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The premise of Stanislaw Lem’s Solaris (1961) is not unusual: on a small isolated planetary research station, scientists exploring the nature of alien life begin to suspect they are being threatened in some way. What makes Solaris unique are three things: 1) Lem’s treatment of the premise (nuanced, philosophical, detailed), 2) the nature of the threat (lifelike simulacra from the scientists guilty pasts have begun to appear at their sides), and 3) the nature of the planet Solaris (it is uninhabited, consisting of one planetary ocean, where the only sentient life-form is itself.)

Psychologist Kris Kelvin arrives at the research station to find things in disarray. Gibarian, the only one of the three scientists he knew, has recently committed suicide, and the other two, Snow and Sartorius, seem suspicious and withdrawn. Kelvin researches the history of Solaris, how humans have described and interpreted its waves, and how they have attempted not only to influence those movements but also to communicate with whatever intelligence lies beneath. His research gives him much to think about, but he only begins to realize what the other two scientists already know when his visitor arrives: Rheya (or something that looks just like her), an earth-girl who committed suicide years ago, after a lover’s quarrel with Kelvin.

The overall theme of the book appears to be the woeful inability of humanity to communicate with an alien consciousness, but subsidiary themes undermine and complement it as well. Are these simulacra human or not? If, not, what are they? Are they creations of the ocean? If so, are they research tools, weapons, or messages? Or are they semi-independent, sentient entities brought to life by the scientists� grief and regret, acting upon the susceptibilities of ocean? One of the purposes of the book also seems to be both a celebration and appreciation of humanity, sparked by the magnificent ingenuity of science—its nuanced descriptions of phenomena, its elegant speculations. This nuance and elegance seems to suggest that there is just a little basis for hope, if only man can step out of his shell, and begin to see things from an “oceanic� perspective.

The three things I liked most about this book are: the character of Rheya, how she shows herself both human and not human (a theme reminiscent of Philip K. Dick) ; the elaborate, fantastic descriptions of the waves; and the final scene involving a tactile encounter between Kelvin and the ocean itself. Rheya’s almost-humanity permeates much of the fabric of the narrative, so you must discover her mystery for yourself. The other two themes are more easily represented by extracts.

First the waves. Here is a partial—only partial!--description of the wave-structure called the “symmetriad�:

The symmetriads . . . are the least “human� formations, which is to say that they bear no resemblance whatsoever to anything on Earth . . . It is not their nightmare appearance that makes the gigantic symmetriad formations dangerous, but the total instability and capriciousness of their structure, in which even the laws of physics do not hold. The theory that the living ocean is endowed with intelligence has found its firmest adherents among those scientists who have ventured into their unpredictable depths.

The birth of a symmetriad comes like a sudden eruption. About an hour beforehand, an area of tens of square miles of ocean vitrifies and begins to shine . . . . The gleaming sheath of the ocean heaves upwards to form a vast ball that reflects sky, sun, clouds and the entire horizon in a medley of changing, variegated images. Diffracted light creates a kaleidoscopic play of color.

. . . The immense flaming globe has scarcely reached its maximum expansion above the ocean when it bursts at the summit and cracks vertically. It is not breaking up; this is the second phase, which goes under the clumsy name of the ‘floral calyx phase� and lasts only a few seconds. The membraneous rches soaring into the sky now fold inwards and mergeto produce a thick-set trunk enclosing a scene of teeming activity. . . . The mind-bending architecture of this central pillar is held in place by vertical shafts of a gelatinous, almost liquid consistency, constantly gushing upwards out of wide crevasses . . . . Simultaneously the gelatinous geysers are converted into mobile columns that proceed to extrude tendrils that reach out in clusters towards points rigorously determined by the over-all dynamics of the entire structure: they call to mind the gills of an embryo, except they are revolving at fantastic speed . . . .

And here is a passage from the final pages, when Kelvin, ready to leave Solaris, comes to the beach “to acquaint myself with the ocean�:

I went closer, and when the next wave came I held out my hand. What followed was a faithful reproduction of a phenomenon which had been analyzed a century before: the wave hesitated, recoiled, then enveloped my hand without touching it, so that a thin covering of “air� separated my glove inside a cavity which had been fluid a moment previously, and now had a fleshly consistency. I raised my hand slowly, and the wave . . . rose at the same time, enfolding my hand . . . I stood up, so as to raise my hand still higher, and the gelatinous substance stretched like a rope, but did not break. The main body of the wave remained motionless on the shore surrounding my feet but not touching them, like some strange beast patiently waiting for the experiment to finish. A flower had grown out of the ocean, and its calyx was moulded to my fingers. I stepped back. The stem trembled, stirred uncertainly and fell back into the wave . . .