Fumbling and Faltering over Fantasy

Hello Gentle Reader

[ Part I ]

When I was younger my friends were incredible readers. They were the kids, who when they weren’t outside playing with friends, or playing video games, or watching television; where most certainly found tucked away reading a book in quiet solitude. They were voracious readers, who when conversations got drab or boring would turn to the books they were reading and discuss them, like our parents would discuss soap operas. Their mouths scribbled and rattled off names that were exotic and foreign. Each name held the sketches of a character. I’d sit back at first alienated and ignorant of the information being passed around me. They discussed the worlds like they had traveled there, the battles as if they’d seen the ruins and read the histories, and passed judgements on the characters and villains with informed opinions. There was little I could add to these conversations. So I sat back quietly and listened or watched the clouds drift overhead or observed sow thistle and dandelions shudder in the wind. Other times I excused myself and would go home. It’s no fun when you can’t be considered an active participant in the conversation. These foreign lands and exotic countries were personal and private to the books they had read. Seeing as I had not read those books, I was not invited to participate. Eventually my alienation was taken note of. Children are perhaps more perceptive and empathetic then they are previously credited for. Rather than reading the books, my dear friends told me (in condescend and personal way) the stories from books they read. The recounted in great detail battles and wars, and what caused them. They offered character analyses. They went over the history of the ‘ages,’ as they were often called, and discussed what happened in each age, which lead to the current chapter in the saga. Then of course they would listen to my minute, detailed oriented inquiries about the characters, the geography, the history, the cultural differences and the abilities which were abound in the books. I learned about high towers of sorcery, where pupils were trained on the nature and art of magic, and how conjure and compose enchantments; or knights and mercenaries who did battle for honour or for money, elves who were above the mortal squabbling of men, and the mundane toil of other races, gnomes who invent imperfect machines, because perfection only reduces purpose and meaning, and so on and so forth. It was all so bewitching, to sit on the playground and imagine these unique worlds and cultures just forming around the edges of your peripheral eye site, as you imagine them taking shape. At night I would dream about these wonderful worlds of awe. I’d ride on horseback through prairies and fields, through babbling brooks and flowery meadows; or work in a historical capacity, theorizing and documenting the battles and wars fought, through all the rusted armor and weaponry lying scattered about the fields of battle, and occasionally stumble across a bone or skull.

It was always a joy to listen to my friends tell me about these unique worlds found in the books they read; and of course in turn ask questions about the narratives and the stories told, which they enjoyed answering. Eventually I borrowed one of the books, my friends were reading, and while I sat alone in my room that late summer evening, I tried reading it. To my surprise Gentle Reader, I found the book terrible. It did not in the least bit echo the stories that my friends had told me or spun for me. The writing often tried to be high and flowery, while at the same time fell into the vernacular. The characters were as thin as the cheap mass market paperback itself. The author(s) came across as egocentric, and self-centered. It appeared immediately that as a reader I was expected to already know the world presented; the characters within it, and the history which has already happened, and be aware of the current political machinations of the time. Not to mention the books had tasteless illustrated cover art, which appeared chauvinistic with a blatant attempt at sex appeal marketing directed towards pimple faced pubescent boys. The plots were melodramatic, the battles short and the buildup long and drawn out, and any romance or filtration was undercut by how poorly written it was, as it came across as more a slapstick comedy then a tense and sexy mood. But my difficulties with the fantasy genre extended beyond the writing and its marketing. The truth is, I couldn’t grasp the premise. I would sit in my bed and do my best to sound out the spells or better yet the names of the characters, and try to understand the laws and makings of the world; and in the end failed miserably. The premise of magic was never a subject that was offered any elucidation. It was seen as both a natural force, which could be contained and controlled by human laws. Any culture presented in the work was often just a sentence or two and left at that. I returned the books to my friends, who eagerly waited for my review. I always lied. I’d say I enjoyed the novel and thought it was good; but admittedly I preferred when they retold the stories to me, rather than attempting to read them myself. They would return to their fantasy and science fiction novels, while I returned to my own books. I remember at the time reading children’s editions of: “White Wolf,” “Oliver Twist,” and “Moby Dick.” As we got older they continued to read works in the fantasy genre, while I pushed forward and read Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre,” and Charles Dickens “Great Expectations,” before moving onto crime and murder mysteries, before falling back in love with Virginia Woolf, branching into philosophy with Friedrich Nietzsche, then Jean-Paul Sartre (who I had a reader/writer falling out with), and then began to move towards my current reading tastes, which I have yet to stray from.

