Can Science Be Ethical Without Story?

 

   

Abstract

Science produces knowledge and technological power, but it cannot inherently produce ethical understanding. This paper argues that literature functions as a moral technology, cultivating empathy, ethical imagination, and human-centered reflection, thereby making science morally accountable. Using Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go as a primary case study, alongside real-world developments in genetic engineering, CRISPR, and artificial intelligence, the study shows how literature anticipates ethical dilemmas and makes readers consider human consequences before they occur. Theoretical insights from Martha Nussbaum (Poetic Justice), Paul Ricoeur (Oneself as Another), and Hans Jonas (The Imperative of Responsibility) support the argument that narrative enables moral reasoning that science alone cannot provide. By framing literature as an ethical laboratory, this paper demonstrates that responsible science requires not only empirical knowledge but imaginative engagement with human experience, showing that stories are essential tools for cultivating ethical awareness in technological societies.

Keywords: Literature and science; Moral technology; Ethical imagination; Narrative ethics; Genetic engineering

Introduction

In an era of rapid scientific advancement, humanity increasingly faces questions not just of what we can do, but what we should do. Scientific discoveries—ranging from genetic engineering and CRISPR to artificial intelligence—offer unprecedented power, yet they do not inherently provide guidance on ethical responsibility. The consequences of these technologies often extend beyond empirical calculations, affecting human lives, societies, and moral frameworks in ways that data alone cannot anticipate.

Literature, by contrast, cultivates what can be called ethical imagination: the capacity to empathize, anticipate consequences, and reflect on human values. Through storytelling, readers engage with moral dilemmas in simulated scenarios, experiencing the human cost of scientific action without living it firsthand. This paper argues that literature functions as a moral technology, bridging the gap between scientific capability and ethical responsibility. Using Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go as a primary case study and examining real-world scientific examples, this study explores how narrative enables ethical awareness, demonstrating that science without story risks action divorced from conscience.

Conceptual Framework: Literature as Moral Technology

The concept of “moral technology” positions literature not merely as art or entertainment but as a tool that cultivates ethical awareness. Just as scientific instruments extend human capacity to measure, observe, and manipulate the natural world, literature extends the human capacity for empathy, moral reasoning, and ethical foresight (Nussbaum). Through narrative, readers engage with simulated experiences that reveal the consequences of actions, explore moral dilemmas, and challenge assumptions about right and wrong (Booth).

Paul Ricoeur’s theory of narrative identity emphasizes that stories allow individuals to imagine themselves in the place of others, negotiating ethical responsibilities in a mediated space (Ricoeur). Similarly, Nussbaum argues that literature trains the moral imagination by placing readers in complex social and emotional contexts, fostering empathy and ethical judgment (Nussbaum). By situating literature as a cognitive and ethical tool, narratives function as a laboratory for moral experimentation, enabling reflection on the ethical dimensions of scientific progress before real-world consequences manifest (Jonas).

Limits of Scientific Rationality in Ethics

While science provides powerful tools for understanding and manipulating the natural world, it operates primarily on empirical reasoning, data, and efficiency. Scientific methods excel at answering how things work but offer little guidance on whether actions are morally right or just. Decisions based solely on scientific rationality risk overlooking human values, emotional consequences, and long-term ethical implications (Latour).

Technological advancements, from genetic engineering to artificial intelligence, illustrate this limitation. For example, CRISPR enables precise genome editing, raising questions about designer babies and inequality that scientific data alone cannot resolve (Harari). Similarly, AI systems can optimize decisions efficiently but often perpetuate bias, discrimination, or unintended harm, revealing a gap between technical capability and ethical responsibility (Haraway).

Hans Jonas argues that science and technology demand an ethical framework to guide their application, emphasizing responsibility toward future generations (Jonas). Without integrating narrative and ethical reflection, scientific progress risks acting independently of conscience, highlighting the necessity of literature as a tool for moral imagination.

Literary Case Study: Never Let Me Go

Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go presents a chilling vision of a society in which human clones are created solely for the purpose of organ harvesting, highlighting the moral and emotional consequences of scientific progress conducted without ethical reflection (Ishiguro). Through the lives of Kathy, Tommy, and Ruth, the novel foregrounds the tension between scientific capability and human dignity, exploring how individuals subjected to utilitarian rationales experience fear, loss, and constrained agency. Ishiguro’s narrative emphasizes the internal moral cost for both the clones and the society that exploits them, illustrating that scientific rationality divorced from empathy produces profound ethical failures.

The novel’s exploration of cloned individuals’ emotional and social experiences parallels contemporary debates in genetic engineering, CRISPR technology, and bioethics. For example, advances in genome editing present the possibility of “designer babies” or genetically modified humans, raising questions of consent, inequality, and long-term societal consequences (Harari). In this context, Ishiguro’s narrative functions as a moral laboratory, allowing readers to experience the stakes of scientific interventions in a mediated, imaginative space. By humanizing abstract scientific concepts, the novel cultivates ethical awareness, helping readers anticipate dilemmas that empirical science alone cannot illuminate (Nussbaum).

Furthermore, Ishiguro demonstrates how literature enables reflection on collective responsibility. The society that exploits the clones rationalizes its actions as serving the greater good, yet the narrative exposes the profound ethical costs of ignoring the humanity of those affected (Ricoeur). By engaging readers’ empathy and moral imagination, Never Let Me Go provides a model for how storytelling can mediate the ethical application of scientific power, showing that ethical thinking emerges not from knowledge alone, but from the lived experience of human consequences as conveyed through narrative.

