I spent the day with my little brother drinking coffee at a Columbus, Ohio institution: Stauf’s Coffee Roasters in Grandview. It’s a great coffee house but also a very fine roaster.
Public service announcement (not an advertisement! I swear!): they’re shipping for free until the end of the year. If you like Ethiopian coffees, do yourself a favor and try their Baba Budan roast. They were brewing it today. I had about four cups and feel quite ready to proceed with some blogging.
In my last post I attempted to articulate what I am calling “the aesthetic analysis” of genre fiction; that is, I’m attempting to articulate the nature of the artistic effect this work provokes in its readers. In other words, I’m trying to put into words just how science fiction, fantasy, and horror moves us.
But there are some loose ends that need tying up before we proceed.
I’ll focus on the first loose end in this post: terminological precision.
Science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, tragedy, comedy, the picaresque: generally speaking these are taxonomical concepts developed by literary historians for the purpose of organizing and making sense of Western literary production in all of its diversity and plenitude.
In my last post I attempted to articulate what I am calling “the aesthetic analysis” of genre fiction; that is, I’m attempting to articulate the nature of the artistic effect this work provokes in its readers. In other words, I’m trying to put into words just how science fiction, fantasy, and horror moves us.
But there are some loose ends that need tying up before we proceed.
I’ll focus on the first loose end in this post: terminological precision.
Science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, tragedy, comedy, the picaresque: generally speaking these are taxonomical concepts developed by literary historians for the purpose of organizing and making sense of Western literary production in all of its diversity and plenitude.
In large part, they are fictions, mere interpretive apparatuses.
I believe we should conditionally be suspicious of such taxonomies.
Anytime someone categorizes they downplay differences and foreground similarities. Thus, the categorization of literary genres, aesthetic effects, thematic preoccupations, stylistic propensities, etc., are necessarily simplifying, reductive—some would say disrespectul to the full richness, plenitude, and subtlety of authentic pieces of literary art.
Before you call hypocrite on me (I am, of course, happily using such taxonomic devices), consider this: in spite of my description of genre categories and literary historical models as simplifying and disrespectful, I fully acknowledge they are useful.
Dissecting a frog isn’t necessarily respectful to the frog; nevertheless, dissecting a frog does teaches us a lot about frog anatomy!
I believe we should conditionally be suspicious of such taxonomies.
Anytime someone categorizes they downplay differences and foreground similarities. Thus, the categorization of literary genres, aesthetic effects, thematic preoccupations, stylistic propensities, etc., are necessarily simplifying, reductive—some would say disrespectul to the full richness, plenitude, and subtlety of authentic pieces of literary art.
Before you call hypocrite on me (I am, of course, happily using such taxonomic devices), consider this: in spite of my description of genre categories and literary historical models as simplifying and disrespectful, I fully acknowledge they are useful.
Dissecting a frog isn’t necessarily respectful to the frog; nevertheless, dissecting a frog does teaches us a lot about frog anatomy!
Put a little more directly: categorizing literature may do a disservice to its full richness, but it is too useful of a practice to forsake.
So one of my first principles is that of suspicion of genre distinctions. Because of this I rely on a rule I call “the rule of the scalpel.” This is a simple enough metaphor if I spend a little time unpacking it.
Here goes:
If, in order to understand literary art, we need to dissect it, then it is best to use the most subtle carving implements, yes? Scalpels rather than chainsaws. The question becomes, “How do you make interpretive apparatuses as subtle as possible?” Or, “How do you make them scalpels rather than chainsaws?”
You do so through specificity: historical, stylistic, thematic.
For example, when using the term “fantasy” to refer to a specific genre of literature there are, I think, two general ways of approaching things: a general way and a specific way.
I would be using it in a general way if I understand “fantasy literature” as any literature that represents deviations from reality. Thus, The Odyssey—with its cyclops and spirits of the dead—becomes just as much a fantasy as The Hobbit. I resist this (although I can imagine a completely valid argument for this proposition).
To use "fantasy literature" in this way, I think, is to use an interpretive apparatus that is more like a chainsaw and less like a scalpel. Both, of course, get the job done.
To use “fantasy literature” like a scalpel you need to bracket the general concept and prefer the more specific concept.
Let me offer this alternative though no doubt draft definition of fantasy literature:
"fantasy literature" is narrative fiction of the 20th century written in the tradition of Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien that combines a stylistic reliance on the conventions of realism with a glaring disregard for the reality principle.
