I have a lot of fun questioning distinctions, definitions, and binary thinking in my debut contemporary fantasy novel Strange Animals. What is the difference between monster and animal, science and magic, humanity and nature? What happens when such questions stop being academic and show up in the aftermath of a fatal accident to trade you an acorn for the moment of your death? Boundaries that once seemed black-and-white start to become much less trustworthy.
My love of slippery categorization was especially clear when we discussed my novel’s defining characteristics and the word “creepy” was paired with “cozy,” and “fantasy” stood alongside “nature-writing.” I’m perfectly happy with this. Most ideas that feel true to me carry at least a hint of paradox; many of the characters I love in fantasy and sci-fi are the same.
As a lifelong nature-nerd, I can feel a tingle of kinship resting my hand on a patch of moss or watching a gray catbird flit through the branches of my neighbor’s black walnut tree. That feeling of kinship hints at a broader, unifying characteristic of life that transcends both diversity of form and our many methods of survival in this big, strange, living world we share.
So, narrow portrayals of humanity’s essential place in the universe feel kinda superficial to me, especially in the context of Earth’s breathtaking biodiversity and the many enduring mysteries of our interconnected planet. I think that’s one reason I’ve always been drawn to speculative fiction; these are stories that can sniff out truths beyond the restrictive confines of bare fact.
Give me stories in which “human” is a fluid concept and non-human doesn’t mean lacking agency, personality, or dignity. In this vein, here are seven books that explore and complicate definitions of humanity and personhood by visiting the outer boundaries of such terms.
Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer
This novel has loomed large for me ever since I read the opening words while standing in a Columbus, Ohio bookstore with zero idea of what to expect. “The tower, which was not supposed to be there, plunges into the earth in a place just before the black pine forest begins to give way to swamp….” I was instantly hooked. The tower isn’t supposed to be there. Towers aren’t supposed to lead beneath the earth. Few things in the novel’s Area X are supposed to be the way they are, and we can include our protagonist, the biologist, in that list. Notably, she struggled with being what she was supposed to be well before venturing into the reality-bending wilds of Area X. She’s used to being an outsider. Perhaps that’s why she meets the changes she undergoes with a scientist’s curiosity, even as the strange landscape consumes her colleagues and erodes the boundaries of her humanity. The nature in Area X isn’t exactly real nature, not quite, yet it is clearly written with a naturalist’s loving perspective; this, for me, offsets some of the book’s horror elements in fascinating and compelling ways that seem to run parallel to our protagonist’s own complex attitudes concerning her ongoing transformation.
Piranesi by Susanna Clarke
Annihilation gives us a character in the process of becoming part of a strange landscape. In Piranesi, we meet a man who has already undergone that process and is faced with the mystery of how he has been changed and what it has cost him. Here again, our main character faces an overtly horrific premise, isolation within vast and desolate halls of towering, weathered statues intermittently flooded by rushing tides of seawater. And, here again, our protagonist’s viewpoint complicates the horror, insisting that, “The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite.” All the while, he works to piece together his own nature and the character of the broader world (if any such world lies beyond his halls). When the tide brings him a leaf, he wonders if trees exist; none are present in his home or memory. Yet, the many statues depict endless scenes and concepts beyond the confines of Piranesi’s home. From wildlife encounters to human remains to mysterious visitors, Piranesi’s world of linked halls is rich in clues, omens, and lingering questions about the nature of his existence.
Every Heart a Doorway by Seanan McGuire
When a fairytale door opens and calls you away from your childhood to be reshaped by otherworldly adventure, how could you ever endure a return to your old, commonplace life? Well, for many of the characters in the novella Every Heart a Doorway, the answer is… not easily and not happily. Eleanor West’s Home for Wayward Children seeks to be a refuge for those enduring just such a return. Our main character, Nancy Whitman, has returned unwillingly from the Halls of the Dead and she misses the stillness, the sense of belonging, and the sober, elegant orderliness. Nancy meets other residents who were shaped by worlds of vibrant nonsense or fairytale adventure or gothic monsters. The diversity of the characters’ stories, ordeals and personalities, highlights the connections they form and their shared humanity. If the first two books on my list explore journeying toward and navigating transformative otherness, here we have a story of people who have returned from such travels pushing to find common ground with one another.