How Literature Produces Ethical Thinking

Literature functions as a unique tool for ethical reflection by immersing readers in complex human experiences, allowing them to engage with moral dilemmas in a safe, imaginative space. Unlike science, which provides knowledge and predictive power, literature cultivates empathy and moral imagination, enabling readers to anticipate consequences and consider the ethical dimensions of actions before they occur (Nussbaum). Through identification with characters, readers experience the emotional and moral stakes of situations that are otherwise abstract or remote, bridging the gap between intellectual understanding and ethical sensibility (Ricoeur).

In Never Let Me Go, Ishiguro enables readers to inhabit the consciousness of clones whose lives are predetermined by scientific imperatives. This narrative engagement encourages readers to confront ethical questions about human dignity, consent, and the cost of utilitarian science in a way that empirical evidence alone cannot achieve (Ishiguro). By simulating moral consequences, literature creates a form of ethical rehearsal: readers develop the ability to imagine the human impact of scientific and technological interventions, from genetic editing to artificial intelligence, fostering moral reasoning and foresight (Harari).

Moreover, literature cultivates collective ethical awareness. By presenting readers with situations where societal norms clash with individual rights, narratives highlight the consequences of actions at both personal and systemic levels (Booth). Ethical thinking emerges as readers reflect on the responsibilities of individuals, institutions, and societies, encouraging moral engagement that informs real-world decision-making. In this sense, literature operates as a moral technology: it transforms abstract ethical principles into lived experience, equipping readers to approach scientific and technological advances with both knowledge and conscience (Jonas).

How Literature Produces Ethical Thinking

Literature functions as a unique tool for ethical reflection by immersing readers in complex human experiences, allowing them to engage with moral dilemmas in a safe, imaginative space. Unlike science, which provides knowledge and predictive power, literature cultivates empathy and moral imagination, enabling readers to anticipate consequences and consider the ethical dimensions of actions before they occur (Nussbaum). Through identification with characters, readers experience the emotional and moral stakes of situations that are otherwise abstract or remote, bridging the gap between intellectual understanding and ethical sensibility (Ricoeur).

In Never Let Me Go, Ishiguro enables readers to inhabit the consciousness of clones whose lives are predetermined by scientific imperatives. This narrative engagement encourages readers to confront ethical questions about human dignity, consent, and the cost of utilitarian science, illustrating the human consequences of unchecked technological power (Ishiguro). Modern scientific developments mirror these dilemmas. For instance, CRISPR gene-editing technology raises concerns about “designer babies,” genetic inequality, and long-term unforeseen consequences (Harari). Similarly, artificial intelligence systems increasingly make decisions affecting human lives—such as hiring algorithms, facial recognition, and predictive policing—but without narrative or moral context, these systems can perpetuate bias and injustice (Haraway).

By simulating moral consequences, literature functions as an ethical rehearsal: readers learn to anticipate the human impact of scientific and technological interventions before they occur. Moreover, literature cultivates collective ethical awareness by presenting scenarios where societal norms clash with individual rights, emphasizing responsibilities at both personal and systemic levels (Booth). In this sense, literature operates as a moral technology, translating abstract ethical principles into lived experience, equipping readers to approach modern science with both understanding and conscience (Jonas).

Conclusion

Science equips humanity with immense power, enabling us to manipulate nature, edit genomes, and create intelligent machines. Yet scientific capability alone does not ensure ethical action. Without reflection on human consequences, technological advances risk causing harm, perpetuating inequality, and undermining human dignity (Jonas). Literature, as this paper has demonstrated, functions as a moral technology, cultivating empathy, moral imagination, and ethical foresight. Through narrative, readers experience the human consequences of actions in a mediated space, allowing society to anticipate dilemmas before they manifest in reality (Nussbaum; Ricoeur).

Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go exemplifies this role, portraying clones whose lives are sacrificed for utilitarian scientific ends, compelling readers to reflect on ethical responsibility and the human cost of technological progress (Ishiguro). Modern developments, such as CRISPR gene-editing and artificial intelligence systems, echo the ethical challenges depicted in the novel: questions of consent, bias, inequality, and unforeseen consequences highlight the necessity of ethical foresight (Harari; Haraway).

In conclusion, science without narrative risks action devoid of conscience, while literature provides the imaginative and moral framework necessary to guide responsible innovation. By integrating storytelling into our understanding of scientific practice, society can cultivate ethical awareness alongside technological progress, ensuring that human values remain central in shaping the future.

How Literature Produces Ethical Thinking and Its Modern Relevance

Literature functions as a unique tool for ethical reflection by immersing readers in complex human experiences, allowing them to engage with moral dilemmas in a safe, imaginative space. Unlike science, which provides knowledge and predictive power, literature cultivates empathy and moral imagination, enabling readers to anticipate consequences and consider the ethical dimensions of actions before they occur (Nussbaum). Through identification with characters, readers experience the emotional and moral stakes of situations that are otherwise abstract or remote, bridging the gap between intellectual understanding and ethical sensibility (Ricoeur).

In Never Let Me Go, Ishiguro enables readers to inhabit the consciousness of clones whose lives are predetermined by scientific imperatives. This narrative engagement encourages readers to confront ethical questions about human dignity, consent, and the cost of utilitarian science, illustrating the human consequences of unchecked technological power (Ishiguro). Real-life events mirror these dilemmas: the CRISPR babies controversy in China raised similar questions about consent, long-term health, and ethical responsibility (Harari).

Beyond genetics, literature anticipates ethical challenges in other domains of modern science and society. Orwell’s 1984 forewarned about mass surveillance, which resonates with the revelations of NSA spying and widespread data collection (Orwell; Snowden). Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 anticipated censorship and suppression of knowledge, reflected today in government restrictions on digital content (Bradbury). Eggers’ The Circle predicted the ethical dilemmas of corporate overreach and privacy violations in big tech, paralleling modern controversies over social media and behavioral tracking (Eggers). Asimov’s I, Robot explored AI autonomy and unintended consequences, prescient of algorithmic bias in predictive policing and autonomous vehicles (Asimov). Even McCarthy’s The Road anticipated ethical questions around environmental collapse and survival ethics, now visible in climate change and global resource crises (McCarthy).