[ Part II ]

Fantasy and science fiction is rarely read and reviewed here. To this day the land of fantasy is closed off from me. No matter how many times I scale the walls, and sneak through fields and forests, the world refuses to relinquish the joys others seem to find in it. At which point, without further ado, I always depart from their lands and forget about their borders. As for science fiction, their spaces and other planets fail to amaze me or intrigue me, so I won’t be on the latest SpaceX car launch to travel to some far-flung galaxy and explore the world; whereupon I can observe its slow colonization and terraformation, at which point it too can sustain life. But I do retain some curiosity and perhaps even sympathy towards the genres and how they are loved by many in the reading public, before being quickly eviscerated by the ruling literary elite, who refuse to welcome the authors and their work into the pantheon of literature, due to their subject matter being considered subpar, ridiculous, ludicrous, with no real tether or attachment to reality or the present human condition. Now for long periods of time, the writers and the readers accepted this degradation and dismissal. That perspective, however, has changed over the years.

The late Ursula Le Guin, was an adamant defender of the genres, as well as a vocal critic of their unjust ghettoization. This fierce desire to change the perspective and the dynamic did not wane or adjust as she got older—it only grew fiercer. Who could forget her criticism of Margaret Atwood, who preferred her genre defying work(s) such as: “The Handmaids Tale,” “Oryx and Crake,” “The Year of The Flood,” and “MaddAddam,” to be considered speculative fiction rather than science fiction; which she called: “talking squids in space.” The charge of the outrage and backlash was led by Ursula Le Guin, who understood the reasoning behind Atwood’s comments, but remained steadfast and firm in her criticism that Margaret Atwood and others in the literary establishment were so quick to dismiss the merit of science fiction and other genre fictions. Margaret Atwood would later clarify her position (not apologize), and understood how Ursula Le Guin and others would find her comments unnerving even (unintentionally) offensive. The storm settled and Margaret Atwood and Ursula Le Guin would continue their unique relationship as both friends, and contrary opposites of perspective and viewpoints of each other. As she got older, Ursula Le Guin became both grandmother and saint of her ghettoized community, which she continually tried to tear down the walls surrounding it, and see it recognized as a potent literary form of its own merits, not some B-listed, third class hack. Yes, there were those who could be found amongst their midst—but they were not the sole diplomatic representatives and ambassadors of their clan. This is where Ursula Le Guin, gather’s her credit. She was a writer who wrote both: science fiction, fantasy and children’s literature, but treated them with as much seriousness as she would a realistic novel or short story. She embroidered and emblazed her genre fiction work with precautious and human themes, which explored ideas of sociology, anthropology, psychology, gender, philosophy and other unique questions about the human condition, in a more foreign and extreme format, which only fantasy and science fiction could offer.

Ursula Le Guin’s pen turned spear, was often quick to be thrown at perceived threats. In two-thousand and fifteen she turned her criticism towards Kazuo Ishiguro, over his perceived trepidation that some of his readers may have with regards to his recently published novel: “The Buried Giant.” In her strongly worded blog post, the late author, lambasted Ishiguro, for what she saw as a high standing literary recognized writer, who snobbishly looked down on the fantasy genre, he so willing decided to utilize. His curiosity was concerned for his readers; would they follow him on his journey into the unknown post-Arthurian fantasy world he crafted (fit with ogres, pixies, and a slumbering dragon exhaling amnesiac smoke), would they grasp what it is he was trying to discuss, would they have some prejudicial perspective and judgement towards the superficial elements—“Are they going to say this is fantasy?” Ursula Le Guin took the final pondering as the most insulting comment the author could make. Just what was wrong with fantasy? Just what is his, own trepidation towards fantasy? Her curiosity was merely artificial then sincere, as she did not necessarily care what his concern for the word fantasy meant, or more precisely: if the novel is called fantasy where does that leave the career of Ishiguro as a high literary author. She accused his novel “The Buried Giant,” for lacking conviction in imagination, and that the novel merely borrowed surface elements of fantasy, such as mysterious boatmen, ogres in the peripheral, or a slumbering dragon—to set the scene, but lacked the vivid imagination and storytelling of fantasy to be considered fantasy. At best, she provoked, “The Buried Giant,” was just merely literary hackwork; where a literary author borrowed elements and techniques of the genre, with no real understanding of the depth of the narrative, or its unique style. She concluded, that of course Ishiguro’s novel would be well received, and his readers would most certainly run to him, buy his novel and seek to comprehend and understand the message and plot he was trying to convey. Yet, she could not endorse let alone condone the novel. She admired the attempt he made with the novel, but found his lack of conviction towards respecting the fundamental uniqueness of the genre, diminished any attempts at making the novel realize its full potential, and would not receive her endorsement. Her point was made explicitly clear in at the end of her blog post:

“No writer can successfully use the ‘surface elements’ of a literary genre — far less its profound capacities — for a serious purpose, while despising it to the point of fearing identification with it. I found reading the book painful. It was like watching a man falling from a high wire while he shouts to the audience, “Are they going say I’m a tight-rope walker?”’

“The Buried Giant,” initially received mixed and lukewarm reviews (then eventually positive ones). It was, however, later endorsed by the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy Sara Danius, who commented on how much she enjoyed the novel and would recommend it to others, as it explores through parable elements, amnesia and guilt take hold of a society as a whole.

[ Part III ]

Fantasy often requires some explanation, introduction and orientation to the world. The writer must offer some brief overview of the world, from history to geography, as well as anthropology, before introducing main characters and eventually getting the story underway. Some writers are better known for their extensive world building then others; such as J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Terry Pratchett, Ursula Le Guin, and George R. R. Martin. They introduce and intricately weave history, geography and anthropology through their works, far after initial introductions. This has been an issue with me as a failed reader of fantasy. I can’t grasp my head around the quick sketches and minimal vignettes provided, and often require and desire greater elucidation. Tell me more about the geography and the land; inform me about the unique cities salt and peppered on the map; enlighten me with greater detail about the cultures of the people living in this land; notify me of the flora and fauna, their dangers and their unique characteristics. Alas, a writer can only play an imperfect god, and at greater mercy for a harsher god and critic: the reader. Some are willing to disregard any gnawing questions they have and accept the world they have been offered. But I never could and never will. I desire all information. I desire a complete codex or encyclopedia which lists and explains all the details I crave. They are rarely produced, and when they are—to say the least any experience has been underwhelmed.

Another issue with fantasy literature and the genre is its desire for epicism, and its lack of moral complexities. There is always some grand battle or war is to be fought where morality and virtue are to triumph over the immoral and parasitic evil which has infested the world. It is a rather dichotomous perspective, which I find both baring and lacking any philosophical engagement. As a reader and individual, I don’t believe in concrete or explicit terms outlining morals into the supremely just and righteous, and the purely depraved and corrupt. Nothing is truly or inherently evil or extraordinarily moral. As we are continuously reminded in this ever stranger world, sociopathy is a spectrum not a scale—and every individual in some way or another does, possess certain traits considered sociopathic. The difference of course is if someone fixates and willing exploits the traits at the expense of others. In other words: personal and individual choices; not cosmic or universal decree.  The moral standing ground of fantasy literature, it seems, has always been two dimensional.

The other issue I often have with fantasy literature is its lack of daily life depicted and a lack of mundanity to it. Due to the genres desire for epicism and grand scale battles, the daily life of characters and the populace as a whole is often overlooked. But do the characters change their clothes? Do they wash their clothes? Sure there are ‘moments,’ scattered through the books, where they sit down by a camp fire and eat some rabbit or whatever fantastical creature has been hunted for the dinner, its skinned and cooked over the fire, and eaten, at which point we are told that’s that, good enough, back to the action. What about health and hygiene, do they bath, do they get sick, do they get proper nutrition in their diet? What happen if they become injured or ill? Are we simply to accept magic heals all mortal wounds, and prevents illnesses from taking place? Personally I can’t disengage my practical thought process enough to ignore these pressing concerns, and then accept [insert jazz hands] ‘magic,’ as a deus ex machina solution for another apparent issue. What is daily life in this world really like? Does it require a feudal or serf like system of governance and economy? Is it aristocratic? Is it theocratic? Is it a plutocracy? What is currency like in this place; how do transactions take place, and how is commerce able to work in this society. Are people ‘developed,’ or are they barely scraping a living off rocks; is there a division between economic classes, and a disparity of wealth. What do houses look like, what are in these houses, what is a family life look like, what are the prospective careers for the average citizen of the land and society? All these questions go unanswered. They are perhaps too trivial, myopic, and insignificant for a writer to give a thought to, and a reader to care to know about. After all we a interested in the great bloody battles, the epic fights, the glory and the death—not currencies and commerce, economies and disparities, or how a society functions under a particular governance. No we have a hero chosen by the gods, who will do the good work, and in his success and victory change the world. He will rid it of evil and immorality, and create a shining utopia, one of justice, righteousness, and shining moral codes. My thoughts: not interested. Call me dreary or boring, but the fantastic should be realistic in its world, which encompasses the realities of mundane day to day life. Of course we are not there for that at the end of the day. The true readers of the genre would much prefer (it seems or so it is marketed) to have it the way it is.

