Reading Ted Chiang’s "Story of Your Life"

It’s been a long time since reading a fiction left my mind in a blissful state of blankness. Right now I’m stunned, almost speechless, just like what I usually feel upon witnessing something of utter beauty that exceeds my expectation and goes beyond my imagination.

Story of Your Life is a … sci-fi, if you have to put a label on it. In some sense, it is a “first contact” kind of story, with the arrival of mysterious aliens and everything. And there is no shortage of scientific and linguistical jargons that may serve as a hard blow on the self-esteem of an average non-native English speaker (like myself). And yet, it is, at its core, a human story, about the human heart.

The author is uncannily masterful in balancing and weaving together two topics that, on surface, contradict one another. Half of this story is about a creative hypothesis (or multiple hypotheses) based on scientific findings and logic; another half is about love, emotions, familial relationships, and (for lack of a better word) life philosophy. I can’t posit what a typical reader thinks about these things; I can only speak for myself. I am, as a scientist, naturally drawn to “what if” fantasies with sound factual foundations; when I’m not working, I am fascinated by almost all kinds of explorations (or explanations) of the human psyche, more specifically, the way we perceive the physical world and our own experiences. This short fiction, I suppose, checks a lot of boxes on my mental list.

I’m not an expert on reviewing fictional literature. But my guess is, you have to start somewhere when you write about a book you’ve just read. The thing is, it is challenging to decide on a starting point, from all those highlights of the story. It is somewhat ironic, considering that the story is, in part, about a non-linear written language that can be read starting from anywhere. In a way, it is so neatly constructed that singling out one point would break down the perfect loop of storytelling, let alone spoil the plot unnecessarily.

Whoops. I already mentioned the written language thing, didn’t I? So the matter can’t be helped either way. Let’s start there and see how things go, then.

Truth be told, when I first read about the non-linearity and semasiographic nature of the heptapod written language in the story, I immediately thought of my mother tongue, Chinese. It is an interesting coincidence that the author, Ted Chiang, has a Chinese ancestry, though it is unclear if he drew the inspiration from a language possibly spoken by some of his family members. Of course, Chinese, being a human language, is obviously dissimilar to a fictional alien language, but the writing system, the organization of individual characters, is indeed non-linear and two-dimensional, and the writing of a fair proportion of morphemes in Chinese does not directly inform their pronunciations.

“Maybe they think our form of writing is redundant, like we’re wasting a second communications channel.” The author gave this line to one character of the story. I laughed, and then felt bad for laughing, when reading it. The joke would most certainly get lost on people who have learned only alphabetical languages—in my native language, written words bare a considerable significance and carry important information which cannot be conveyed by sounds alone. A normal daily conversation conducted in Chinese frequently involves one party asking “which word is that” and the other party describing the writing of the character(s) in question for clarification. It might even be said that two “communications channels” are utilized, although these two channels often overlap.

I’ve probably reached the point where I should apologize for potentially offending certain groups of people. The (possibly excessive) discussion of my first language is simply intended as a demonstration of the variability of forms of linguistic systems. A complicated, or information-efficient, language is not superior to others; it is merely different from one with linear writing, clear punctuations (which, incidentally, ancient Chinese didn’t have), and pronunciations spelled out. What a different language can do, though, is much more fascinating.

In short, the language we use shapes our mind. It is not an invention by the author; it is a finding made by the linguistics/psychology/neuroscience community.

It is perhaps more understandable to say that languages reflect our world-views. Societies that have disparate experiences or perceptions develop linguistic systems that exhibit disparate characteristics. But then, during the process of language acquisition, the linguistic system in turn influences a person’s consciousness, forming a collection of basic, “default” perception settings. Such “mind alternation” takes place again when an individual learns a second (or third, or fourth, etc.) language—the brain gets “re-wired” when a new set of linguistic skills are acquired.

And then enter the author’s ingenious sci-fi ideas: What if there exists a species that perceives the world not chronologically, but simultaneously? What if they see events not as causes and effects, but as necessary rituals toward fixed destinations? And, what if their language, which reflects their version of world-view, is learned by a human being?

Under the brilliant and skillfully represented sci-fi shell, the true question is: does the inevitability of the end negate the meaning of the experience?

Louis, the main character and narrator of the story, gradually obtains the entire memory of her life and her daughter’s life while deciphering and learning the heptapod written language, and thus becomes aware of the end of everything (pertaining to herself, of course). In the middle of the story, there is a rather philosophical thought experiment about the intrinsic conflict between knowledge of the future and free will. Any serious argument I can attempt would definitely end up with one paradox or another, so I will not go there. But then, to some extent, we all know the future: every one of us, with the exception of some not-yet-existing medical miracle, is destined to our demise, since the day of birth.

So, does the inevitability of death negate the meaning of our life?

My very bold guess is, no.

Then if we dare to extend that logic to other (not that life-or-death, pun-intended) issues, we might say the following: the potential (or in some cases, inevitability) of things going sideways or spinning out of control or ending up as colossal failures should not prevent us from paying attention, trying our best, and enjoying the process.

That is, I believe, what Louise eventually chooses to live by. It is quite debatable whether such principle leads to “an extreme of joy, or pain”, as asked by Louise at the end of the story. I am, however, confident (not at a level of 95% though) to say that it should help us achieve a “maximum human experience”.