By simulating moral consequences, literature functions as an ethical rehearsal: readers learn to anticipate the human impact of scientific and technological interventions before they occur. Furthermore, literature cultivates collective ethical awareness, highlighting conflicts between societal norms and individual rights, and emphasizing responsibilities at both personal and systemic levels (Booth). In this sense, literature operates as a moral technology, translating abstract ethical principles into lived experience, equipping readers to approach modern science with both understanding and conscience (Jonas).

Works Cited

Asimov, Isaac, et al. I, Robot. By Super Science Stories and Astounding Science Fiction, ekladata.com/-Byix64G_NtE0xI4A6PA1--o1Hc/Asimov-Isaac-I-Robot.pdf.


Eller, Jonathan R., editor. RAY BRADBURY: NOVELS and STORY CYCLES. By Library of America, Library of America, 2021, web.english.upenn.edu/~cavitch/pdf-library/Bradbury_Fahrenheit_451.pdf.
Booth, Wayne C. The Company We Keep: An Ethics of Fiction. University of California Press, 1988. Scribd, www.scribd.com/document/718996372/Wayne-C-Booth-The-Company-We-Keep-an-Ethics-of-Fiction-University-of-California-Press-1989. Accessed 5 Mar. 2026.


Eggers, Dave. The Circle. Alfred A. Knopf, 2013. Mondothèque, https://www.mondotheque.be/wiki/images/c/cc/Dave_Eggers_The_Circle.pdf. Accessed 6 Mar. 2026.


Harari, Yuval Noah. Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow. Harper, 2016.

Ishiguro, Kazuo. Never Let Me Go. Vintage, 2005.

Gray, Rockwell. Human Studies, vol. 11, no. 4, 1988, pp. 419–29. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20009038. Accessed 5 Mar. 2026.

McCarthy, Cormac. The Road. OceanofPDF, 2006. https://oceanofpdf.com/authors/cormac-mccarthy/pdf-epub-the-road-by-cormac-mccarthy-download/. Accessed 6 Mar. 2026.
Haraway, Donna J. Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. Routledge, 1991. Monoskop, https://monoskop.org/images/f/f3/Haraway_Donna_J_Simians_Cyborgs_and_Women_The_Reinvention_of_Nature.pdf. Accessed 6 Mar. 2026. 

Latour, Bruno. Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society. Harvard University Press, 1987. Scribd, https://www.scribd.com/document/208008818/Latour-Bruno-Science-in-Action. Accessed 6 Mar. 2026.

Nussbaum, Martha C. Poetic Justice: The Literary Imagination and Public Life. Beacon Press, 1995. Internet Archive, archive.org/details/poeticjusticelit0000nuss/mode/1up. Accessed 6 Mar. 2026.

Orwell, George. 1984. Harvill Secker, 1949.

Ricoeur, Paul. Oneself as Another. University of Chicago Press, 1992. PhilPapers, https://philpapers.org/rec/RICOAA-4. Accessed 6 Mar. 2026.

Snowden, Edward. “NSA Spying Revelations.” The Guardian, 2 Dec. 2013, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/dec/02/snowden-fallout-us-uk-liberty-nsa-spying. Accessed 6 Mar. 2026.


Habermas, Jürgen. The Future of Human Nature. Translated by William Rehg, Max Pensky, and Hella Beister, Polity Press, 2003. Monoskop, https://monoskop.org/images/3/36/Habermas_J%C3%BCrgen_The_Future_of_Human_Nature_2003.pdf. Accessed 6 Mar. 2026.

Academia, Apparently: Where Critical Thinking Goes to Take a Holiday

Being in academia sometimes feels like rage bait.

Every day, something happens that makes you wonder whether you are actually inside an educational institution or merely trapped in a very elaborate social experiment designed to test how much nonsense a person can hear before their eye starts twitching.

And the irony is that academia is supposed to be the place where we question things.

We are supposed to debate.

We are supposed to disagree.

We are supposed to challenge authority, examine social structures, question assumptions, and—heaven forbid—have opinions of our own. But apparently, there is a handbook somewhere that says critical thinking is encouraged only when it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable.

• Apparently, Women Are Still a Syllabus Topic

People are invited to schools and colleges to speak about serious subjects such as addiction, education, youth, morality, and social responsibility.

And somehow, miraculously, the conversation finds its way back to women.

More specifically, how women should be good daughters, good wives, good sisters, good mothers, and good whatever society currently requires them to be.

Because apparently, even a discussion about addiction cannot escape the urgent national emergency of teaching women how to behave.

The misogyny is sometimes so deeply embedded that people don't even recognise it anymore.

At one such discussion, a speaker apparently gave an example about a young girl who went to a fair, bought a doll, and then bought a dupatta for the doll.

And nearly 35 people applauded.

Thirty-five.

What exactly were we applauding?

• A child playing with a doll?
• A piece of fabric?
• Or the idea that a girl putting a dupatta on a doll is somehow evidence that she is learning how a “good woman” should behave?

Because apparently, even a child's toy needs a dress code now.

Why must a girl's clothing become a moral lesson?

Why does a dupatta have to represent modesty, virtue, femininity, or obedience?

A girl playing with a doll is a girl playing with a doll.

But somehow, we repeatedly turn women's clothes, bodies, relationships, sexuality, and behaviour into moral examinations.

And then we wonder why women grow up believing that they are constantly being watched and evaluated.

• Apparently, Some Politicians Are Above Criticism

You can discuss almost anything in an academic setting until you accidentally say something critical about someone's favourite politician.

