “protracted” (longo) and “troublesome” (molesto) “disease” (morbo) “demanded much attention” (multa imperante). Therefore, he chose to die rather than be dependent on the help of others over a long period, thereby losing autonomy over his own life. Thus, Marcellinus most likely did not feel unbearable pain, but he was rationally aware that the quality of his life in the future would be so reduced by the long-lasting illness that he had no reason to continue such an incomplete life. It therefore becomes debatable whether we could sufficiently defend the reason for voluntary euthanasia in this case if we considered the patient’s long-term physical or psychological suffering as the main criterion. The desire to die The second, very important bioethical aspect in the process of legal implementation of euthanasia in the Netherlands is the patient’s request that it be done, which must be voluntary, well-informed and well-considered. That is, there should be no doubts about the person’s true desire to undergo a voluntary death. Greek and Roman descriptions of the act of suicide enable us to reconstruct this request because the last moments of people’s lives are often depicted in literary texts in a stylised form with a specific dramatic structure. The first characteristic feature is the “theatricality of these scenes”. When reading them, we may have the feeling that we are in the role of a spectator watching a theatrical performance. A number of characters enter and leave the stage, alternating in front of us, thus bringing the entire dramatic process of voluntary dying closer to us. The second main feature 106 tor to end one’s life, and the administration of this substance by a doctor was likely nothing exceptional (Gourevitch 1969, 507). 12 Several texts, on the other hand, also tell us that the assistance of a doctor may not always have been necessary in a voluntary decision to take one’s life, or that although a doctor sometimes entered the dying process, this only happened when other options for voluntary death proved to be ineffective or could no longer be implemented for various reasons. In the biography of Hadrian from The Scriptores Historiae Augustae, for example, it is mentioned that when Hadrian had “the utmost disgust of life” (ultimo vitae taedio), he ordered his slave to “to stab him with a sword” (gladio se transfigi). This intention, however, was ultimately prevented by the summoned Antoninus and the prefects. Therefore, later, after writing his will, “he attempted to kill himself” (se conatus occidere), but they took the dagger from him, so that this attempt was also left unfinished. In the end, “he even demanded poison from his physician” (petiit et venenum a medico), who rather killed himself than have to fulfil this order of the emperor (Hist. Aug. Hadr. 24.8–13; The Scriptores Historiae Augustae [1921] 1991, 75–77). A similarly well-known literary description of Seneca’s death in Tacitus begins by saying of Seneca and his wife “they made the incision in their arms with a single cut” (post quae eodem ictu brachia ferro exolvunt). However, since blood flowed only slowly from Seneca’s old body, he “severed as well the arteries in the leg and behind the knee” (crurum quoque et poplitum venas abrumpit). Nevertheless, death still “continued to be protracted and slow” (durante tractu). Therefore, he asked his physician friend “to produce the poison” (provisum venenum), which he drank, “but to no purpose” (frustra), because his limbs were already icy and his body was impervious to the effects of the poison (Tac. Ann. 15.63–64; Eng. trans. Tacitus 1937, 317–319). As can be seen in these examples, in Hadrian’s case the doctor came onto the scene only after two unsuccessful suicide attempts, and in Seneca’s case only after the dying process was taking too long and needed to be accelerated. These examples thus indicate to us that in the ancient understanding of a virtuous life the act of voluntary ending a life should be done mainly by the person himself, if circumstances allow it. The assistance of a doctor is secondary. He may be present, but at least initially he does not have to actively intervene in the act of dying, if it proceeds according to the planned scenario. The free decision to die voluntarily should thus be completed by the free act of self-killing. This accord between intention and act is expressed in both of our literary examples mainly in choosing 12 See Hist. Aug. Hadr. 24.13; Tac. Ann. 15.64; Apul. Met. 10.8; Plin. Ep. 1.22.8. 107 the means of death, which, unlike in modern times, is starvation. Atticus was to abstain from eating for two days (biduum cibo se abstinuisset), then the fever suddenly subsided and the illness became more bearable. Nevertheless, he chose to endure the starvation and after five days died (Nep. Att. 22.3). Marcellinus abstained from food for three days (triduo abstinuit) and had a tent set up in his bedroom. A bathtub was brought to him, in which he lay for a long time, and from time to time, when hot water was poured into it, he slowly died (Sen. Ep. 77.9). Anton J. L. van Hoof, who very precisely studied the phenomenon of suicide in antiquity, found that there is a significant correlation between a person’s age and the choice of inducing death. In 61 documented cases of literary descriptions of suicides among the elderly in which the method of death is given, as many as 18 of them chose starvation as a tool for carrying out a voluntary departure from life. As we have already mentioned, Atticus was seventy-seven years old, and although Marcellinus was a young man, Seneca describes him as “old prematurely” after the onset of illness. From a philosophical point of view, this method of ending one’s life was considered a manifestation of dignity and wisdom. The procedure of voluntary starvation itself consisted of a complete abstaining from all food and drink. If a person was able to endure this process, it was believed that it should lead to death on the seventh day. Starvation thus demonstrated the willpower and determination of a person and was used in front of an admiring or sympathetic audience (van Hooff 1990, 42–43). Perhaps the most prominent proponent of this type of death was the Cyrenaic philosopher Hegesias, who is said to have written a book called Death by Starvation (Ἀποκαρτερῶν). King Ptolemy allegedly banned him from lecturing in public on the subject, because many people might commit suicide after hearing about this way of thinking about death (Cic. Tusc. 1.34.83–84). The targeted refusal to eat is in modern times perceived historically as a form of civil protest against injustice on the part of a specific, mainly political authority, with the aim of asserting one’s rights by threatening a publicly observed voluntary death (see O’Keeffe 1974). We come across it today only minimally, and suicides choose other ways of departing this life (hanging, gunshot or stab wounds, intoxication, jumping from a height, etc.). However, in antiquity this method was the greatest possible way to make others aware of a person’s free and conscious decision to die. This form of suicidal action was at the same time unthinkable without the help of family, friends or servants, who were actively engaged in this process, because the dying person gradually lost the strength to actively manage certain actions through starvation. In Marcellinus’s case, for 108 example, the servants saw to the of pouring of hot water into the bathtub in which the patient was slowly dying. In Atticus’s case, although this is not explicitly stated in the text, some servants must have also been present. We could thus liken suicide in both ancient literary descriptions to modern assisted suicide. Although the actors in literary texts do die alone, they do so by their own decision to refuse food; however, without the active support of other people, this lengthy and arduous process would probably be very difficult to pull off. Of interest is the fact that, in contrast to today, a philosopher sometimes plays an important role in acts of suicide, entering in ancient literary texts into the process of dying in three temporal phases. As is evident from the case of Marcellinus, the philosopher encouraged his friend before his death not to be afraid to take his own life and lectured him with philosophical arguments that supported this view. He also ensured during this preparatory phase all the practical aspects so that the person could undertake to commit the act of suicide. It was the philosopher who finally convinced the servants not to be afraid to actively take part in their master’s death, because this was his voluntary decision and for this reason, they had an obligation to help him with it. He also admonished Marcellinus himself to reward them financially for the way they had cared for him throughout his life (Sen. Ep. 77.7–8). It is also very probable that the philosopher led various learned debates with his client during his death. In the work On Tranquility of Mind (De tranquillitate animi), for example, an anonymous philosophy teacher appears, who accompanies Iulius Canus, whom the Emperor Claudius had ordered to be executed, to his death. Canus has decided to study the truth to the very end, and his own death serves as an incentive for him to deepen his philosophical research. Therefore, on the way to the execution ground, his philosopher asks him: “What are you thinking of now, Canus, or what state of mind are you in?” (Quid, Cane, nunc cogitas? Aut quae tibi mens est?), and Canus replies to him with these words: “I have determined to watch whether the spirit will be conscious that it is leaving the body when that fleetest of moments comes” (Observare, proposui illo velocissimo momento an sensurus sit animus exire se) (Sen. Tranq. 