MEASURING WORTH: Identity, Intelligence, and the Emotional Cost of Transformation in Flowers for Algernon

for Algernon

In the article “The Tragedy of Intelligence: Disability and the Ethics of Enhancement in Flowers for Algernon,” Ellen M. McCracken argues that Daniel Keyes’ story – Flowers for Algernon – critiques society’s obsession with intelligence by showing how it can lead to exclusion and emotional harm. She suggests that the main character, Charlie Gordon, and his transformation aren’t just about gaining intelligence but also about how society measures a person’s worth based on their cognitive abilities. McCracken points out that “Charlie is rejected as both a ‘moron’ and a genius – his personhood becomes legible only through how others measure his usefulness” (McCracken 125). She emphasizes that the novel challenges scientific hubris by demonstrating how attempts to “fix” individuals with intellectual disabilities often lead to emotional harm, reinforcing rather than dismantling social hierarchies.

Conversely, in his essay “Science Fiction and the Technological Imagination,” Robert Scholes interprets Flowers for Algernon as a modern myth about the Promethean pursuit of knowledge. Scholes asserts, “Charlie’s rise in intelligence mirrors humanity’s own desire to transcend nature – and his decline serves as the necessary reminder that such ambition often carries tragic consequences” (Scholes 57). He frames Charlie’s journey not in terms of disability politics but as a classic narrative arc of enlightenment and fall.

However, I would argue that both critics overlook Charlie's emotional labor in mediating between others’ expectations and his evolving self-concept. What makes Flowers for Algernon powerful is not just its critique of intelligence or its mythic structure, but its deep interrogation of relational identity: how a person’s selfhood is constructed, eroded, and reshaped through their relationships with others, especially in a society obsessed with measurement.

Flowers for Algernon was first published as a short story in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in 1959 and later expanded into a novel in 1966. The narrative follows Charlie Gordon, a 32-year-old man with an IQ of 68, who undergoes an experimental surgery to increase his intelligence. The procedure had previously been tested on a lab mouse named Algernon. As Charlie’s intelligence grows, he becomes acutely aware of his transformation's social and emotional costs. The story is told through Charlie’s “progress reports,” which chronicle his intellectual ascent and eventual regression, providing a poignant look at the human desire for acceptance and understanding.

Both McCracken and Scholes offer valuable insights into the novel. McCracken’s attention to the politics of disability is crucial – Charlie’s treatment by others before and after his enhancement is shaped by ableist assumptions. His co-workers at the bakery mock him when he is “slow” and fear him when he becomes “too smart”. Even the scientists, Dr. Strauss and Professor Nemur, see him as little more than a test subject, highlighting the dehumanization McCracken identifies. Scholes, meanwhile, is right to identify the archetypal qualities of Charlie’s arc. The Promethean metaphor resonates throughout the text: Charlie seeks fire in the form of knowledge, only to be burned by it. Charlie’s final reports, written in the fragmented, phonetic language of his pre-surgery self, carry the weight of mythic tragedy. The power of the story partly lies in its double function – as a parable of scientific ambition and a critique of its human cost.

However, neither scholar sufficiently addresses the emotional labor Charlie performs. Charlie’s transformation isn’t just physical or intellectual – it’s relational. As his intelligence grows, so does his awareness of how others perceive him, and he must navigate the discomfort of being caught between two selves. He remembers how people treated him before, and now he sees their condescension clearly: “Only a short time ago, I learned that people laughed at me. Now I can see that unknowingly I joined them in laughing at myself. That hurts the most” (Keyes 75). However, as a genius, he is equally isolated. He cannot connect with Miss Kinnian, whom he once loved, and he feels alienated from both former friends and intellectual peers stating that “Now I understand one of the most important reasons for going to college and getting advanced education is to give you ideas that will make you unpopular” (Keyes 105). The novel is ultimately not about intelligence, per se, but about the cost of failing to belong at either end of the spectrum. This emotional whiplash – moving from invisibility to hypervisibility, from inclusion to exclusion again – is the real tragedy of Charlie’s journey.

Moreover, Charlie is not merely a subject of science or a stand-in for humanity’s ambition; he is a person who must continually interpret and reinterpret his value in a world that offers him no stable identity. He internalizes others’ expectations so thoroughly that even in his brief window of genius, he doubts his worth unless it is validated externally. He laments, “I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone” (Keyes 115). This dilemma cannot be captured fully by disability politics of myth alone – it speaks to the emotional exhaustion of trying to conform to others’ standards of worth. The real narrative is not about intelligence or decline but emotional survival. Charlie becomes a mirror for society’s projections: when he is “simple,” he is pitied; when he is brilliant, he is feared; and when he regresses, he is abandoned. The story critiques not only science or society, but also the contingent nature of love, respect, and recognition.

focus on the societal valuation of intelligence highlights how Charlie is treated differently based on his cognitive abilities. Before the surgery, he’s mocked and pitied; afterward, he’s feared and isolated. Scholes’ comparison to the Promethean myth effectively captures the narrative’s exploration of the dangers of unchecked ambition and the ethical dilemmas posed by scientific advancement. These perspectives underscore the novel’s critique of a society that equates intelligence with human worth.

However, neither scholar fully addresses the emotional complexities Charlie experiences. As his intelligence increases, Charlie becomes more aware of how others perceive him, leading to feelings of alienation and loneliness. He realizes that his co-workers, who once seemed friendly, were actually mocking him. Even as a genius, he struggles to connect with others, including Miss Kinnian, highlighting the emotional toll of his transformation. The novel delves deeply into the psychological impact of Charlie’s changing identity, which is a crucial aspect that deserves more attention.

Furthermore, Charlie’s journey isn’t just about gaining and losing intelligence; it’s about his struggle to find a sense of self in a world that constantly redefines his value. He internalizes society’s expectations and grapples with feelings of inadequacy, regardless of his intellectual state. This emotional journey is central to the narrative, emphasizing the importance of empathy and human connection over cognitive ability. The novel challenges readers to consider the true meaning of intelligence and the societal structures that define it.

Some may argue that Flowers for Algernon is best understood through the lens of medical ethics or scientific caution, and that emotional themes are secondary. This view often frames Charlie as a warning about overreaching science, emphasizing his deterioration as proof that we shouldn’t “Play God”. Others, particularly within disability studies, may object to the notion that Charlie’s desire for intelligence is itself tragic – that it implies life with an intellectual disability is inherently inferior. These are valid concerns. Indeed, one of the risks of reading the novel too sentimentally is overlooking the harm done by framing disability as something to be escaped. However, acknowledging Charlie’s emotional trajectory doesn’t negate the critique of ableism – it complicates it. His pain is not because he was intellectually disabled, but because he was never allowed to exist on his own terms. The novel does not say that intelligence makes life better; it says that living in a society that refuses to love you as you are makes life unbearable.

This debate matters to me because it asks what makes life meaningful, and who gets to decide. I first read Flowers for Algernon in high school, when I was beginning to understand how much I loved reading science fiction. Re-reading it now, I’m struck by how little we’ve changed as a society: we still measure people in metrics – IQs, productivity, utility – and still fail to see the full humanity of those who fall outside the bell curve. Charlie’s story is a reminder that intelligence is not a guarantee of happiness or dignity. What we need, as readers and as people, is not smarter individuals, but more compassionate systems. Keye’s novel endures because it forces us to confront the human cost of our values – and to imagine what it would mean to love people not for who they could become, but for who they already are.

Works Cited

Keyes, Daniel. Flowers for Algernon. Harcourt, 1966.

McCracken, Ellen M. “The Tragedy of Intelligence: Disability and the Ethics of Enhancement in Flowers for Algernon.” Journal of Literary and Cultural Disability Studies, vol. 4, no. 2, 2010, pp. 123–138.

Scholes, Robert. Structural Fabulation: An Essay on Fiction of the Future. University of Notre Dame Press, 1975.

Brieana Elise Branton  is a botany student at Purdue University with a global perspective shaped by her roots in Melbourne and upbringing in Singapore. Passionate about plant science and environmental sustainability, she currently works in a research lab, where she studies mycology. Brieana brings a curiosity-driven approach to her work, blending hands-on research with a deep appreciation for the natural world. Outside the lab, she’s always looking for ways to connect science with everyday life—whether through writing, exploration, or community engagement.