Then suddenly, the atmosphere changes.

Nobody has to explicitly tell you to shut up.

That's the interesting part.

It's an unspoken rule.

An unspoken warning.

A strange little invisible boundary that everyone seems to know exists.

You learn:

• Which names are safe.
• Which opinions are acceptable.
• Which criticisms will make the room uncomfortable.
• Which subjects you should avoid.

Eventually, you start censoring yourself before anyone even has to censor you.

But why?

Why aren't students supposed to have their own opinions?

Isn't academia supposed to encourage disagreement?

If I disagree with a politician, why should that be treated as some kind of personal betrayal?

If students can't question politicians, institutions, social norms, religious authority, or even their teachers, then what exactly are we teaching them?

That critical thinking is acceptable only when the conclusion has already been approved?

That isn't education.

That's obedience with a degree attached.

•  A Teacher's Brilliant Career Advice

And then comes another story.

A teacher who teaches sociology once had the audacity to tell a woman colleague that the best way for a woman to build a career is to marry a wealthy man.

A teacher.

I almost admire the commitment to irony.

Imagine teaching sociology—a subject that deals with society, inequality, class, gender, family, institutions, and power—and then telling an educated woman that her best career strategy is to find a rich husband.

Forget:

• Education.
• Qualifications.
• Examinations.
• Fellowships.
• Teaching positions.
• Research.
• Professional experience.

Apparently, the academic career plan is:

Step 1: Find a rich man.

Step 2: Marry the rich man.

Step 3: Congratulations. Career achieved.

And the funniest part is when people confidently give career advice without even understanding the structure of the profession they are advising someone about.

Women don't need husbands as career plans.

They need:

• Education.
• Opportunities.
• Fair pay.
• Professional respect.
• Financial independence.
• Freedom of choice.

And most importantly, they need the freedom to decide whether marriage is even something they want.

A woman's husband is not a résumé.

Marriage is not a government job.

And a wealthy husband is certainly not a substitute for a career.

•  Then We Invite Spiritual Gurus to Teach Young People How to Live

This one genuinely fascinates me.

Schools and colleges invite Swamis and Sadhus to speak to students about life, morality, discipline, relationships, responsibility, success, and spirituality.

And I have a genuine question:

How does someone who has deliberately renounced ordinary family life automatically become the unquestionable authority on how young people should navigate ordinary family life?

To be clear, choosing a spiritual life is a personal decision.

If someone genuinely wants to leave worldly life and dedicate themselves to spirituality, that's their choice.

But if you've deliberately stepped away from ordinary responsibilities involving family, career, relationships, finances, and domestic life, why should that automatically make you an expert on how everyone else should manage those very things?

Students are dealing with:

• Career anxiety.
• Education.
• Unemployment.
• Family pressure.
• Financial problems.
• Relationships.
• Social expectations.
• The uncertainty of becoming an adult.

And then someone who has chosen to live outside many of those realities is brought into a college and presented as a life guru.

Questioning that isn't disrespect.

It's literally the critical thinking we're supposedly trying to teach students.

• The Sacred Academic Philosophy: “Money Isn't Important”

This is perhaps my favourite.

Especially when it comes from someone earning ₹1 lakh or more a month.

“Money isn't important.”

Beautiful.

Inspirational.

Profound.

And then comes the historical evidence:

“When we were freshers, we used to teach for free.”

Yes.

You did.

Thirty years ago.

The economy has changed.

• The cost of living has changed.
• Housing has changed.
• Education has changed.
• Employment has changed.
• Healthcare has changed.
• Inflation has changed.

But apparently, the calendar has not moved since your youth.

I have just one small request.

If money truly isn't important, please skip one month's salary.

Just one.

No need to resign.

No need to become a monk.

Just let that month's salary remain in the institution's account and experience the beautiful spiritual freedom of discovering that your electricity bill, groceries, rent, medical expenses, and other obligations apparently also believe that money isn't important.

Because I absolutely love the way people romanticise their own struggles and then prescribe those struggles to everyone else.

•  “We Managed With Less” Is Not an Economic Argument

“When we were young, we managed with less.”

Wonderful.

But you were young then.

People are young now.

Your economic circumstances were not necessarily the same as theirs.

Not everyone has the same life.

Some people are:

• The sole breadwinners of their families.
• Supporting their parents.
• Paying medical bills.
• Paying rent.
• Paying loans.
• Funding further education.
• Travelling long distances to work.
• Building a career without a financial safety net.

And yes, some people buy books.

Some buy skincare.

Some order clothes.

Some buy something simply because they like it.

Shocking.

Apparently, once you become financially responsible, you're supposed to survive exclusively on academic PDFs, moral superiority, and oxygen.

But somehow, the person delivering this lecture can comfortably enjoy their own salary and lifestyle.

• “I Survived Without It” Does Not Mean “Nobody Needs It”

This distinction is important.

“I survived without it.”

and

“Nobody needs it.”

are not the same sentence.

Your life is not an economic textbook.

Your struggles are not universal law.

You survived your circumstances.

Congratulations.

But that doesn't mean everyone else should be forced to reproduce them.

If you had to work for free thirty years ago, I'm genuinely sorry.

But today's young teachers don't have to work for free simply because you did.

Progress means the next generation gets better conditions than the previous one.

We should not romanticise hardship simply because someone survived it.

Suffering is not a professional qualification.

Skip a month's salary.

We'll wait.

I'm sure the electricity company will be deeply moved when you explain that money is merely an illusion.

•  The Problem Isn't Religion, Politics, or Tradition. It's Hypocrisy.

This isn't an argument against:

• Religion.
• Spirituality.
• Politicians.
• Older generations.
• Tradition.
• Different personal values.

The problem is hypocrisy.

The problem is when personal beliefs become universal rules.

When women are expected to follow moral standards that men aren't held to.

When a woman's clothing becomes a measure of her character.

When someone preaches detachment while being deeply attached to power.

When someone preaches simplicity while enjoying luxury.

When someone preaches humility while demanding unquestioned respect.

When someone tells young people that money doesn't matter while comfortably collecting their own salary.

When someone tells women to marry wealthy men instead of developing their careers.

When an academic institution invites a speaker and then treats everything that speaker says as sacred instead of allowing students to question it.

And perhaps most disturbingly, when an entire room applauds these ideas.

•  Applause Matters

Applause isn't meaningless.

It tells young people which ideas are socially acceptable.

It normalises things that should be questioned.

It teaches students what they are expected to believe before they have even had the chance to form their own opinions.

So what exactly is education supposed to do?

I don't want an academic institution where everyone agrees with me.

That would be boring.

I don't want every speaker to have the same worldview.

That would be pointless.

And I certainly don't want students to blindly agree with professors, politicians, religious figures, or even me.

I want students to question.

Invite the Swami.

Let him speak.

Then let students ask uncomfortable questions.

Invite the politician.

Let them speak.

Then let students criticise their policies.

Invite the professor.

Then let students disagree with their arguments.

Talk about morality.

Then allow students to ask who created those moral standards—and whom they benefit.

Talk about women.

Then allow women to say:

“I don't agree.”

Talk about money.

Then allow young professionals to say:

“Actually, I need enough of it to live.”

That is education.

•  What Academia Should Actually Teach

Education isn't supposed to manufacture obedient people.

It is supposed to create people capable of thinking for themselves.

A woman should not need to be a good daughter, wife, sister, and mother before she is allowed to be considered a good human being.

A young teacher should not have to apologise for wanting a decent salary.

A student should not be afraid to criticise a politician.

A religious figure should not become immune to questions simply because they wear certain clothes.

And a person's age does not automatically turn their past into universal wisdom.

Maybe the greatest lesson academia can teach is a very simple one:

You are allowed to question me.

You are allowed to disagree.

You are allowed to say that something doesn't make sense.

You are allowed to challenge traditions.

You are allowed to challenge authority.

You are allowed to have political opinions.

You are allowed to want money.

You are allowed to want a career.

You are allowed to buy books.

You are allowed to buy skincare.

You are allowed to want marriage.

You are allowed to reject marriage.

You are allowed to be a woman without constantly being evaluated according to how well you perform somebody else's idea of femininity.

And perhaps most importantly:

You are allowed to think.

Because if academia cannot tolerate disagreement, then perhaps the real subject we need to introduce isn't another lecture on morality.

It's Critical Thinking 101.

And judging by some of the things being applauded in these rooms, apparently, we need to make it compulsory.

The Great Romance Reader Trial

As an English Literature student, I began my reading journey with fanfiction. To some readers, that might sound like something I should be ashamed of—but I don't think it is.

Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, and I believe I have learned a great deal from reading fanfiction.

This blog is about why books that contain smut are so often dismissed as "porn." More importantly, it is about the judgment I have experienced as a reader.

---

. "I don't consider romance or contemporary novels to be literature. I don't read them. I only read classics like Dostoevsky, Kafka, and the like."

"I don't read romance or contemporary fiction. I only read classics like Dostoevsky and Kafka."

Wonderful. Please continue. I wasn't standing outside your house confiscating copies of Crime and Punishment.

What fascinates me is that after reading authors who spent entire novels exploring human complexity, empathy, alienation, and freedom, some readers still arrive at the conclusion that the greatest literary crime is... someone enjoying romance.

Kafka wrote about oppressive systems. Dostoevsky wrote about the contradictions of human nature. Yet somehow, the lesson people take away is, "Your bookshelf needs my approval."

It's almost poetic.

It's funny how people act as if classics are too refined for sex. Have we forgotten Lady Chatterley's Lover, Fanny Hill, or The Miller's Tale? Classics have been writing about sex, desire, adultery, and passion for centuries.

Apparently, if a dead author writes it, it's "a profound exploration of human sexuality." If a contemporary romance author does, it's "just porn."

The content hasn't changed nearly as much as people's willingness to respect it.

You can read every page Kafka and Dostoevsky ever wrote, but if you still believe you're entitled to police other people's bookshelves, you've collected their books—not their ideas.

---

2. "If you like romance, why don't you just read classic romance? Read Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, Tolstoy... not modern romance."

I sincerely apologize for not possessing the extraordinary vocabulary apparently required to understand only classics. Perhaps one day I'll achieve that level of literary enlightenment where reading one genre automatically qualifies me to look down on another.

I have nothing against classics. In fact, I enjoy them. Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, and many other classic authors have written remarkable stories. But why is it that the moment someone enjoys modern romance, they're told to abandon it and "graduate" to classics, as if reading were a school syllabus?

Here's a revolutionary idea: I can read Jane Austen and Emily Henry. I can enjoy Charlotte Brontë and Ali Hazelwood. Literature isn't a loyalty program where choosing one genre means forfeiting another.

---

3. "Modern romance books with smut are basically porn."

Smut: A slang term for fiction that contains explicit sexual content. In romance literature, "smut" usually refers to novels that include consensual intimate scenes as part of the story, rather than being solely focused on sexual content.

By that logic, every murder mystery is a step-by-step guide to committing murder. Every crime thriller is a manual for becoming a serial killer. Every courtroom drama is a law textbook. Every fantasy novel is evidence that dragons exist.

See how ridiculous that sounds?

The word porn gets thrown around so casually that it has almost lost its meaning.

Pornography isn't just an insult for books you don't approve of. It is a real industry with real people. It has faced serious criticism over exploitation, coercion, trafficking in some cases, and the existence of child sexual abuse material (CSAM)—crimes involving real victims.

