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oEPISTLES FROM A GOBLIN PRINCESSo
Is fantasy becoming more realistic, or simply more cynical?
Posted 8th September 2011 at 09:18 PM by Teresa Edgerton
Updated 23rd December 2012 at 06:15 AM by Teresa Edgerton
Updated 23rd December 2012 at 06:15 AM by Teresa Edgerton
Tags cynicism, fantasy, sense of wonder, writing
This is a revised version of something I posted in my forum a few years ago. I hope it might provoke some lively discussion. Because it's longer than the software will allow for one blog entry, I will have to post it in two parts.
After using The Lord of the Rings as a convenient reference point in earlier entries, I’m going to begin this one by allowing the author to speak for himself.
Fantasy, said Tolkien, “certainly does not destroy or even insult Reason; and it does not blunt the appetite for, nor obscure the perception of scientific verity. On the contrary, the keener and clearer is the reason, the better Fantasy it will make. If men were ever in a state in which they did not know or could not perceive truth (fact or evidence) then Fantasy would languish until they were cured.
“[Recovery] is a regaining — regaining of a clear view. I do not say ‘seeing things as they are’ and involve myself with the philosophers, though I might venture to say ‘seeing things as we are (or were) meant to see them’ — as things apart from ourselves. We need, in any case, to clean our windows, so that things seen clearly may be freed from the drab blur of triteness and familiarity — from possessiveness. Of all faces, those of our familiares are the ones most difficult to play fantastic tricks with, and most difficult to really see with fresh attention.
“We should look at green again, and be startled anew (but not blinded) by blue and yellow and red. We should meet the centaur and the dragon, and then perhaps suddenly behold, like the ancient shepherds, sheep and dogs and horses — and wolves ... By the forging of Gram cold iron was revealed, by the making of Pegasus horses were ennobled; in the trees of the Sun and Moon root and stock, flower and fruit are manifested in glory ... and actually, fairy-stories deal largely or (the better ones) mainly, with simple fundamental things, untouched by Fantasy, but these simplicities are made all the more luminous by their setting.”
What is the use of Fantasy? Ursula K. LeGuin posed the question and then answered it herself: the use of it is to give us “pleasure and delight.” She went on to say:
“Those who refuse to listen to dragons are probably doomed to spend the rest of their lives acting out the nightmares of politicians ... A fantasy is a journey. It is a journey into the subconscious mind, just as psychoanalysis is. Like psychoanalysis, it can be dangerous; and it will change you.
“Now I doubt that the imagination can be suppressed. If you truly eradicated it in a child, he would grow up to be an eggplant. Like all our evil propensities, the imagination will out. But if it is rejected and despised, it will grow into wild and weedy shapes; it will be deformed ... I believe that maturity is not an outgrowing but a growing up; that an adult is not a dead child but a child who survived. I believe that all the best faculties of a mature human being exist in the child, and that if these faculties are encouraged in youth, they will act well and wisely in the adult, but if they are repressed and denied in the child they will stunt and cripple the adult personality. And finally, I believe that one of the most deeply human and humane of these faculties is the power of the imagination.”
With all this in mind, the first question I would like to ask is: Do we, who are now reading and writing fantasy, agree with Tolkien that this power of recovery is one of the principle aims of fantastic literature? And if we do agree, then the next question follows naturally: Are those of us writing in that genre today coming providing that kind of experience for our readers? Is the fantasy we write, in LeGuin’s words, deeply humane? (And I do include my own writing in this question, because even though I’m generally regarded as an optimistic writer, I can see very well that my present work is darker and more violent than anything I wrote fifteen years ago.)
Do the books being written today encourage us to look at the world with fresh eyes — or do they merely present, over and over, the same cynical and dreary worldview? Are we so locked-in to a single interpretation of the past, present, and future as endless repetitions of the brutal, remorseless, and futile that we are now unable to imagine anything better? And if we, readers and writers of speculative fiction, the literature of the imagination, are no longer able to conceive of any other possibilities — then who will, who can?
I know there are those who regard optimism as a refuge of the weak, of people too cowardly or too lazy to step out of their “comfort zone.” But in my own experience optimism takes effort and an applied concentration of will. Like so many other things of value — love, loyalty, forgiveness, integrity — it’s not for the faint (or hard) of heart. Idealism demands much of us; it acknowledges that we can be more than we are, and challenges us to become so. Cynicism, on the other hand, is hardly an exhausting exercise. In fact, it seems to be the refuge of the already exhausted. And it is comfortable — for all its pretended discomfort — because it desensitizes us to future pain and asks of us exactly nothing. It is simply surrender.