14.9; Eng. trans. Seneca [1932] 1965, 271). In the case of starvation, the philosopher probably also encouraged the patient to maintain his intention while also providing him with philosophical advice that could help him in this process. The philosopher’s last task was perhaps to comfort the bereaved after the death of a patient. A certain analogy of this procedure is brought to us by the figure of the probably Stoic philosopher Areus from Alexandria, who worked at the court 109 of Emperor Augustus and had a great influence on him. In the work On Consolation to Marcia (De consolatione ad Marciam) Areus accompanies Livia Drusilla, the wife of Emperor Augustus, through the process of mourning after the death of her son Drusus. Since Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus died unexpectedly in 9 BC on a military expedition against Germania, his mother did not have the opportunity to say goodbye to him. Seneca mentions that Livia Drusilla sought out the help of Areus at the very first attack of pain, when a person feels misfortune most intensely. The philosopher approached her and advised her on how to behave towards friends who were unsure whether or not they should talk about her dead son in front of her or should remain silent. He encouraged her to preserve her son’s memory by actively remembering him and not avoiding society, as it was with this specific attitude that she would show others that she could handle such interventions of fate with a calm mind (Sen. Marc. 4.1–5.6). A similar method of consolation could therefore have taken place among relatives of people who decided to end their lives by starvation. A philosopher here, acting as a kind of “grief therapist”, advised survivors about how to cope with the loss of someone very close to them, thus taking on the tasks that in modern times are part of the profession of psychologist or priest. Conclusion Both analysed descriptions of the act of suicide in Roman literature can be used to update some interesting problems of current bioethical discussions related to the issue of assisted death. First of all, if we analyse the nature of an illness that can lead to the decision to commit suicide, then in Atticus’s case the terminal stage of rectal cancer can clearly be recognised, which can be considered a plausible reason for ending one’s own life. In Marcellinus’s case, this decision was driven more by the patient’s fear of gradual dependence on other people, which would certainly be the result of a long-term, but not incurable, illness in the future. Second, the formulation of the intention to die in both actors of the plot is well thought through and voluntary in terms of content. The literary texts also present these decision-making processes to us in the form of a specific dramatic art, in which the main character appears in the role of a calm and composed patient who publicly declares his decision to voluntarily die to the other characters in the plot (family, friends, servants) and then debates with them on this topic. In both cases, the philosophical convictions of the literary characters behind the decision to commit suicide can also be seen, though Atticus’s Epicureanism is less demonstrable than Marcellinus’s Stoicism. Thirdly, in both literary examples the role of the doc- 110 tor is irrelevant and generally plays no important role for the Greek and Roman form of voluntary dying. The patient carries out his own death, but in doing so, he may use the help of other people in the household. Death by starvation, which was also the choice of both of our literary protagonists, was considered one of the most appreciated means of ending one’s life. In contrast to today, in some Roman literary texts the figure of a philosopher plays an important role, sometimes actively taking part in the dying process even before the patient’s death, by providing him, for example, with philosophical advice or by convincing hesitant servants of the legitimacy of such an act. Later, during the dying process itself, he may, for example, lead philosophical discussions with an educated patient about the immortality of the soul. And finally, after death, the philosopher comforts the survivors, helping them cope with the loss of a loved one. The two literary examples presented thus bring us closer to the broader context of the course of a deliberate suicidal act, which results from a painful illness or a decrease in the patient’s future quality of life. Therefore, they can be an interesting source of inspiration for exploring this topic in a broader historical-philosophical perspective. Acknowledgement The chapter was written at the Department of Philosophy and Applied Philosophy, Faculty of Arts, University of Ss. Cyril and Methodius in Trnava, as part of VEGA project No. 2/0163/22. References Celsus. 1935. On Medicine. Books 1–4. Vol. I. Trans. by W. G. Spencer. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Cicero. [1918] 1961. Letters to Atticus. Vol. III. Ed. and trans. by E. O. Winstedt. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Cornelius Nepos. [1929] 1984. On the Great Generals of Foreign Nations. On Latin Historians. Trans. by John C. Rolfe. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Diogenes Laertius. 1925. Lives of Eminent Philosophers. Vol. II. Trans. by R. D. Hicks. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Durkheim, Émile. 1897. Le suicide. Étude sociologique. Paris: Félix Alcan. Englert, Walter. 1990. “Seneca and the Stoic View of Suicide.” The Society for Ancient Greek Philosophy Newsletter 184: 1–20. 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Sumner, Leonard Wayne. 2011. Assisted Death. A Study in Ethics and Law. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tacitus. 1937. Annals: Books 13–16. Trans. by John Jackson. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 112 The Scriptores Historiae Augustae. [1921] 1991. Vol. I. Trans. by David Magie. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. van Hooff, Anton J. L. 1990. From Autothanasia to Suicide. Self-Killing in Classical Antiquity. London and New York: Routledge. Williams, Gareth. 2015. “Style and Form in Seneca’s Writing.” In The Cambridge Companion to Seneca, ed. by Shadi Bartsch and Alessandro Schiesaro, 135–149. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 113 Was Hesiod’s Pandora a Posthuman? Matúš Porubjak Abstract: An important component of Hesiod’s Promethean myth is a story whose relevance in association with the human enhancement is often overlooked. This is the story of the first woman – Pandora. This chapter will be devoted to an analysis of this story and a possible connection with the issue of human enhancement. In it I will first outline very briefly the origin of this myth and its transformations in a diachronic line from antiquity to the present. I will then focus on a detailed analysis of the context and the story itself in the form we find it in Hesiod. I will try to find answers to the following questions: Why did Zeus allow Pandora to be created? What did he intend to achieve? What qualities will Pandora have? And how will her arrival among humans change them? In the conclusion – based on Bostrom’s definition of posthuman – I will assess to what extent it would be possible to perceive Pandora not only as the first woman (as she is depicted in Hesiod), but also as the first posthuman. Keywords: Pandora. Posthuman. Enhancement. Hesiod. Women. One of the great bioethical topics of our time is the question of human enhancement. The desire for human enhancement and the fear of the possible risks it may entail are, of course, not merely a modern phenomenon. They can be found in various myths across cultures. Our own culture, where we can trace this topic back to the myths preserved in the oldest written monuments of ancient culture – specifically in the epic works of Homer and Hesiod – is no different. It is in Hesiod where we find the story of Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods in order to bring it back to people, a story that became “one of the central myths of Western culture” (Most 2010, lxvi). 13 An important component of Hesiod’s Promethean myth is another story whose relevance in association with the human enhancement is often overlooked. This is the story of the first woman – Pandora. This chapter will be devoted to an analysis of this story and a possible connection with the issue of human enhancement. In it I will first outline very briefly the origin of this myth and its transformations in a diachronic line from antiquity to the present. I will then focus on a detailed analysis of the context and the story itself in the form we find it in Hesiod. I will try to find answers to the following questions: Why did Zeus allow Pandora to be created? What did he intend to achieve? What qualities will Pandora have? 13 Regarding the issue of ancient inspirations for later technologies and posthumanism, see, for example, Mayor (2018); Chesi and Spiegel (2019); Saniotis, Mohammadi and Galassi (2024). 