The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab
One especially great way to complicate your relationship with humanity and identity is to make a Faustian bargain with personified darkness to gain immortality at the cost of never again being remembered by anyone. It’s a solid strategy. Addie has escaped the ticking-clock of death and now has time to experience all the richness of life that she feared to miss. Yet, to what degree is mortality a defining attribute of humanity? And how do we build our understanding of self when we are unable to be a part of anyone else’s story? I understand my identity and my place in the world through narrative, both the stories I tell myself and the ways in which I see my actions reflected in the tales of others. Addie is forgotten utterly the moment a person leaves the room. So, for centuries, she suffers the solitary confinement of her own mind and personal narrative, with no enduring connection beyond the fickle attention of the creature who granted her ill-fated wish. This novel is a compelling exploration of stubborn hope and the power of memory and story to shape our sense of self. Do we truly have the power to define our own character? How much do we rely on others to shape our understanding of the evolving story of our identities and our worth?
Grendel by John Gardner
Ok, so Grendel is a legit monster. He’s an old-school monster, a genuine classic. In John Gardner’s 1971 novel, we revisit the story of Beowulf from Grendel’s lyrical, angsty perspective. In doing so, we contemplate what it means to be a villain to the human world and ask some big philosophical questions about the nature of existence, otherness, destiny, and the purpose of any life. As a guy who chose to focus on Satan’s role in Paradise Lost for his literature master’s thesis, I’m a real sucker for a sympathetic anti-hero and stories that question the merits of our traditional “good guys.” This novel absolutely scratches that itch. Gardner pairs the poetic with the horrific in a way that complements Grendel’s doubts about the conventional bounds of good and evil, hero and monster. Meanwhile, in asking us to try on a disturbing and compelling non-human perspective, the book entices us to consider how we are influenced by acceptance of (or friction with) narrative frameworks outside of our control.
All Systems Red by Martha Wells
The self-named Murderbot finds itself in a new world of choice and agency after managing to hack the governor module that once compelled its obedience. This new freedom leads to a secretive rebellion in the form of… endlessly watching soap operas. This feels familiar to those of us who have called off work for a mental health day to couch-rot with our favorite shows. Beyond its binge-watching, Murderbot also navigates taking ownership of choice, autonomy, and perhaps personhood in a society primed to see it as nothing more than a human-shaped gun. Part organic and part robotic, designed to seem somewhat human, but explicitly non-human, Murderbot is a deeply liminal figure. Sci-fi action movie nerds (like me) will detect whiffs of Robocop, Universal Soldier, and The Terminator (among others), while enjoying the subversion of those aggrandizements of violence. Murderbot’s charming cynicism also seems to poke fun at some of the more heady contemplations of artificial personhood we get in stories like Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. The novella is a fun exploration of how we build our sense of self and the tension between obligation, expectation, and autonomy in our self-made stories of identity.
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
This is sorta like recommending the movie Jaws. Not exactly a hot take, I know, but I love this novel. I tend to read it once a year, usually when the weather turns snowy. Sometimes, a book really earns its status as a classic, and this is one of those times. Shelley chose three lines from Paradise Lost as an epigraph for her story: “Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay / To mould me man? Did I solicit thee / From darkness to promote me?” These lines from the poem are Adam saying, “hey, I didn’t ask to exist.” Relatable. And certainly relevant to Dr. Frankenstein’s creation as the creature’s inherent curiosity and optimism are worn down by a growing understanding of the fundamental natures of both his world and the man who stitched him into it. You probably notice that I’m celebrating a few recurring elements in this list: horror subverted by beauty and poetry; identity as a personal craft; journeys outside traditional human spaces/limits; exploration of non-human concepts of personhood. Frankenstein has all of these elements (and a little something extra for fans of flowery early 19th century writing). If you struggle with the language, try an audio version and give yourself permission to just let the words wash over you whenever the old-fashioned-ness becomes a hurdle.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jarod K. Anderson is a strange mix of fantasy nerd, nature writer, podcaster, poet, and erstwhile academic. He once accidentally picked up a rattlesnake and has slept in the branches of a maple tree more than most writers. He created and voices The CryptoNaturalist, a podcast about real love for imaginary nature, and has published three books of poetry as well as a memoir about his lifelong struggle with depression and the healing power of the natural world. He has an MA in early modern English literature and insists he’s more fun than that makes him sound. He lives with his wife and son in a little white house tucked between a park and a cemetery.