[ Part IV ]

Magical realism is often seen as the enemy of fantasy genre fiction. Magical realism has achieved everything that fantasy fiction wishes it had. Magical realism is recognized and acclaimed as a unique literary format of writing (not a genre), where the mundane is depicted with magical pizazz. The work of magical realism is often treated with scholarly intrigue and scalpel study. Where it’s relative or closest superficial relation: fantasy fiction; is still treated with contempt and snobbery. In return fantasy writers have often mocked magical realism wish such comments as:

“magical realism—which we all know is just fantasy written by a Latin American author.” – Steven Brust

“magic realism is fantasy written by people who speak Spanish.” – Gene Wolfe

“[Magical realism] is a polite way of saying you write fantasy.” – Terry Pratchett

There comments are justified, but not entirely. In fact most of the comments merely show disdain or envy towards magical realism, due to its success, acclaim and appreciation.

Magical realism is often considered a form of fantasy by many—as it does not strikingly depict a staunch realistic or naturalistic world, in the same vein as: Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy, or Emile Zola. Rather, magical realism, presents the real world, which is afflicted or affected by fantastical or supernatural phenomena. This unique pheromone—or magic—is observed as a normal occurrence. The other striking difference between magical realism and fantasy fiction is how the magical element of the narrative are handled. In fantasy, magic or sorcery or enchantments, are seen as tools to be used by certain individuals, be it a wizard or a witch et cetera; these individuals are apparently naturally gifted or trained to use supernatural or magical elements as a functionary force of their will. In a magical realism novel or piece of fiction, magic or the supernatural is a natural occurring event, no different than the wind blowing, rain falling, or clouds overhead. It is simply put: an absurd natural event which takes place, and is dealt with in a similar fashion, with characters working around the event, preparing for the event, or cleaning up or mitigating the event.

In “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” by the late Nobel Laureate Gabriel Garcia Marquez, there is a scene where a ghost meanders and mopes through the house looking for water in which to wash his throat wound, the mother leaves out pails of water for the ghost. In another scene, a girl is so beautiful, while she is hanging the laundry on the clothesline she ascends back to heaven due to her beauty. A character within the novel is always followed by a group of yellow butterflies. Beyond “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” magical realism springs up in Marquez’s short stories and other novels. In one short story an aging prostitute trains her dog to cry at her grave; while in another a village is stunned when an old man with enormous molted buzzard wings. The oddities discussed are at times mundane or perceived as natural occurrences.  These unique manifestations are also symbolic devices utilized by the author in the narrative. Take for example the story of the old man with enormous wings (“A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,”). The titular character, the woman with the wings, is first thought of as an angel by the residents of the village; but the local priest (an authority on all matters divine and theological in nature), disagrees with this colloquial definition. The old man is too human, too frail, to be considered one of the select servants of God; and therefore cannot be considered angelic in presence. This divine appearance and then thwarted divinity by the priest, is a unique symbol of the human condition, whereupon we are viewed as earthly, frail, sickly, and could never come close to the divinity and celestial presence of god—and seeing as the angelic creature, shares these same physical traits, it also cannot be considered a member of the divine court.