114 And how will her arrival among humans change them? In the conclusion – based on Bostrom’s definition of posthuman – I will assess to what extent it would be possible to perceive Pandora not only as the first woman (as she is depicted in Hesiod), but also as the first posthuman. ⸞ ⸞ ⸞ Hesiod is usually considered a contemporary or early follower of Homer, the most famous Greek epic poet. The work of both poets can be located in time “somewhere towards the end of the 8th century or the very beginning of the 7th century BC” (Most 2010: xxv). The creation myth of the first woman is encountered in both of Hesiod’s key epics, the Theogony (Th. 570–612) and the Works and Days (Op. 54–105). In both works, this story is part of the broader Promethean myth as retribution for Prometheus’s theft of fire, and in both, at Zeus’s command, Hephaestus models the first woman from the earth (gaiēs; Th. 571, Op. 70) in the form of reverend maiden, and the resulting “outfit” of this marvellous peace of work is provided by Athena. Finally, in both cases, this “plastic woman” (plastē gunaika, Th. 513) is presented as a woe for mortals (Th. 592, Op. 83). However, there are more differences than similarities between the two myths about the first woman. In Theogony, 14 verses are devoted to the description of the creation of the first woman (Th. 571–584). The first woman here is not given a name and, apart from Zeus as the “orderer”, only two gods take part in her creation – Hephaestus and Athena. Hephaestus creates the shape of the first woman from clay. Athena dresses her in silvery clothes and adorns her with garlands of fresh buds. She places a golden headband around her head on which Hephaestus has carved wild animals. When Zeus then presents her to the gods and humans, they are all astonished by the beauty of her jewels. The first woman here resembles a terracotta statue more than a living being, since Hesiod is mainly concerned with her visual appearance – from clothing to ornaments. In Works and Days, Hesiod describes the creation of the first woman in 23 verses (Op. 60–82), which is nearly twice as many as in Theogony. It is here that the first woman also receives her name: Pandora. The main “orderer” is again Zeus, and here we again meet Hephaestus and Athena, but they now also give Pandora properties not mentioned in Theogony. The creator of the basic design is again Hephaestus, who, however, adds a human voice and human strength to the mixture of earth and water right from the start. Athena not only dresses her, but also teaches her crafts, specifically the typical and technologically sophisticated female skill of the period – weaving brightly coloured fabrics. Other goddesses also join in the decorating Pandora: the Graces, Persuasion and the Seasons. 115 Aphrodita sheds grace and painful desire and limb-devouring cares around her head. In the end, the messenger of the gods also plays a key role; the cunning Hermes sets a dog’s mind into her breast: lies, guileful words and a thievish character. Hermes finally gives speech to the first woman and gives her the name Pandora (All-Gift), “since all those who have their mansions on Olympus had given her a gift – a woe for men to live on bread” (Op. 81–82). The significance of the ornaments and attributes that Pandora receives will be analysed in detail later. For now, we will only state that, in contrast to the beautifully decorated terracotta statue of Theogony in Works and Days, there stands a living woman adorned in beautiful clothing, brimming with speech, voice, life force and skills. Her personality radiates charm and desire, and her character allows her to deliberately and cleverly manipulate those around her to her advantage. The myth of Prometheus very soon became the subject of many adaptations. Among the oldest, we can at least mention Aeschylus’s Prometheus trilogy, of which only the first play – Prometheus Bound – has survived, and the so-called Protagoras’ myth in Plato’s dialogue Protagoras (320d–322d). Ancient literary tradition later used the story of Pandora in the form of two main motifs. The first is the motif of the jar that Pandora received from Zeus as a wedding gift, from which all evils flew out when the lid was opened, leaving only hope at the bottom. This motif is indirectly referred to in some of Aesop’s fables (Fab. 525, 526), the archaic lyric poet Theognis (ll. 1135–1150), and Aeschylus’s play Prometheus Bound (ll. 248–251). Later authors present Pandora in the context of Pyrrha (daughter of Pandora and Epimetheus) and her husband Deucalion, who survived the flood sent by Zeus for the human race (Apollodorus 1,7,2; Strabo 9,5,23; Pseudo-Hyginus, Fabulae 142). Pandora also rapidly gained popularity in the fine arts and sculpture. Her oldest depiction is considered to be a black-figure amphora attributed to the Diosphos Painter (525–475 BC). A depiction of Pandora – usually in connection with how Hephaestus is creating her – is also found in several other vase paintings from the classical period. Pausanias, a Greek traveller of circa the 2nd century A.D. in his Description of Greece (1,24,7) mentioned that the scene of the birth of Pandora was pictured in relief on the massive pedestal of the colossal gold and ivory statue of Athena inside the Parthenon. 14 This would indicate that the story of Pandora was part of the Athenian cult associated with Athena and Hephaestus – patrons of arts and crafts and key gods of classical Athens. 14 The depiction of Pandora in the classical period is analysed in detail by Mayor (2018, 160–175), cf. Shapiro (1994, 66–67). 122 Here we must stop and take a brief journey into Homer. The first woman of Theogony and Pandora in Works and Days is not the only awe-inspiring maiden created by Hephaestus. We also come across a similar creation of this divine blacksmith in The Iliad. Let us quote the whole relevant passage: “…and there moved swiftly to support their lord [Hephaestus] handmaids made of gold in the semblance of living girls. In them is understanding (noos) in their minds, and in them speech (audē) and strength (sthenos), and they know cunning handiwork (erga) by gift of the immortal gods” (Il. 18, 417–421). 22 When we compare this passage with the just-mentioned description of the creation of Pandora in Works and Days, we find that all the attributes of the golden maidens also apply to Pandora. Hephaestus right from the start equips her with the ability to speak (audē) as well as strength (sthenos) (Op. 61), and Athena gives her with instruction in works (erga) (Op. 63–64). 23 The ability to understand (noos) is also found in Pandora’s mind – however, in the Works and Days she does not receive it from Hephaestus but from Hermes, and with the characteristic of a “dog’s mind” (Op. 68). If we pass over this detail (which we will come back to), then both Pandora and the golden maidens have the same “technical specifications” – they are capable of thinking and communicating, and they have the strength and ability to do work. If Pandora had remained with only these traits, she would have been just another android, or rather gynoid, of the ancient myth-making imagination. 24 The three skills mentioned – thinking, speech and the ability to perform complex acts – we here call technical. Let us now examine in detail the remaining 22 We must point out for the sake of accuracy that in Homer’s text Hephaestus is not directly mentioned as the creator of maidens. However, the golden maidens appear in the part in which Thetis visits him on Olympus. She enters his forge at the moment when he is finishing twenty automatic tripods that are to enter the assembly of the gods and return by themselves (Il. 18, 369–381; cf. the golden and silver dogs that he created with his cunning skill to guard the palace of the Phaeacians in Od. 7, 91–93). It is thus highly likely that the maidens are another of his marvellous automatic creations. 23 In the case of the golden maidens in the Iliad, only gods in general are mentioned. However, Athena would be a prime candidate here, too, similar to the Odyssey where Homer describes the excellent qualities of Phaeacian women: “so are the women cunning workers (technēssai) at the loom; for Athene has given to them above all other knowledge of beautiful handiwork (erga), and excellent character” (Od. 7, 111). 24 Adrienne Mayor is convinced that “Hesiod’s language makes Pandora ‘essentially indistinguishable’ from the golden automata described by Homer. Pandora ‘begins as inert matter – in this case not gold but clay’ – and she becomes a ‘humanoid machine’ endowed with mind, speech, and strength, knowledge of crafts from the gods, and the ability to initiate action” (2018, 160). Even if we overlook the other properties that Pandora acquires in Works and Days and which will be discussed shortly, Mayor’s argument has a fundamental flaw. The key matter in comparison of golden automata and Pandora is a matter. The gold from which the maidens are made in Homer can be understood as an inert material, but clay (gaea) and water (hudōr) are certainly not. These components are the bearers of life and enable Pandora’s fertility. In modern wording, Pandora in Hesiod is certainly not a “humanoid machine”, but rather a product of “biological engineering”. 123 skills and qualities that Pandora will be given. Let us begin with a seemingly trivial trait – her beautiful appearance (kalos eidos; Op. 63). Its purpose and the abilities connected with it are indicated by the names of the goddesses who cooperate in its creation. Aside from the already mentioned Athena, these are: “the goddesses Graces (Charites) and queenly Persuasion (Peitho) placed golden jewellery all around on her body and the beautiful-haired Seasons (Horai) crowned her all around with spring flowers; and Pallas Athena fitted the whole ornamentation to her body” (Op. 73–76). In order to understand what Pandora acquires through these goddesses, let’s take a closer look at them. The first goddesses mentioned are the Graces (Charites). In Theogony, Hesiod mentions the Graces as the daughters of Zeus and Oceanus’s daughter Eurynome (Broad-minded). There are three of them: Aglaea (Splendor), Euphrosyne (Joy) and Thalia (Good Cheer / Festivity) and “from their eyes desire, the limbmelter, trickles down when they look” (Th. 907–911). Another goddess who cooperates in the creation of Pandora is Persuasion (Peitho), the daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. The last of the goddesses mentioned are the Seasons (Horai) – “They make everything ripe (ὡραῖος) and hence beautiful” (Verdenius 1985, 56). It also needs to be recalled that, according to Theogony (901–903), the Horai are the daughters of Zeus and his second wife Themis (Justice). As with the Graces, there are also three of them. They are called Eunomia (Lawfulness), Dike (Justice) and Eirene (Peace), and they are the deities “who care for the works of mortal human beings” (Th. 903). This is in agreement with the narrative that Hesiod repeats more than once in Works and Days, that the gods reward with prosperity those who acts justly, according to law and in peace (Op. 225–247, 274–285). All the traits bestowed by the Charites, Peitho and the Horai are ultimately brought together in a graceful order by the wise Pallas Athena (Op. 76). We thus have the first important complex feature of Pandora – the persuasiveness of harvest festivals – a joyful celebration of enjoying the abundance of the peacefully acquired fruits of agricultural labour. 