And yet, people look at a fictional romance novel between consenting adult characters and confidently say, "It's basically the same thing."

No, it isn't.

One involves real human beings. The other involves fictional characters. One raises serious ethical and legal concerns. The other is a work of fiction.

You don't have to enjoy smut. You don't even have to read it. But if every book with an explicit scene is automatically "porn," then perhaps the problem isn't the book—it's the definition you're using.

Words matter. Especially when those words describe industries and crimes that have real victims.

It's interesting how explicit content is treated differently depending on the medium.

Game of Thrones contains nudity, explicit sex scenes, and violence, yet most discussions revolve around its politics, world-building, and characters—not simply, "It's porn."

Video games such as The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Cyberpunk 2077, Baldur's Gate 3, Mass Effect, and Dragon Age include romance options and explicit or suggestive scenes. Yet they're praised for their storytelling, gameplay, and world-building.

So why is it that when a romance novel includes consensual intimacy, the entire book is suddenly reduced to one word?

Perhaps the problem isn't the existence of explicit content. Perhaps it's that romance novels—especially those written by and for women—are held to a different standard.

---

5 "You read dark romance? That's a red flag."

Yes, I started reading dark romance. And I hate to disappoint anyone expecting a simple answer, but dark romance is not merely a collection of hot billionaires, timid heroines, and dramatic staring contests in expensive penthouses. The genre often explores obsession, power, manipulation, trauma, moral ambiguity, revenge, fear, desire, and the darker corners of human psychology. It is called dark for a reason.

That doesn't mean every book in the genre is good, and it certainly doesn't mean every relationship portrayed in it is healthy. While reading, I have also come across books that disguise abuse as romance and present controlling or violent behavior as something desirable. Those stories deserve criticism.

Ironically, dark romance has not taught me to romanticize abuse; if anything, it has made me question how often abuse is normalized in real life. We grow up hearing phrases like, "He's mean because he likes you," "Jealousy is a sign of love," or "If they control you, they care about you." Many of us have encountered unhealthy dynamics outside of fiction long before we ever opened a dark romance novel.

Reading a story about a toxic relationship is not the same as wanting one. People watch crime dramas without becoming criminals and read tragedies without wishing for tragedy. Fiction allows us to explore fear, desire, conflict, and human flaws from a safe distance.

So no, my bookshelf is not a criminal record. It is simply a collection of stories—some beautiful, some disturbing, some thought-provoking, and some terrible. And perhaps that's what reading has always been: an opportunity to encounter different worlds while deciding for ourselves which values we carry into our own lives.

---

6. "There are some books that deserve criticism."

Yes, there are books I would never defend.

I will never justify stories that romanticize rape, child abuse, grooming, or any form of sexual violence. Fiction can explore these subjects, but there is a difference between portraying abuse and glorifying it.

If a book presents abuse as love, consent as optional, or exploitation as something desirable without any critical perspective, then it deserves to be questioned.

That doesn't mean every dark or disturbing book should be banned. Literature has always explored the darkest parts of humanity. But readers also have the right to criticize books that handle those subjects irresponsibly.

My issue has never been with criticism. My issue is with lazy criticism.

Read the book. Understand what it's trying to say. Then criticize it for what it actually is—not for the genre it belongs to.

Because if we're going to judge books, let's judge them fairly—not by the assumptions we've made before turning the first page.

---

7. "You're delusional because you read romance novels."

Let's start with the definition.

A delusion is a fixed false belief that a person continues to hold despite clear evidence that it isn't true. It's a psychological term—not an insult to throw at someone because they enjoy fiction.

Now, tell me—who's more delusional?

The person who reads about a ridiculously attractive billionaire, a mafia boss, or a prince and knows they're reading fiction...

...or the person who genuinely believes that every romance reader is looking for one in real life?

I've never finished a romance novel, closed the book, and thought, "Right. Time to find a six-foot-four mafia billionaire with a private jet."

That's not how fiction works.

I know the difference between fantasy and reality. That's precisely why I enjoy reading it.

Do I think every man will write me love letters, remember the little things, hold my hand when I'm overwhelmed, make me tea when I'm sick, listen to me for hours, communicate honestly, and fight for the relationship the way many fictional heroes do?

No.

I know life is far messier than fiction.

I'm not saying all men are incapable of love. I'm saying I haven't personally witnessed any relationships around me that reflect the kind of emotional effort, communication, tenderness, and mutual respect I enjoy reading about.

And maybe that's exactly why I read romance.

Not because I believe it's a blueprint for reality.

But because fiction allows us to explore hope, vulnerability, devotion, and emotional intimacy in a way that real life doesn't always provide.

People watch superhero films without expecting to fly.

People play video games without expecting to become assassins.

People read murder mysteries without planning a crime.

But somehow, when a woman reads romance, she's suddenly incapable of separating fiction from reality.

Now that sounds a little delusional.

AND YOU CAN ALWAYS SKIP THE SMUT!

Bye!

 

Not a Temple, Definitely a Gutter!

Gutter or Temple? A Moral Metaphor for Society

Today, while coming back from college, I was sitting in the bus when I overheard a conversation. An auntie sitting nearby, who seemed educated and thoughtful, asked a simple question: What would you be, a temple or a gutter?

From the way she spoke, I understood that her meaning was spiritual. The temple, for her, represented purity, goodness, and a higher , place, while the gutter symbolized dirt and something undesirable. It is a comparison we have all grown up accepting without questioning.

I realized something very basic yet deeply ignored. The gutter is what keeps the temple clean. A temple is visited by many people every day, and with people comes waste. Someone has to carry that away. The gutter does that work silently. We call it impure, yet without it, the temple would not remain clean for long.