I confess, I rather enjoy magical realism—when it is done correctly. I enjoy the fact that the world is familiar and requires no introductions, orientations, or explanations. The characters are who they are and go amongst their daily lives, with supernatural occurrences parading or existing around them. I enjoy the fact that magic is considered a more natural force or eccentric event, often mixed with the mundanity of life, such as being followed by butterflies, or being called back to the heavens due to one’s beauty. Perhaps, though, my most favourite book I have read, which displays stylistic elements of magical realism is, Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times.” The beginning of the novel alone is truly a wonderful experience, its light riddled and baroque. One almost wishes Primeval exists itself. But the mystical town caught between the joys and pains of the world, does not exist and nor do its eccentric characters. The lives of the characters, which we observe through their slow procession through time, make up the novel and truly give it, its great success. The characters themselves live rather mundane lives; they build their homes and raise their families, they drink and cuss at the moon, or scrap what little food they can find to survive. Their lives are completely ordinary. There is no major quest or battle; no epic journey or encounters. There is pontification of the forces of good versus the armies of evil; it’s just the mundane and yet slightly baroque and whimsical world of Primeval.

Perhaps that is what is enjoyable about magical realism; it eschews the hallmarks of fantasy fiction such as the epic struggles, journeys and battles; for the quieter side of things in our own world, which just happens to be affected by the odd magical forces which surround the world. These magical forces, however, are not the pillar of the story or tools of functionary use, they are symbols utilized by the author to comment on the human condition, but also to present a magical perspective of our own ordinary world. I believe (though cannot verify) it was Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who commented on the shortsighted and static perspective that pure realism literature possessed, as it never took into consideration the truly unique, personal, and exotic perspective every individual has of the world.

It should be noted as well, magical realism is not exclusive to Latin America or more specifically the Latin American Boom. There are writers all over the world who write in the style of magical realism (and then refute the term). They include the late Angela Carter, Ben Okri (refutes the term), Olga Tokarczuk (refutes the term), Salman Rushdie, Toni Morison, Franz Kafka, Jose Saramago, Victor Pelevin and even Kenzaburo Oe. Writers describing and other wise indecipherable or odd perspective of the world can be seen all over the vast literary stage. Magical realism grew popular from the Latin American Boom, but is not exclusive to the southern continent or its writers. It’s an enjoyable literary style, one that offers the breath of fresh air, from the same old depressing and brow beating books of some realistic narratives. It can be both whimsical and serious, provoking deep philosophical and symbolic questions, while also displaying a unique perspective of the world around oneself. When I think about “Primeval and Other Times,” I still warmly remember the first half of the novel, painted with its late summer light, and its baroque beauty. Secretly then I hoped I would never finish reading the novel; and the lives of the characters would just continue to unfold before me, and when they died their offspring would continue, and so on and so forth; but of course the novel had to end and it did end. To think back on the novel fondly though, as I often do, I know I had read something spectacular and worth remembering.

[ Part V ]

Fantasy fiction is something I could never grasp or comprehend. It’s a genre which eludes me. Perhaps I am too much of a pedantic reader, who is incapable of letting go of the tangible realities in order to explore the world so many others have found comfort and entertainment in. Admittedly, I’ve enjoyed HBO’s “Game of Thrones,” but can’t imagine myself reading the books. The adaption of “The Lord of the Rings,” still puts me to sleep. Yet, fantasy and I, as genre and reader are not simpatico. We’ve never blended well; and the same sits true for most science fiction; though I do recall enjoying the magical/dystopian novel “Blindness,” by Jose Saramago; but when it came to the science fiction metafiction of Margaret Atwood’s “Blind Assassin,” I was rather put off by its kitschy perspective; that being said, I did enjoy “Oryx and Crake,” and “The Year of the Flood,” but never finished the trilogy. I have been told I should read Angela Carter, and take a look at Ursula Le Guin. At this point though my Dear Gentle Reader, I do think my prejudice are firm and well-grounded. I doubt I’ll have any future attempts at serious puritanical fantasy fiction. I do enjoy magical realism, with its odd perspective and extraordinary events taking place in an otherwise ordinary world; and those same events are dealt with in the same ordinary fashion, befit the mundane world.

When I think back on fantasy fiction and my attempts at reading it, I am more reminded of my friends of my youth who have since scattered. I remember how they told me about the novels they read and the worlds they visited, the soap operatic adventures, the archetypical characters, and the otherwise unremarkable plots. Their enthusiasm still shines in my mind. If I am to confess what is missed the most: it would simply be the company and the socialization. Perhaps fantasy fiction and its worlds are more persistent in my memory due to its association with a time when things were simpler, when life appeared simpler, when time stood still, and summers would extend into what felt like eternity. Since then, I have stumbled, fumbled and faltered over fantasy, and grow more frustrated and even contemptuous towards the genre. No matter though, when I think of the genre now I remember sow thistles and dandelions; clouds overhead and blue skies.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary