What works well in these stories is the outsiders’ view of humanity and its irrational and often perverse individual and social behaviors. Odd John’s early life is especially appealing in a vicarious way, because, as the supremely precocious naïf, he is able to skewer the banality and the vacuity of established social norms and goals. What becomes difficult to perceive with the same pleasure are the loftier aims that Odd John and his cohorts adopt when they are on their island home. Even as the narrator—himself just an admiring Fido—is perplexed by the final suicidal actions of the supermen, so are this novel’s readers. While we might conceive all sorts of ways that the supermen could hide themselves away until they manage to extend themselves and their thoughts out into the universe, to make contact with higher intelligences, we have to assume—because, after all, they’re much brighter than we can even imagine—the supermen have chosen wisely, instead, to end their lives, and apparently their search for something of more value (spiritual?) than a continued mortal existence with humans. What could they have been thinking? Fido certainly didn’t know, and we readers can only speculate that they somehow knew best…
Sirius scales down the alienation, and makes the super intelligence of a dog equivalent to that of a human. From this perspective, we come to understand a good deal about the sensory limitations of humans, and about Sirius’ great envy and despair: man’s ability to manipulate things, literally, with his hands. This story is more poignant than Odd John simply because the aspirations of Sirius can be imagined, as well as his frustration and estrangement. What Stapledon does especially well in this novel is establish Sirius’ longing to understand his purpose, which as with Odd John is—within the scope of normal human enterprise—outside human experience. Sirius is a four-legged animal whose evolution has made him, first, a great predator and second, a willingly amiable companion to another species. Sirius feels himself wrenched out of his evolutionary track, caught between the two worlds—no longer a dog and not quite a man—and his instinct when frustrated in earning his place with humans is to revert to his canine impulses, whilst his human intelligence also suggests to him that there is a plane (definitely spiritual!) that exists for all sentient life. More poignancy and disgust erupts in the latter third of the novel when Sirius becomes the source of fearful curiosity and speculation that escalates into a malevolent fear of his difference.
In a stolid, sometimes stilted workmanlike prose, Stapledon tells two fascinating stories that enable a reader to take stock of humankind, to question what it is to possess intelligence and still live so much guided by irrationality. While each novel makes of mob mentality an especial nastiness, Stapledon does render some individuals with particularly sympathetic characteristics (Pax, Odd John’s mother; and Plaxy, Sirius’ human sister). I think it significant that Stapledon came to express these sentiments so vehemently at the dawn and in the midst of the Second World War—when the political landscape was rife with fear of socialism, communism, fascism, and totalitarianism—though probably Stapledon would deplore the seduction of the oxymoronic “mob mentality” in any era.
(A sidebar: I read just before these novels William Styron’s Confessions of Nat Turner, and it is eerie just how similar are the circumstances of Styron’s version of Nat Turner and the super dog Sirius.)