This definition combines…
(1) stylistic idiosyncrasies—the conventions of realist literature
(2) a specific historical tradition—the work of Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien
and
(3) a thematic preoccupation—deviations from the reality principle.
We can quibble about the details of these specific categories. For example, does the historical tradition of modern fantasy begin with Lord Dunsany? Does every piece of literature that we define as fantasy rely upon the conventions of realist fiction? For a work to be a fantasy how much does it need to deviate from the reality principle? In other words—is one goblin enough?
In order to understand how “fantasy literature” moves us, i.e. in order to describe as precise as possible its aesthetic effect (so that we can recreate it, intensify it, master it) we first need to know what, precisely, it is we’re talking about.
Here goes:
If, in order to understand literary art, we need to dissect it, then it is best to use the most subtle carving implements, yes? Scalpels rather than chainsaws. The question becomes, “How do you make interpretive apparatuses as subtle as possible?” Or, “How do you make them scalpels rather than chainsaws?”
You do so through specificity: historical, stylistic, thematic.
For example, when using the term “fantasy” to refer to a specific genre of literature there are, I think, two general ways of approaching things: a general way and a specific way.
I would be using it in a general way if I understand “fantasy literature” as any literature that represents deviations from reality. Thus, The Odyssey—with its cyclops and spirits of the dead—becomes just as much a fantasy as The Hobbit. I resist this (although I can imagine a completely valid argument for this proposition).
To use "fantasy literature" in this way, I think, is to use an interpretive apparatus that is more like a chainsaw and less like a scalpel. Both, of course, get the job done.
To use “fantasy literature” like a scalpel you need to bracket the general concept and prefer the more specific concept.
Let me offer this alternative though no doubt draft definition of fantasy literature:
"fantasy literature" is narrative fiction of the 20th century written in the tradition of Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien that combines a stylistic reliance on the conventions of realism with a glaring disregard for the reality principle.
This definition combines…
(1) stylistic idiosyncrasies—the conventions of realist literature
(2) a specific historical tradition—the work of Robert E. Howard and J.R.R. Tolkien
and
(3) a thematic preoccupation—deviations from the reality principle.
We can quibble about the details of these specific categories. For example, does the historical tradition of modern fantasy begin with Lord Dunsany? Does every piece of literature that we define as fantasy rely upon the conventions of realist fiction? For a work to be a fantasy how much does it need to deviate from the reality principle? In other words—is one goblin enough?
In order to understand how “fantasy literature” moves us, i.e. in order to describe as precise as possible its aesthetic effect (so that we can recreate it, intensify it, master it) we first need to know what, precisely, it is we’re talking about.
I don't feel fully confident defining "fantasy literature," "supernatural horror," and "science-fiction" in this post. I'll take a more focused stab at it tomorrow.
I agree with your approach absolutely, but disagree with your starting point for fantasy literature. You leave out Dunsany, Eddison, and William Morris, particularly. See Lin Carter's Imaginary Worlds for an interesting look at the history of the genre.
ReplyDeleteI'm in full agree on leaving out Norse sagas, mythology, even the Gothics, but knocking out the end of the 19th century and the first two decades of the 20th seems a bit much!
I'm really eager to read the Carter. I have no excuse why I haven't read it!
ReplyDeleteRe. Dunsany, Eddison, and Morris: the key ingredients of these writers are their "secondary worlds." The issue question they pose is, is the structure of the secondary world essential to modern fantasy?
Hmm... I am really hemming and hawing here. I want to scream yes... but stop myself.
For me, modern fantasy is the result of combining...
(1) realist literary conventions (mundane language in dialog; physical and non-lyrical expository passages; emphasis of particularities of space, time, and character),
(2) a tendency to incorporate--in spite of relying on realist convention--unreal plot elements (dragons, goblins, etc.), and
(3) the hewing to a specific and *self conscious* genre tradition on the part of the author.
Without a doubt Tolkien and Howard relied upon the lessons Dunsany, Eddison, and Morris taught in terms of secondary worlds (this is how they pioneered Middle-Earth and the Hyborian Age); I nevertheless think their fiction--on the level of style and aesthetic effect--are fundamentally distinct.
I've thought a lot about this and the writers you cite are a recurring sticking point I've been challenged on.
Maybe it can be articulated using, say, a medical metaphor: if the Victorian "world builders" were the first symptoms of modern fantasy's emergence, we can view Howard and Tolkien as allowing us to make a positive diagnosis.
This issue isn't settled at all for me; hence my kind of lame and dodgy characterization of my fantasy definition as a "draft".