Now I am not proposing that we should eliminate all battle, pain, and heartache from our stories (in fact, it would be nice if more characters had hearts capable of aching). But what seems to be disappearing is fantasy that gives a more balanced view, that shows us, along with all the characters who are sooo romantically broken, a few that are actually whole. My friend Katharine Kerr, an excellent writer, once said something to the effect that great deeds shine brighter in a dark world, and I believe this is true. But are we creating imaginary worlds where there are no bright deeds, no great-hearted people, where there is nothing but pettiness, cruelty, compromise, and self-interest? Do we place our characters in settings so harsh, situations so convoluted (and sometimes so psychologically improbable), that the individual is relieved of all responsibility for his own actions. Are we simply revisiting our political nightmares, over and over and over?
We seem, as a community of readers and writers to be deeply mired in a collective depression. (This would also explain a lot of missed deadlines, padded series, and bloated, repetitive writing, because even though creative people seem to be particularly susceptible, depression can do a very good job of stifling creative impulses.) And depression — whether that of an individual, a community, or an entire society — does not lend itself toward obtaining or maintaining a clear and accurate view of life.
How could it, when those in a state of depression are unable to experience life as fully as they did before? Depression doesn’t clear the windows of our perceptions, it only adds further smudges, smears, and obtructions, so that our view of the world grows steadily narrower. I would hate to think that this boxing-in, this fatigue of the mental faculties, is a communicable disease, and that I had any part in spreading it to others. Worse still, that I might be tempted to simulate this condition in my future writing merely as an artistic affectation or for marketing purposes.
I have often heard that certain authors are expanding the boundaries of the genre, because their books are somehow “different” — but when I read these books I see only another variation on the familiar faux-medieval setting, and the much-vaunted difference seems only to consist of a darker worldview and more sensational plot lines. The Victorian “sensation novel” is alive and well in the twenty-first century, though we think ourselves so modern. In discussions where readers express their distaste for scenes of particularly graphic violence, others usually dismiss such concerns with a glib, “but that’s the way the world is.” Indeed, it all too often is that way, but every day there are also acts of heroism, kindness, generosity, and stories of personal triumph over adversity. Why, then, in the name of realism, must we focus so much of our attention on the darker aspects of human nature? Do such stories cause us to look at our world and the people around us with “fresh attention,” or do we merely nod our heads wisely and say, “Yes, it’s all just as I thought it was. I’ll sit here and do nothing, because nothing can be done.”
(continued in next post)
Cynicism, Realism, Sensationalism — and Where DID I Misplace that Sense of Wonder?
Part I
After using The Lord of the Rings as a convenient reference point in earlier entries, I’m going to begin this one by allowing the author to speak for himself.
Fantasy, said Tolkien, “certainly does not destroy or even insult Reason; and it does not blunt the appetite for, nor obscure the perception of scientific verity. On the contrary, the keener and clearer is the reason, the better Fantasy it will make. If men were ever in a state in which they did not know or could not perceive truth (fact or evidence) then Fantasy would languish until they were cured.
“[Recovery] is a regaining — regaining of a clear view. I do not say ‘seeing things as they are’ and involve myself with the philosophers, though I might venture to say ‘seeing things as we are (or were) meant to see them’ — as things apart from ourselves. We need, in any case, to clean our windows, so that things seen clearly may be freed from the drab blur of triteness and familiarity — from possessiveness. Of all faces, those of our familiares are the ones most difficult to play fantastic tricks with, and most difficult to really see with fresh attention.
“We should look at green again, and be startled anew (but not blinded) by blue and yellow and red. We should meet the centaur and the dragon, and then perhaps suddenly behold, like the ancient shepherds, sheep and dogs and horses — and wolves ... By the forging of Gram cold iron was revealed, by the making of Pegasus horses were ennobled; in the trees of the Sun and Moon root and stock, flower and fruit are manifested in glory ... and actually, fairy-stories deal largely or (the better ones) mainly, with simple fundamental things, untouched by Fantasy, but these simplicities are made all the more luminous by their setting.”
What is the use of Fantasy? Ursula K. LeGuin posed the question and then answered it herself: the use of it is to give us “pleasure and delight.” She went on to say:
“Those who refuse to listen to dragons are probably doomed to spend the rest of their lives acting out the nightmares of politicians ... A fantasy is a journey. It is a journey into the subconscious mind, just as psychoanalysis is. Like psychoanalysis, it can be dangerous; and it will change you.
“Now I doubt that the imagination can be suppressed. If you truly eradicated it in a child, he would grow up to be an eggplant. Like all our evil propensities, the imagination will out. But if it is rejected and despised, it will grow into wild and weedy shapes; it will be deformed ... I believe that maturity is not an outgrowing but a growing up; that an adult is not a dead child but a child who survived. I believe that all the best faculties of a mature human being exist in the child, and that if these faculties are encouraged in youth, they will act well and wisely in the adult, but if they are repressed and denied in the child they will stunt and cripple the adult personality. And finally, I believe that one of the most deeply human and humane of these faculties is the power of the imagination.”
With all this in mind, the first question I would like to ask is: Do we, who are now reading and writing fantasy, agree with Tolkien that this power of recovery is one of the principle aims of fantastic literature? And if we do agree, then the next question follows naturally: Are those of us writing in that genre today coming providing that kind of experience for our readers? Is the fantasy we write, in LeGuin’s words, deeply humane? (And I do include my own writing in this question, because even though I’m generally regarded as an optimistic writer, I can see very well that my present work is darker and more violent than anything I wrote fifteen years ago.)
Do the books being written today encourage us to look at the world with fresh eyes — or do they merely present, over and over, the same cynical and dreary worldview? Are we so locked-in to a single interpretation of the past, present, and future as endless repetitions of the brutal, remorseless, and futile that we are now unable to imagine anything better? And if we, readers and writers of speculative fiction, the literature of the imagination, are no longer able to conceive of any other possibilities — then who will, who can?
I know there are those who regard optimism as a refuge of the weak, of people too cowardly or too lazy to step out of their “comfort zone.” But in my own experience optimism takes effort and an applied concentration of will. Like so many other things of value — love, loyalty, forgiveness, integrity — it’s not for the faint (or hard) of heart. Idealism demands much of us; it acknowledges that we can be more than we are, and challenges us to become so. Cynicism, on the other hand, is hardly an exhausting exercise. In fact, it seems to be the refuge of the already exhausted. And it is comfortable — for all its pretended discomfort — because it desensitizes us to future pain and asks of us exactly nothing. It is simply surrender.
Now I am not proposing that we should eliminate all battle, pain, and heartache from our stories (in fact, it would be nice if more characters had hearts capable of aching). But what seems to be disappearing is fantasy that gives a more balanced view, that shows us, along with all the characters who are sooo romantically broken, a few that are actually whole. My friend Katharine Kerr, an excellent writer, once said something to the effect that great deeds shine brighter in a dark world, and I believe this is true. But are we creating imaginary worlds where there are no bright deeds, no great-hearted people, where there is nothing but pettiness, cruelty, compromise, and self-interest? Do we place our characters in settings so harsh, situations so convoluted (and sometimes so psychologically improbable), that the individual is relieved of all responsibility for his own actions. Are we simply revisiting our political nightmares, over and over and over?
We seem, as a community of readers and writers to be deeply mired in a collective depression. (This would also explain a lot of missed deadlines, padded series, and bloated, repetitive writing, because even though creative people seem to be particularly susceptible, depression can do a very good job of stifling creative impulses.) And depression — whether that of an individual, a community, or an entire society — does not lend itself toward obtaining or maintaining a clear and accurate view of life.
How could it, when those in a state of depression are unable to experience life as fully as they did before? Depression doesn’t clear the windows of our perceptions, it only adds further smudges, smears, and obtructions, so that our view of the world grows steadily narrower. I would hate to think that this boxing-in, this fatigue of the mental faculties, is a communicable disease, and that I had any part in spreading it to others. Worse still, that I might be tempted to simulate this condition in my future writing merely as an artistic affectation or for marketing purposes.
I have often heard that certain authors are expanding the boundaries of the genre, because their books are somehow “different” — but when I read these books I see only another variation on the familiar faux-medieval setting, and the much-vaunted difference seems only to consist of a darker worldview and more sensational plot lines. The Victorian “sensation novel” is alive and well in the twenty-first century, though we think ourselves so modern. In discussions where readers express their distaste for scenes of particularly graphic violence, others usually dismiss such concerns with a glib, “but that’s the way the world is.” Indeed, it all too often is that way, but every day there are also acts of heroism, kindness, generosity, and stories of personal triumph over adversity. Why, then, in the name of realism, must we focus so much of our attention on the darker aspects of human nature? Do such stories cause us to look at our world and the people around us with “fresh attention,” or do we merely nod our heads wisely and say, “Yes, it’s all just as I thought it was. I’ll sit here and do nothing, because nothing can be done.”
(continued in next post)
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