25 Another of the key goddesses who contributes to Pandora’s equipping is Aphrodite, who ensures that Pandora radiates “grace (charis) and painful desire and limb-devouring cares (pothos)” throughout her whole personality (Op. 65– 66). This is a difficult passage to translate, 26 in which the main concepts are pothos 25 Let us recall that according to Theogony, Pandora does not come to the house of man with baneful Penie (poverty), but with a desire for Koros – wealth and abundance (Th. 593). Let us further note that while the first woman of Theogony reminds us of a kind of Paleolithic goddess with her rigidity and headband with carved wild animals, in Works and Days she appears to us more like a Neolithic goddess. 26 For comments on her, see e.g., Verdenius (1985, 51–52). 124 – longing, yearning, regret, love and desire and charis, a word we encountered in the personalised form of Charites (Graces) above. Charis can be translated as outward grace or favour, beauty. It also has other important meanings, however: kindness, goodwill for or towards one on the part of giver, and on the part of the receiver sense of favour received, thankfulness, gratitude. Charis in this sense “is both the initial favour that one person does for another and the gratitude or recognition that is shown in return” (Pearson 1962, 86). 27 If we were to combine the terms pothos and charis into a single quality, then we could say that Aphrodite endows Pandora with charisma, making her a charismatic being, someone to whom we look up with longing because she possesses qualities that we admire. Someone from whom we receive kindness and to whom we feel an essential need to express our gratitude. The last key player in the creation of Pandora’s character is the cunning Hermes – the messenger of the gods, a great orator and liar, the son of Zeus and Maia (Th. 938–939). 28 Zeus entrusted him with putting a dog’s mind (kuneos noos) and a thievish character (epiklopos ēthos) into the woman’s nature. (Op. 67– 68). The expression kyneos noos (dog's mind) is usually translated as “shameless” or “impudent mind”. 29 I am convinced that Hesiod specifies the meaning of this phrase a few verses later, when he describes how Hermes did it: “Then into her breast the intermediary, the killer of Argus, set lies (pseudea) and guileful words (haima logoi) and a thievish character (epiklopos ēthos), by the plans of deepthundering Zeus” (Op. 77–79). The thievish character recurs in both cases. Instead of a “dog’s mind”, however, two skills are presented here – lying and flattery. The “dog’s mind” thus appears to be the ability to tactically alternate flattering with deception. The last thing that Hermes puts into Pandora is speech (fōnē) (Op. 79). We came across the ability to speak at the beginning, when Hephaestus gives Pandora a voice. In Hephaestus’s case, the term audē is used, in Hermes’s case fōnē. These are synonyms; however, the word audē means voice rather in the sense of something that makes a sound, something “audible” (audē can be made, for example, by a bowstring). The word fōnē is used for the sound made by the lungs and throat, and it overwhelmingly denotes human speech that is the bearer of some meaning. 30 Hephaestus gives Pandora a voice as a “technical” feature, whereas Hermes 27 Cf. Liddel, Scott and Jones (1996: s.v. πόθος, s.v. χάρις). 28 For Hermes’s character, see e.g., Kerényi (1996, 126–132), Yona (2016, 367). 29 See Verdenius (1985, 53), where examples from Homer are also given, Cf. Liddel, Scott and Jones (1996, s.v. κύνεος). 30 Cf. Liddel, Scott and Jones (1996, s.v. αὐδή, s.v. φωνή). 125 as a social-communication skill. Hermes thus completes the work of the other gods and creates from Pandora a skilled communicator capable of strategically hiding her intentions and winning others over to her goals. 31 We above called the qualities that Hephaestus and Athena give Pandora at the beginning of the story technical (strength, skill in work, voice). The rest of the skills she gets from other gods and goddesses are generally social skills – persuasiveness, charisma, a clever nature and the ability to flatter, mislead and persuade with speech. In the end, Zeus still has to get Pandora among the people, so he sends Hermes to take her to Epimetheus, who forgets his brother’s warning never to accept any gift from Zeus and becomes the first to accept this new version of man – a woman – into his house (Op. 89, Th. 513), thus creating, or rather confirming, the institution of marriage. A “dowry” also comes with Pandora, which she receives from Zeus – a large jar, which, if opened, releases painful diseases that bring death, miserable suffering and other evils that silently attack people, since Zeus has taken away their voice (Op. 100–104). Only the gift of Hope (Elpis) remains in the jar, which did not have time to fly out due to Zeus’s will. 32 Throughout this entire story, Prometheus and Epimetheus are evidently close to people. Prometheus’s attempt to outwit Zeus, however, will ultimately bring misfortune to people. The cascade of catastrophes is triggered by his division of the sacrifice and culminates in the receiving of Pandora with her “dowry” into Epimetheus’s house. The second generation of gods is no match for the third generation. In short, as Hesiod concludes the whole Prometheus-Pandora story: “Thus it is not possible in any way to evade the mind of Zeus (Dios noon)” (Op. 105). 31 On this point, I would again like to disagree with Arienne Mayor’s claim: “Pandora is endowed with a low sort of intelligence (Hermes gives her the “mind of a female dog” according to Hesiod, Works and Days 67). It is unclear whether Pandora has the ability to learn, choose, or act autonomously. Her only mission is to open the jar of all human misfortune” (2018, 160). Hermes is one of the smartest gods, and what Pandora is endowed with are highly sophisticated mental skills. As for Mayor’s doubt in regard to learning, if Pandora were not capable of learning, then Athena would not be able “to teach her crafts (erga didaskēsai), to weave richly worked cloth” (Op. 64). The question of decision-making and autonomous action cannot be answered directly from the text. However, since Pandora receives noos from Hermes, albeit with the adjective “dog-like” (which rather indicates the orientation of her mind than the performance itself), it is highly likely that she can make her own decisions. Compare, for example, the verse from Op. 105, which we quote in the following paragraph, which says: “Thus it is not possible in any way to evade the mind of Zeus (Dios noon),” where Dios noon also means his decision. Regarding the various meanings and functions of noos in Homer, see Snell (1960, 12–19), Liddel, Scott and Jones (1996, s.v. νόος). 32 The character and role of Hope in Hesiod’s work is the subject of long academic debate. I have discussed it in more detail in an article Porubjak (2023, 249–250), see also, e.g., Clay (2010, 102–104), Vernant (2006, 42–43), Verdenius (1985, 66–71), Noorden (2015, 54), Scarnera, (2016, 20), Mayor (2018, 175–177). 126 We will now attempt to reveal what Zeus’s intentions actually were and how he changed humanity through Pandora. First, however, let’s take a look at how the life of people in the preand post-Pandora periods appeared from the perspective of the Promethean-Pandora myth. 33 It seems that before Pandora people did not know the necessity of (sexual) reproduction of their species. They were either long-lived descendants of the Ash-tree Nymphs and Giants, as Clay (2010) suggests, or they were born directly from the earth, as indicated by the myth of the golden generation and references to other original stories about the first people. Pandora is created from the earth (otherwise she could not give birth), and with her arrival she conveys its procreative ability to people while also distancing them from this original chthonic power (thus weakening it). Another difference is connected with the earth/soil. Prior to Pandora, people did not need to make any effort to ensure their livelihood. On the one hand, their sustenance was not hidden from them, and the earth itself provided them with everything they needed; on the other hand, they were not forced to support their families. With Pandora, the institution of marriage finally comes to people, and it combines the ability to procreate with the need to ensure sustenance while bringing into people’s lives the struggle for economic prosperity and the social status of families and clans. Another key difference between life before and after Pandora is the technai. It seems that the need for the technai first emerge during the events that create Pandora herself. The concealment of sustenance gives rise to the need for agricultural and commercial skills. Zeus’s decision to have people sacrifice to the gods and Prometheus’s division of the spoils suggest the need for the art of ritual and divination, 34 as well as the art of cooking food. The taking and returning of fire suggests the discovering of technologies associated with working with fire and making the tools needed for agriculture and the struggle for resources. Pandora herself comes among people equipped with the sophisticated art of weaving cloth. The final releasing of deadly diseases, sufferings and evils indicates the need for the discovery of the healing arts, including the art of the Muses’ servants – poets – whose singing dissolves sorrow and helps to forget all suffering (Th. 94–100). Another key issue comes to people with Pandora – complex social ties. When we spoke of the abilities that Pandora got from the goddesses and gods at Zeus’s command, we divided them into technical and social. It is the social skills that enter the world through Pandora that will interest us now. Pandora represents 33 The issue of how to characterise basic human qualities is addressed, for example, by T. Károly (2024). 34 Divination from the entrails of sacrificed animals is among the most widespread divination techniques of (not only Greek) antiquity. 127 a highly complex social being. On the one hand, the Charites, Peitho and the Horai participate in her creation. As mentioned, these goddesses are close to Hesiod’s agrarian activity, which, due to its complexity (at least during the time of harvesting and processing the crop), requires the cooperation of the whole group. The three Horai – Lawfulness, Justice and Peace – are the basic condition for cooperation that brings prosperity to a community. On the other hand, are the gifts of Hermes – a cunning nature and the ability to speak persuasively – which, through flattery and deception, enable individual interests to be promoted at the expense of the whole. This is all crowned by the irresistible charisma that Aphrodite gives Pandora. Pandora thus becomes the bearer of the qualities of a charismatic politician – she balances on the edge between her own interests (of the family or clan) and the interests of the entire community. Zeus is a very skilled politician himself and secures his power not only through force, but also through far-sighted political alliances and decisions. 35 He will also use his cunning on beings born and close to the second generation of gods – humans. Pre-Pandorian humanity is an “outdated version” for life in an age governed by the third generation of gods. Since Zeus has no intention to exterminate humanity or throw it to Erebus with a thunderbolt, he creates its “upgrade” through Pandora, a less dangerous version adapted to his form of government and goals. He weakens their closeness to the earth and their original strength with diseases and the necessity to reproduce, feed themselves and offer burnt offerings to the gods. But he also allows them to acquire new skills in survival techniques. Through Pandora, the institution of the family is introduced among people, and in an agrarian society, these families are forced to cooperate, to unite into clans and villages. This creates complex social ties, for which Pandora is furnished with adequate skills. In the end, Zeus creates a political community from people. Pandora thus successfully leads humanity from the order of the second to the order of the third generation of gods. ⸞ ⸞ ⸞ At the conclusion, let us look at Hesiod’s Pandora from a posthumanist perspective and answer the following question: Can Pandora be understood as a posthuman? We will take the definition of a being called a posthuman from Bostrom’s text Why I Want to be a Posthuman When I Grow Up. In the introduction to his text, Bostrom defines a posthuman as follows: “I shall define a posthuman as a being that has at least one posthuman capacity. By a posthuman capacity, I mean a general central capacity greatly exceeding the maximum attainable by any 35 Cf. Hesiod (Th. 390–403; 644–663). 128 current human being without recourse to new technological means” (2008, 107). Bostrom then defines three general central capacities: health span, cognition and emotion. For our purposes, we must also stake out a frame of reference against which we will judge Pandora as a posthuman. Humanity before Pandora is offered as such a frame. For this reason, we have above evaluated the lives of people before and after Pandora. Before we assess to what extent Pandora and humanity after Pandora fulfil the three general central capacities listed by Bostrom, we will make three preliminary remarks. First, Pandora is created as a model that suits the third generation of gods and the just order arranged by Zeus. It is reasonable to assume that without this “upgrade” humanity in the third age would likely have not had a chance to adapt to the new conditions and would be threatened with extinction. Second, the concept of Pandora is invented by Zeus himself and its implementation involved nine goddesses (Athena, Aphrodite, Peitho, the three Graces and the three Horai) and two gods (Hephaestus and Hermes), all of whom are either direct descendants of Zeus or are fully loyal to him. It can be reasonably assumed that all the (divine) properties granted by them surpass the abilities of people of the pre-Pandora period. Third, Pandora is created such that the original people can reproduce with her. 36 Therefore, it makes sense to assume that her properties were gradually disseminated among people through her descendants. In general, it can be stated that Pandora – as a product of divine creation – exceeds the capacities of people of the pre-Pandora period and is an enhanced version of them. Let us now evaluate how Pandora and her offspring satisfy Bostrom’s three general central capacities. The first is health span. Hesiod does not state how old Pandora lived to be, nor in what state of health. Given the qualities directly supplied by the goddesses and gods, however, it can be assumed that she herself was very well in this area. The situation is different with people themselves, however. Before Pandora, people lived far from evils, toil and diseases. However, after the opening of the jar, painful diseases carrying death, bleak suffering and other evils that silently attack people spread into the world. Therefore, the first central capacity remains negative, and Pandora does not bring improvement in people’s health span, but in fact, its deterioration. The second general central capacity is cognition. With Pandora, the technique of weaving comes among people, or minimally its great improvement, 36 “For from her [Pandora] comes the race of female women” (Op. 590). Pandora’s offspring was the subject of Hesiod’s now lost text called the Catalogue of Women or Ehoiai, which was apparently “a systematic presentation in five books of a large number of Greek legendary heroes and episodes, beginning with the first human beings and continuing down to Helen” (Most 2010, il). 129 which the goddess of crafts herself, Athena, teaches her. The changed living conditions, as we mentioned above, will eventually lead people to develop skills that probably did not exist in the pre-Pandorian period, since they were not needed. These are agricultural and commercial skills, the arts of ritual and divination, techniques generally associated with the use of fire – from cooking food to making agricultural tools and probably weapons – then the medical and performing arts, and finally probably political arts, in connection with the need to balance the interests of one's own family and the wider community. Regarding the second central capacity, therefore, we can state a significant improvement that far exceeds the capabilities of people in the pre-Pandorian period. The third central capacity – emotions – is the most complicated to assess. If we take the people of the golden generation, who did not age, did not work, lived in constant festivities and were loved by the gods, as a reference point, then the post-Pandorian period is a clear deterioration of the situation. However, with Pandora and the new conditions, far more complex social ties appear among people, conditioned by the creation of the family. The presence of children probably increased the ability to empathise, and the necessity to cooperate brought stronger bonds of friendship and mutual devotion. The new complexity of social ties could have been a factor that ultimately brought about an improvement in the ability to enjoy life and respond appropriately to the lives of other people, which are, in Bostrom’s view, the main characteristics of this central capacity (2008, 108). On the other hand, the increased gap between people and the gods, the necessity to secure a livelihood and the unpredictability of evils could have significantly worsened people’s emotional settings and their behaviour towards others. I therefore leave the answer to the question of improvement in this central capacity as undecided. The above-quoted Bostrom definition of a posthuman states that it is a being who has at least one posthuman capacity, i.e., one of the central capacities that surpasses the maximum achievable by any current human being. Of the three central capacities mentioned, cognition is the one shown to be clearly improved in connection with Pandora (in the context of the capacities of people before and after Pandora). The statement of the improvement of cognitive capacity is in line with the Promethean myth, as we understand it today – as a desire for improvement and the (mostly cognitive) ability to realise this improvement. In my interpretation, however, the main bearer of this ability is not Prometheus, but Pandora. She is endowed with all the latest capabilities of the third generation of gods and 130 disseminates them among people with her arrival. In this sense, I would dare to describe Pandora as the (first mythological) posthuman. Acknowledgement The chapter was written at the Department of Philosophy and Applied Philosophy, Faculty of Arts, University of Ss. Cyril and Methodius in Trnava, as part of VEGA project No. 2/0163/22. References Bostrom, Nick. 2008. “Why I Want to be a Posthuman When I Grow Up.” In Medical Enhancement and Posthumanity, ed. by Bert Gordijn and Ruth Chadwick, 107–137. Dordrecht: Springer. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4020-8852-0. Chesi, Giulia Maria, and Francesca Spiegel (eds.). 2019. Classical Literature and Posthumanism. London and New York: Bloomsbury Publishing. Clay, Jenny Straus. 2010. Hesiod’s Cosmos. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 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Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Most, Glenn W. 2010. Hesiod I: Theogony, Works and Days, Testimonia. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. Mueller, Melissa. 2016. “The Disease of Morality in Hesiod’s Theogony: Prometheus, Herakles, and the Invention of Kleos.” Ramus 45, 1: 1–17. DOI:10.1017/rmu.2016.1. 131 Murray, Augustus T., and William F. Wyatt. 1999. Homer: Iliad Books 1–12. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press (LCL 170). Murray, Augustus T., and William F. Wyatt. 1999. Homer: Iliad Books 13–24. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press (LCL 171). Murray, Augustus T., and George E. Dimock. 1998. Homer: Odyssey Books 1–12. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press (LCL 104). Murray, Augustus T., and George E. Dimock. 1998. Homer: Odyssey Books 13–24. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press (LCL 105). Noorden, Helen Van. 2015. Playing Hesiod: The ‘Myth of the Races’ in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pearson, Lionel. 1962. Popular Ethics in Ancient Greece. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Porubjak, Matúš. 2023. “Why Did Theognis Not Leave Respect and Retribution in His ‘Hope Elegy’?” Filozofia 78, 4: 245–258. DOI: https://doi.org/10.31577/filozofia.2023.78.4.1. Porubjak, Matúš. 2024. “Podiel ženy na poľudštení človeka, alebo zopár poznámok k Pandóre.” [The Part Played by Woman in the Humanisation of the Man, or Some Notes on Pandora]. Ostium 20, 4. Radford, Neil. 2024. “Sex Dolls and Sex Robots: Panacea or Pandora’s Box?” In Victimisation in the Digital Age: An Online/Offline Continuum Approach, ed. by Tine Munk and Morag C. Kennedy, 223–238. London and New York: Routledge. Saniotis, Arthur, Kazhaleh Mohammadi, and Francesco Maria Galassi. 2024. “Ancient Greeks and Body/Cognitive Enhancement Technologies: An Anthropological Perspective.” Anthropologie LXII, 1: 55–66. 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Potential of Young Adult dystopias The year 2000 became the focal point for the emergence of dystopian novels and films aimed at young audiences, but during this period it was customary to combine the dystopian genre with science fiction (Campbell 2019, 8–10). YA dystopias rapidly gained extraordinary popularity and at the same time enriched the education system with new creative opportunities. In terms of content and intentionality, they have the potential to contribute to the mental, ethical and aesthetic education of readers and are specifically tailored to them. Their characteristic features stimulate the development of cognition, critical thinking, social motivation and emotional development. Especially for young readers, reading fictional stories is a valuable tool, providing space for exploring and understanding moral dilemmas, which is valuable for adolescents as they form their values and attitudes towards various aspects of life. In this respect, adolescence is a period of significant progress in learning, adaptation to social contexts and cultural influences (Crone and Dahl 2012, 638). Cognitive development can be significantly influenced by reading, which has farreaching positive effects on the development of a wide range of cognitive abilities. “Your children read. From their reading they get knowledge they would not have if they had not read. If they study, the imagination catches fire and intensifies in the silence of their rooms” (Rousseau 1979, 218). The consequences go beyond their primary task (immediately understanding the meaning of a particular passage). Reading promotes abstract reasoning, creative thinking, memory functions, logic, concentration, perception, the ability to recognise cause and effect, and expands vocabulary (Cunningham and Stanovich 1998, 140). The brain becomes more efficient at connecting different pieces of information and making faster decisions. Adolescence can therefore be described as a period of significant neurobiological changes that affect the way young people process information and respond to stimuli from their environment (Giedd 2008, 336–337). “These changes and the enormous plasticity of the teen brain make adolescence a time of great risk and great opportunity” (Giedd 2008, 341). The settings and characters of YA fiction interact with the biological and psychological processes and intellectual changes that occur during adolescence. Unexpected twists and turns and the fast pace of adventurous plots keep readers 139 in constant suspense, stimulating the hypersensitive dopaminergic system (Vágnerová 2012, 372). It is a safe space for exploring emotions without adolescents having to experience real trauma. They provide inspiring characters, and according to research by Justin Scholes (2013, 14–18), a significant part of the success of youth literature can be attributed to the personalities of the main characters, with whom adolescents can easily identify. The central protagonist is a courageous teenager who rebels against an unjust system and fights for social balance. They solve problems in a way that inspires hope for a better future in the reader and a feeling that morally correct decisions can influence the world. At the same time, however, they share the common problems of adolescents, such as love and friendship, which make it easier for young readers to relate to the fictional character and accept the attitudes and moral standards presented as their own. Examples include Beatrice “Tris” Prior from the Divergent trilogy (Roth 2011), Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games (Collins 2008) and Tally Youngblood from the Uglies trilogy (Westerfeld 2005). Tris fights against a caste system that suppresses individuality – and consciously refuses to choose only one of the five fractions. Katniss reveals the true face of political propaganda, through which the elites of the capital oppress the poorer peripheral areas and create social inequality. Tally matures from a girl who ignores the politics of her own nation into a conscious opponent of mainstream ideology that celebrates a superficial ideal of beauty. Dystopian novels often focus on the clash between personal values and a repressive society and show how individuals can defend their beliefs even at the cost of personal risk. When fictional heroes find themselves in danger, the limbic system of adolescents responds with strong empathy, which strengthens their connection to the story. At the same time, readers are inspired to seek their own moral boundaries and understand the importance of values in their lives. Cognitive changes, especially the development of abstract thinking and the ability to reflect on ethical dilemmas, enable adolescents to think more critically about moral issues. Reaching adulthood is a transition from naivety to independence and responsibility. The ability to understand complex concepts, metaphors and moral dilemmas increases, leading to greater interest in philosophical questions, ideologies and politics. While children tend to accept the world as it is, adolescents ask questions. “The development of thinking at this time is characterised by a gradual release from dependence on concrete reality. (...) Reality is only one option among many for them. Adolescents are able to think hypothetically, about various possibilities, even those that do not really exist or are even unlikely” (Vágnerová 2012, 379). The metamorphosis from the strictly black-and-white 140 view of children to the more mature prism of adults can, in the course of the process, cause feelings of uncertainty about subjective responsibility, future expectations and one’s own identity. As they develop, adolescents are better able to understand abstract concepts and consequences on a global scale, and their brains are more receptive to ethical issues. This leads to a deeper exploration of concepts such as justice, freedom, or responsibility, which often take on personal meaning through experience and confrontation with real-life problems. Dystopian stories often require readers to consider the correctness of the characters’ decisions. In this way, they not only develop their thinking, but also show an interest in social issues (Steinberg 2005, 11–19). This stage of development is consistent with Kant’s concept of moral autonomy, according to which truly ethical behaviour is based on an individual’s ability to follow universal principles rather than external authorities (Kant 2012, 35–45; Wood 2008, 106–122). In practice, this means that individuals not only have the right but also the duty to make decisions based on their own reason and conscience, even if this contradicts current political positions. That is why Kant’s ethics are often associated with the idea of individual responsibility and civil disobedience when the social order conflicts with moral principles (Wood 2008, 193– 205). However, in the context of post-modern scepticism, the question arises as to whether these universal principles are truly achievable or whether morality is rather a construct dependent on cultural or other contexts. Possibilities and prerequisites of morality: Can morality be shaped by reading and education? The debate about whether morality is primarily innate or acquired through learning has accompanied philosophy since ancient times and directly influences our understanding of an individual’s moral development, as well as the role that external factors such as literature can play. To what extent is human rationality determined by biological processes, and what role does free will play? Recognising the dynamics of this dichotomy is important not only for psychology and neuroscience, but also for the analysis of social phenomena such as the formation of ethical values in education or the mediated influence of the media on moral decision-making. The direction of research into the potential of dystopias therefore requires us to define our position on this issue. The philosophical discourse on the innateness of morality is based on evolutionary psychology and neuroscience, arguing that basic moral abilities are universally biologically given to humans, independent of individual upbringing and 141 social environment. Proponents of morality as an innate phenomenon argue that it is a natural intuition resulting from the evolution of the human species in the context of natural selection and the facilitation of social cohesion (Haidt and Craig 2004). Jonathan Haidt, in his theory about modal foundations (Moral Foundations Theory), argues that moral thinking is based on evolutionary predispositions that are modified by cultural and individual experiences. Morality is not exclusively the result of rational thinking, but rather a set of intuitive responses that are evolutionarily rooted (Haidt and Craig 2004, 55–66). Haidt draws on empirical studies showing that people around the world share certain basic values, such as justice, care for others, and respect for authority. These values also appear in very young children (Hamlin, Wynn and Bloom 2007; Warneken and Tomasello 2006), which, according to him, suggests their biological basis. Marc Hauser shares a similar view with his moral grammar hypothesis, which is based on an analogy with Chomsky’s theory of linguistic grammar. Hauser argues that people instinctively practise moral decisions without being explicitly taught, similar to their innate ability to acquire language. There are universal moral intuitions, such as disapproval of harming others and aversion to injustice (Fehr and Fischbacher 2003, 785–791). If we accept the view that morality is exclusively innate, then its formation through education, literature or other cultural stimuli would be limited, and moral development would be primarily biologically predetermined. From this perspective, dystopian literature could at most stimulate existing mechanisms, but could not fundamentally modify them. However, the preference for innate morality has several obvious weaknesses that can be pointed out. First of all, it overlooks the dynamics of development and the influence of the environment in which an individual grows up. If morality were truly an evolutionary intuition inherent in every human being, we would not see cultural differences in what different societies consider acceptable or unacceptable. For example, issues such as the death penalty, minority rights, and gender equality are perceived differently, suggesting that these values are not universal but are subject to social formation. Conversely, theories that consider morality to be acquired emphasise the influence of the social environment, upbringing and cultural factors on the formation of values. This approach was advocated, for example, by John Stuart Mill, who emphasised the influence of upbringing and culture on the moral formation of the individual. “The moral feelings are not innate, but acquired, they are not for that reason the less natural. […] Like the other acquired capacities above referred to, the moral faculty, if not a part of our nature, is a natural outgrowth from 142 it; capable, like them, in a certain small degree, of springing up spontaneously; and susceptible of being brought by cultivation to a high degree of development” (Mill 2009, 55–56). Aristotle, too, in his Nicomachean Ethics, argued that virtue is not innate but acquired through repeated practice of good conduct: “None of the moral virtues arises in us by nature; for nothing that exists by nature can form a habit contrary to its nature” (EN II. 1103a15–1103b25). Albert Bandura, through his social cognitive theory, showed that moral behaviour is the result of observational learning and imitation of models, with an emphasis on the influence of family, peers, media and culture (Bandura 1977, 140–180; Janoušek 1992, 385–398). Bandura’s theory assumes that moral behaviour can be taught, modelled and reinforced through the environment, upbringing and cultural context. From this perspective, morality not only evolves but is also susceptible to influence. Nevertheless, such an approach would not be consistent, as it would ignore the neurobiological subtext and empirical research proving the existence of predispositions, which we will discuss in the following paragraphs. Goldberg (2001, 140–142) points to correlating changes in personality and moral judgement in case studies of frontal lobe damage, implying a significant influence of the biological structure of the brain on behaviour and morality. A moral code can be thought of as the taxonomy of sanctioned actions and behaviours […] Could it then be that, by analogy, the prefrontal cortex contains the taxonomy of all the sanctioned, moral actions and behaviours? And could it be that, just as damage or maldevelopment of the posterior association cortex produces object agnosia’s, so does damage or maldevelopment of the prefrontal cortex produce, in some sense, moral agnosia? (Goldberg 2001, 142) If the proper functioning of the frontal lobes is necessary for adequate moral judgement and social behaviour, it can be inferred that the biological structures of the brain provide the basis for moral behaviour. However, this is further shaped by experience and learning. This view is consistent with the claim that morality is the result of the interaction of innate neurological structures and social influences. Therefore, we cannot accept the thesis that morality is either solely innate or solely learned – it is biologically conditioned, but its specific form is demonstrably shaped by external influences. Empirical support for this hypothesis can be found in studies of moral decision-making in sixand ten-month-old infants, who show an ability to judge fairness and unfairness even before they undergo formal socialisation. Early development supports the view that social evaluation is a biological adaptation 143 (Hamlin, Wynn and Bloom 2007, 557–559). However, it can be argued that the research only verifies the existence of innate intuitive mechanisms, and these manifestations do not automatically confirm the exclusive innateness of morality. The result is rather a synthesis of innate and acquired factors that determines the final form of thinking and behaviour. A study by Warneken and Tomasello (2006, 1301–1303) also works with similar conclusions, demonstrating that children exhibit spontaneous altruistic behaviour at a very early age (they intervene spontaneously when they see someone in need) without being motivated by reward, suggesting the existence of innate mechanisms for pro-social behaviour and empathy. At first glance, these results again support the hypothesis that some of the foundations of moral behaviour are innate. At the same time, however, the studies implicitly confirm that innate predispositions serve as a basic framework that is further developed and shaped through social interactions and experiences. Although early manifestations of altruism are evident, the specific form, degree and extent of pro-social behaviour may vary depending on the context in which the child grows up. In this way, Warneken and Tomasello’s studies contribute to a model of synthesis of innate and acquired factors, where evolutionarily determined predispositions interact with the environment, influencing the final form of moral development. The study by Fehr and Fischbacher (2003, 785–791) focuses on the phenomenon of altruistic punishment, i.e. the willingness to punish dishonest behaviour even without direct personal benefit. The data show that this mechanism functions as a tool for maintaining cooperation in groups, as inappropriate behaviour by individuals that threatens the stability of the collective is effectively suppressed. Most cultures show an aversion to injustice, but the influence of culture is crucial in determining the degree of this aversion, with some societies being more tolerant of inequality than others. On the one hand, these results suggest that certain moral intuitive responses (aversion to injustice) may be evolutionarily determined. On the other hand, however, they show that the degree and manifestation of altruistic punishment varies across cultures, confirming the importance of socialisation and cultural factors in shaping these moral responses. “As already mentioned, people are neither driven exclusively by internal forces nor automatically shaped exclusively by the external environment, but contribute to their own motivation, behaviour and development through reciprocal influences. Basic human abilities contribute to this. These abilities are either cultivated or remain undeveloped in individual development, and people differ in their specific form” (Janoušek 1992, 387). The studies mentioned above show that moral pre- 144 dispositions are inextricably linked to an individual’s neurobiological development, but their specific manifestations are shaped by upbringing, education and culture. From a perspective that considers morality to be a synthesis of the interaction of innate predispositions and social learning, it is necessary to emphasise the importance of the cultural environment for the formation of moral reasoning. Decision-making involves both innate emotions and the cognitive processing of complex ethical dilemmas that we learn to resolve throughout our lives. Evolutionary factors are necessary prerequisites for moral intuition, but environmental influences shape the individual form of morality. Frans de Waal (2006, 160–175) proposes a concept of three stages that illustrate the evolutionary continuity between animal and human behaviour. Primary instinctive responses include empathy, compassion, altruism, caring behaviour, resource sharing and mutual support, and these biological foundations of morality can be observed not only in mammals but also in birds, for example. In intelligent species (primates), we observe deeper reciprocity, a sense of justice, punishment of cheaters, strategic trust-building, and awareness of reputation. This stage reflects justice as a function of social cohesion. The highest level is purely human normative morality, which requires the ability to think abstractly and includes language as a tool for sharing, the formulation of general norms, sophisticated moral reasoning, and responsibility without the need for direct social pressure. We therefore also observe predispositions in animals, but according to de Waal, the human species is capable of cultivating them; otherwise, they would remain at their basic level as a biological adaptation mechanism. Although the question of whether morality is innate or acquired remains open, current philosophical research, evolutionary biology experiments, and findings in psychology and neuroscience tend to support a synthetic approach. From this perspective, moral competence is understood as the result of interaction between biological predispositions and social learning. People enter the world with a certain potential (the capacity for empathy and reciprocity), but the full development of these attributes depends on the external stimuli to which they are exposed. This opens up space for the practical application of literature. If we accept that morality is neither fully innate nor purely learned, then dystopian fiction can play a significant role not only as a passive mirror of society, but also as an active tool for moral formation. 145 Suggestions for working with young readers The complex nature of moral development as a process shaped by both biological predispositions and socio-cultural influences opens up space for a philosophically, psychologically and pedagogically usable framework in which literature ceases to be merely an aesthetic object and becomes a powerful tool for education. Dystopias are a promising educational tool if they are appropriately integrated into the educational process and used to develop moral autonomy, empathy and critical thinking. We now turn to the question of the practical use of literary means in the process of moral maturation of young people. The desired state is to incorporate examples from dystopian works into lessons. Unfortunately, in the domestic education system (Czech Republic, Slovakia), dystopias do not appear very often on the lists of compulsory or recommended reading. In a survey of librarians, in which 142 respondents from the Czech Republic participated (Lišovská 2022), the recommended titles for secondary schools included The Giver by Lois Lowry (8), The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins (1), Scythe by Neal Shusterman (3), Unwind by Neal Shusterman (2) and the Divergent trilogy by Veronica Roth (1). Considering the importance of analysing dystopian works in the presence of an adult, these numbers are insufficient. They point to the fact that dystopias are only minimally represented in educational practice and their interpretation is thus left to the readers themselves without pedagogical mentoring. Our goal should therefore be to integrate dystopian fiction into general awareness and to work with young readers in an appropriate manner. A suitable method that can be applied is the Konstanz Method of Dilemma Discussion (KMDD). It is a practical and easy-to-use tool for developing moral competence in children, adolescents and adults. It was developed by Georg Lind based on Lawrence Kohlberg’s cognitive-developmental theory, which understands moral development as the gradual acquisition of increasingly complex forms of moral reasoning (Lind 2006, 190; Lind 2019, 97–98). However, Lind enriched the theory with a didactic dimension, making the method ideal for use in educational or counselling settings. In the context of working with literature, it represents a methodological bridge between literary analysis and ethical education, as dystopian fiction is often based on moral conflicts and extreme situations that can be easily translated into dilemmas suitable for guided discussion. KMDD has nine specific phases divided into an introductory, discussion and concluding part (Lind 2019, 161–163). 146 In the introduction, participants are introduced to the chosen dilemma, guided to understand the context, and encouraged to think critically about the consequences. An essential factor when working with fictional excerpts is to avoid merely reading the text mechanically, which could result in the subconscious acceptance of theses that are not fully understood, thus wasting the opportunity to build positive values. At the same time, the chosen example should be neither too easy nor too difficult, otherwise students may distance themselves from participating in the discussion (Lind 2019, 99). For secondary school pupils (adolescents), understanding dystopian narratives (e.g. human rights) can be problematic without expert mentoring, as they may not yet have sufficient experience with similar topics. Therefore, teaching should include information that helps students understand the issues addressed in the work so that they are able to comprehend the content and argue in favour of their position. For example, according to Amber M. Simmons (2012, 22–34), Suzanne Collins’ 40 The Hunger Games is an ideal tool for stimulating literacy and social engagement among young people, provided that the reading is supplemented with lecture materials focusing on global issues (famine, forced labour, modern slavery, child fighting, violence against children, etc.). In this way, students can recognise the parallels between the fictional world and reality, learn about real organisations fighting for justice, and possibly get involved in socially beneficial activities themselves. The central phase is discussion. The dilemma is clearly presented and participants are invited to share their initial thoughts. Each participant decides independently how they would act in the given situation and argues in favour of their position, while reflecting on their own moral reasoning and that of others. Possible solutions are discussed in groups, taking into account different perspectives, which promotes the development of empathy, the ability to understand opposing views and to re-evaluate one’s own position. An essential aspect is the effort not to stop at a basic understanding of the main idea of the text, but to encourage readers to form well-reasoned opinions. They must have the opportunity to discuss and compare their positions with their classmates, with the teacher acting as a mediator to guide the discussion and provide additional information related to the topic. The teacher’s task is not to provide the correct solution, but to develop the participants’ ability to argue, encourage equal participation, ensure a safe 40 Since its publication, The Hunger Games has earned a place as a seminal work of modern fiction, and thanks to its timelessness, it is often incorporated into school curricula in the United States (Ames 2013, 10). 147 environment for expression, and keep the discussion within the boundaries of the chosen topic (Lind 2019, 102). The key arguments and outcomes of the discussion are summarised at the end. Participants integrate their newly acquired knowledge into their understanding of moral dilemmas. After the discussion, each individual has the opportunity to change their decision, this time taking into account the arguments they have heard. Changing one’s decision is not the primary goal, but a valuable indicator of the development of thinking. The session concludes with a final reflection in which the group shares which moments of the discussion appealed to them the most and which arguments surprised them. The recommended length of a single session is 80–90 minutes to give students enough time to fully understand the core of the dilemma and think through their arguments. The most effective way to structure the curriculum is to include a smaller number of lessons over a longer period of time, with one lesson every two or three weeks being a suitable interval (Lind 2006, 192; Lind 2019, 104). Another possible example from pedagogical practice was presented by Váchová (2023), who developed a six-hour teaching framework using dystopian literature, part of which was implemented in a Year 9 primary school class (the target group was 15 pupils of mixed gender). Using selected excerpts from the YA dystopias The Giver [1993] by Lois Lowry and The Grace Year [2019] by Kim Liggett, she presented the importance of human rights, which proved to be quite challenging for this age group. In her subsequent reflection on her own case study, Váchová recommends not choosing the topic of human rights on an ad hoc basis, but using it as an introduction to a deeper exploration of the issue. The lesson also revealed a negative feature that we had expected, namely a strong social impact and the adaptation of opinions to the group. “The boys supported each other in the view that equality (between men and women) is not important, which is why the boys’ groups ranked this right last, while the girls’ groups ranked it very high. This was apparently encouraged by mutual provocation, with the boys deliberately provoking the girls by saying that women belong in the kitchen” (Váchová 2023, 75). The results of this research confirm the initial hypothesis that adolescents are highly malleable and that their value and cognitive structures are shaped by external stimuli. It appears that without adequate mentoring, adolescents may interpret the text superficially or distortedly, while the presence of an adult moderates their perception and provides context, which can help to form a balanced world-view. Váchová’s method takes a different approach in this respect, as it prioritises the educational dimension aimed at the general enlightenment of young