This made me think about how we define purity. We often judge by appearance and status, not by function. The gutter looks dirty, so we label it impure. The temple looks sacred, so we glorify it. But in reality, it is the gutter that performs the act of cleaning.

That is where this metaphor goes beyond places and enters society. Many people are treated like gutters. They question, they expose, they absorb blame, and they do the uncomfortable work of keeping society honest. They are rarely respected. At the same time, some people are turned into temples. They are admired, praised, and placed on a pedestal, even when society is simply dumping its responsibility and moral mess onto them.

In this blog, I use the gutter and the temple as a moral and social metaphor. It is not about spirituality alone, but about how we assign value to people. Sometimes, what we call impure is actually doing the work of purification. And sometimes, what we worship survives only because someone else is carrying away its dirt.

I realized later that what struck me was not the question itself, but the meaning behind it. When the auntie spoke about choosing between a temple and a gutter, her idea was clearly spiritual. For her, the temple meant purity and goodness, while the gutter stood for dirt and something to be avoided. That is how most of us are taught to think.

But the more I thought about it, the more the meaning reversed for me.

In my understanding, the gutter is the one that carries away society’s dirt. It does the work no one wants to acknowledge. It takes in the waste, the blame, the mess, and keeps everything else clean. In human terms, the gutter is the person who speaks uncomfortable truths, calls out hypocrisy, and refuses to pretend. These people are often labeled bad, rude, negative, or problematic, even though they are the ones preventing rot.

The temple, in contrast, becomes the place where people dump their dirt. Glorified figures, respected personalities, leaders, gurus, and idols often function like temples. People project goodness, morality, and holiness onto them, not necessarily because they deserve it, but because society needs somewhere to place its guilt and responsibility.

When I map this onto human behavior, a clear pattern appears. The gutter is ethical but hated. The temple is admired but often hollow.

History keeps repeating this. Whistleblowers are called traitors. Rebels are judged as immoral. Truth-tellers are silenced. Meanwhile, charismatic or powerful figures are placed on pedestals, becoming temples where people unload their moral confusion.

Being a gutter is not easy. You do not get worship or praise. You get dirt, accusations, and isolation. But you also stop decay from spreading.

Being a temple is much easier. People clean themselves symbolically by dumping blame, sin, and responsibility onto you. You remain pure in public imagination, even when reality says otherwise.

If I have to choose, I would rather be a gutter. Cleaning society feels more honest than being worshipped by a society that refuses to clean itself. And perhaps the most dangerous people are those treated as temples, because once we start worshipping them, we stop questioning them.

The Family 

In families, this metaphor appears very clearly. There is often one person who plays the role of the gutter. This person notices patterns, names emotional neglect, questions control, or speaks about abuse and silence. They are told they are ruining peace, creating drama, or being disrespectful. Slowly, they become the problem in everyone’s eyes.

At the same time, there is usually a temple figure. This could be a parent, an elder, or a “good” family member whose image must remain untouched. The family dumps its fear, denial, and shame onto silence in order to protect this figure. Even when harm exists, it is easier to blame the one who speaks than to question the one who is respected.

The gutter carries the emotional waste so the family can look clean from the outside.

Sexual Abuse

This metaphor becomes even more uncomfortable when we look at sexual abuse.

In many cases, the survivor is treated like a gutter. When a woman speaks about abuse, society often responds by questioning her character, her clothes, her timing, or her intentions. She is asked why she spoke now, why she stayed silent before, why she trusted someone. All this questioning is a way of dumping society’s discomfort onto her.

Meanwhile, the abuser often functions like a temple. If he is respected, educated, religious, successful, or powerful, people rush to protect his image. They say he has a good reputation, a family, a future. Society dumps its fear of accountability onto the survivor so that the temple remains untouched.

In this process, the survivor carries the dirt that society refuses to clean.

Politics 

Politics might be the clearest example of this metaphor.

Whistleblowers, activists, and journalists who expose corruption are treated like gutters. They are called anti-national, disruptive, negative, or dangerous. They are blamed for instability, not the corruption they reveal. Society throws its frustration and fear onto them.

Politicians, on the other hand, are often turned into temples. People project hope, morality, and even divinity onto leaders. Their mistakes are justified. Their crimes are explained away. People dump responsibility onto them and then feel morally clean just by supporting the right side.

As long as the temple stands, people feel safe, even if the structure is rotten inside.

Across families, gendered violence, and politics, the pattern remains the same. The gutter is punished for revealing dirt. The temple is protected because it absorbs society’s need to look clean.

Writing this makes me realize that the question is not whether we admire gutters or temples. The real question is whether we are brave enough to recognize who is actually cleaning and who is simply being worshipped.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

Ever since I started reading books, the first name anyone ever recommended to me was the Shatter Me series by Tahereh Mafi. It has 11 books in total (6 main books and 5 novellas).

This is not a review blog because if I start writing about Aaron Warner, I will probably end up writing more pages than Tahereh herself.

Aaron Warner has always been the one character I truly resonate with. He is my favourite kind of character. Delusional, intense, and beautifully complicated. If he ever calls me delusional, I would honestly take it as a compliment because I aspire to be delusional like him.

There are many lines spoken by Warner, but the one that pulled me into Tahereh’s universe was something I saw in a reel years ago.

The line was: “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

I loved it instantly because it was tattooed on Aaron’s skin. At that time, I did not think deeply about it. I simply assumed Tahereh had written it.

Later, I found out it is originally from Shakespeare’s play The Tempest.

And obviously, being Aaron Warner’s girl, I felt the need to read the original source to understand the context behind the words he chose to mark on his body.

So I picked up The Tempest. Some parts made sense to me and some parts were such heavy, English that I just stared at the page without understanding a single thing.ut something did become clear to me. The meaning of the line changes completely once you know where it comes from.

The Tempest: When the Line Appears

The line appears in Act 1, Scene 2. It is spoken by Ariel, but he is actually repeating what the terrified sailors shouted during the magical storm created by Prospero.

They believed they were about to die.

So in Shakespeare’s story, the line is born from fear, panic and helplessness. It captures a moment when humans think hell has opened and released its devils into their world.

Prospero, the rightful Duke of Milan, is betrayed by his brother Antonio. He and his daughter Miranda are exiled to an isolated island. There, Prospero learns magic and gains the loyalty of the spirit Ariel. When the story begins, Prospero summons a violent storm to bring his enemies to the island. The play deals with betrayal, revenge, illusions, forgiveness and the darker sides of human nature.

In the middle of this chaos, the sailors scream the iconic line, believing evil forces are attacking them.

Meanwhile, in the Shatter Me series

Aaron Warner Anderson lives in a dystopian future controlled by the Reestablishment. Juliette has a deadly touch she cannot control. Warner becomes obsessed with her from the very beginning, and obsessed is honestly too soft of a word.

He gets shot by Juliette in the shoulder and still smiles because to him that one bullet means she chose to keep him alive. That moment alone explains his mind more than any analysis ever could.

Warner’s childhood shaped the darkness inside him. His father abused him psychologically, emotionally and physically. Every bit of softness inside him was punished until he was forced to build himself into something cold enough to survive.He did not choose to be a devil. The world chose it for him.

There is also the machete scene where Warner kills almost ten men while protecting Juliette. The writing becomes almost magical realistic, as if the violence happens in slow motion inside a dream. The entire series has that surreal poetic tone. It makes every moment feel bigger than reality.

Warner’s Tattoo

In Shatter Me, the line “Hell is empty and all the devils are here” does not appear in fear. It appears as identity. Warner tattoos it on himself because he knows exactly what the world thinks he is. A monster. A devil. A threat.

He is not running from the devils like the sailors in The Tempest. He has become one because he survived things that should have destroyed him.

That is what struck me the most.

In The Tempest, the line is spoken by someone who is scared of the devils.

In Shatter Me, the line belongs to the one everyone is scared of.

One side is fear.

The other side is evolution.

One voice trembles.

The other stands unshaken.

Shakespeare wrote it as a cry for help.

Warner wears it as a reminder of everything he endured.

LYHFM

Fan art by @TABBIESART

Aristotle's generation of animals

 If you are an English literature student, you know the drill open Aristotle’s Poetics, revise mimesis, catharsis, hamartia, close the book, go cry. But today, for reasons unknown to the gods, I took a tiny detour and opened Aristotle’s Generation of Animals.

This blog is basically everything I learned  and everything I cannot unlearn ,from Aristotle’s deeply confident, wildly incorrect, and highly imaginative theories of reproduction. 

Aristotle’s Reproduction Theory, or “Men Provide Divine Fire, Women Provide Vibes”

Imagine You open Aristotle’s Generation of Animals, expecting maybe some neutral biological observations, some ancient Greek curiosity, maybe even a few cute descriptions of animals laying eggs.

Aristotle comes in with the confidence of a man who has never been wrong in his life  and begins the entire subject of reproduction with a cosmic TED Talk on “form” and “matter.”

The Male = Form, Fire, Blueprint, Soul

According to Aristotle, when a man contributes semen, he isn’t giving a biological substance (because Aristotle thinks semen has no actual matter in it).

Instead, he believes:

• The male gives the form
• The form shapes the whole organism
• The form carries the “vital heat,” the organizing force
• Basically, the form tells the universe:
  “This is going to be a boy. With eyebrows. And a nose. And personality.”

To Aristotle, the male is not just contributing DNA 

he’s contributing the cosmic architecture of life.

This is not biology.

This is Greek mythology wearing a lab coat.

The Female = Materia, Raw Material, Building Blocks of Life

Now comes the female role in reproduction, according to the same man:

• Women provide matter
• Which, in his theory, is basically modified blood
• They give the material, but not the instructions
• They are the passive ground on which the male’s “form” can act

In Aristotle’s imagination, this looks like:

• Man = divine sculptor
• Woman = clay

He saw women’s bodies as biological construction sites, waiting for a man’s “blueprint” to activate them.

And the funniest part? He says all this with zero irony.

The same man who dissected animals with careful detail suddenly turns into a spiritual motivational speaker when talking about males.

“Men give the soul. Women give the building material.”

That’s the essence of his theory.

In modern terms, it sounds like:

• Men: “I bring the software, the code, the operating system, the Wi-Fi.”
• Women: “Here is the hard drive….?”

If you've ever wondered where centuries of sexism got their pseudo-intellectual justification well, Aristotle basically drew the blueprint here.

It’s genuinely wild how confident he was about ideas that are scientifically incorrect, yet philosophically poetic.

He really thought reproduction worked like:

Man: Here is the divine fire.

Woman: Here is the pot. Let’s cook a baby.

Aristotle’s famous claim that “woman is a mutilated man” is one of those moments where you can almost feel the cultural distance between his world and ours. He genuinely believed that women lacked the internal “heat” needed to transform blood into semen, which led him to conclude that men were the fully realized model of humanity while women were an incomplete version. In his framework, men became the “heated,” active principle, while women were cooler, more passive, and therefore not able to perform the same biological function. Reading this today, with our understanding of genetics and reproduction, the theory feels more like a window into ancient limitations rather than a deliberate insult. It’s almost easy to imagine gently telling Aristotle that biology isn’t a hierarchy of “more” or “less,” but a shared process where both bodies contribute equally. His mistake, though enormous in hindsight, comes from a world without microscopes or medical science  a reminder of how far knowledge has grown, and how deeply old beliefs were shaped not by malice, but by the boundaries of their time.