A Book Review of Lin Carter's *Literary Swordsmen and Sorcerers* (Sauk City: Arkham House, 1976)

I've recently been reading Lin Carter's famous essay collection about the pioneers of sword and sorcery, Literary Swordsmen and Sorcerers: The Makers of Heroic Fantasy (Sauk City: Arkham House, 1976). It's a fun book, a relaxing read, but in terms of analysis, it falls short. It's more and less a biographical reference guide for a variety of heroic fantasy writers. I came to it specifically because of the chapter on Clark Ashton Smith. I'm trying to write a chapter in my dissertation about Smith, and locating basic biographical material has been difficult.

The most interesting essay in the anthology, I think, is the opening one: "The Sword of Faerie." In this essay, De Camp surveys imaginative literature from its mythical "origin" to its most recent incarnations. He effectively binds together the classical manifestations of heroic fantasy like Ancient Greek and Anglo-Saxon epic poetry to the modern manifestations, e.g. Robert E. Howard's Conan the Barbarian stories, H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos stories, and J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. Further, he binds together the Gothic novel, the historical novel, the novel of romantic primitivism, in an attempt to portray imaginative literature as a kind of thread running through literary history.

Other essays are worth reading for their information but I was reluctant of some of the analysis. The one on Robert E. Howard offers an unsympathetic view of the writer's life and deals in suspicious armchair psychology. Of particular note is Carter's essay on J.R.R. Tolkien. He states that the The Hobbit comes close to "universal appeal" and rightly observes that "few works can be read with pleasure" by both adult and young readers (224). I completely agree. To corroborate Carter's idea, I'll say that The Hobbit was a profound experience for me as a young kid. I read it in the 5th grade and have had a habit of reading and re-reading it since. I return to the book often.

Carter also claims that Tolkien was what he calls a "rurophile," a worshiper of an idealized vision of nature. He states that, for Tolkien, "life in the Industrial Age had some of the qualities of life in prison" (234). I find that intriguing, this notion that a sense of the cruelty and inhumanity modern life shades Tolkien's work; however, Carter seems to criticize or at least poke fun at Tolkien for his apparent negative vision of modernity. There's a strange propensity in Carter's work to interpret or morally censure the personalities and lives of the writer's he is studying (writer's he ostensibly enjoys).

This is a classic text, I'd say, worth the money and the time; however, Carter's style of literary criticism is just strange. It hybridizes basic historical literary research with psychological case studies. At the same he's relating for you essential information about these writers--in bald "info-dump" fashion--he's also "judging" them, speculating about whether they were psychologically sound.

To an extent, as a literary criticism, it's kind of a parody of the Freudian psychoanalytical literary criticism that was vogue in the 40s and 50s.

December and the Tolkien Ritual

December brings with it a desire to read Tolkien. For years now, a holiday season ritual of mine has been to return to The Hobbit and The Lord of Rings.

I think this began in December of 2001 when Peter Jackson's films began to come out. I was a freshman at Otterbein College in Westerville, Ohio at the time, but I was home for break. Everyone was still reeling from the September 11th horror. I remember I saw the first Peter Jackson adaptation with my father, uncle, and brothers. The sequence of Gandalf the Grey seemed to key into so much of my anxiety at the time, centered not just on 9/11 but on my still fresh new experiences as a college freshmen. This image of a solitary grey pilgrim standing before a smoking demon gave simplistic allegorical shape to what I was feeling like at the time.

After watching the movie--which blew me away--I started reading through the books, book I hadn't read since early high school. I don't think I finished reading The Lord of the Rings, stalling somewhere at the point after the Battle of Helm's Deep and the beginning of the domestication of Gollum. But of course I made my way through The Hobbit. It's such a quick read! An elegant little book!

The following year, when Peter Jackson's version of The Two Towers came out, I felt compelled to try the cycle again. This time I finished in full both the LOTR and The Hobbit. I saw the second movie. I was thrilled by the battle of Helm's Deep. And I guess I didn't realize it at the time, but I had established a kind of tradition. The following December, as the release of Jackson's Return of the King approached, I re-read LOTR and The Hobbit. Since then, I've read this books every December.

It is very satisfying, going on this journey over and over. I don't know why. People who have "high" literary tastes will probably raise an eyebrow at this need to read and re-read, at this this spiral that might appear to be a pathological compulsion to repeat and experience something over and over. How many times does the One Ring need to destroyed until we've vanquished the Dark Lord?

In any case, the work of J.R.R. Tolkien has become associated in my mind with December, with the end of a long year. When Frodo and Sam and Gollum finally reach the crack of doom, my year is over, and it's ready to return to the Shire and start the whole thing over again.

An Homage and Critique of Michael Saler's *As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary PreHistory of Virtual Reality* (Oxford UP, 2012)

I'm reading a book of literary history, As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary PreHistory of Virtual Reality  (Oxford UP, 2012) by Michael Saler. He treats the Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle, the Cthulhu Mythos of H.P. Lovecraft, and J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle-Earth. To really simplify his argument: he is pushing back against literary historians/critics who see genre fiction (i.e. mystery, science fiction, and fantasy) as problematically escapist, as completely severed from this reality. He asserts that these writers created alternative worlds that allowed readers to come to see their own realities as contingent, as "fictional" in a way. He attempts to make a case that the fictional worlds created by these writers opened up a space for their readers to imagine Reality with a capital R as malleable, as subject to change.

Let me just say, I loved Saler's book! For all intents and purposes, this is an homage to Saler's book! A recommendation for you to buy it and read it!

His reading of H.P. Lovecraft's biography and its relationship to the overarching thematic trends in the Cthulhu mythos is very convincing and compelling. I am so inspired by the idea that such an intelligent and serious scholar has turned his sights on Doyle, Lovecraft, and Tolkien. He even talks about Dungeons and Dragons in this monograph, something that delights considering it was published by the Oxford University Press. As a researcher struggling with many of the issues broached in this book, I can truly say it put wind in my sails. And, admittedly, there's a lot in Saler's book that I'm still trying to wrap my mind around.

And yet--

I get the sense Saler wants to see genre fiction and the alternative worlds that emerge from them as pseudo-"didactic" texts, texts that teach a lesson. I don't think he sees genre fiction as didactic in a direct, allegorical way (e.g. the orcs of Middle Earth aren't supposed to represent fascist Germany; Cthulhu is not supposed to be an alienating modernity; Sherlock Holmes is not performing as a perfect modern citizen, etc.). Saler is much more subtle. However, in spite of his subtlety and very convincing analysis (as well as the obvious respect he has for genre), I find his overarching framework slightly unpalatable. He seems to be describing (in a highly sophisticated way) what genre fiction allows its readers to do.

I guess a part of me doesn't prefer thinking about genre fiction in an instrumental context, as if its only worth studying because it serves an important social function. It's seems an obvious, kind of "throwback" argument. "Reading pulp fiction will rot your brain!" says the elitist. "You should read mature art that's truly beautiful." "No," responds Saler, "pulp fiction will make me a better person."


I think all art serves a social function. From an anthropological perspective, art is function. For me, that's a given. But by focusing on this function, some very important elements of art are thrown out of focus. How do I want to approach science fiction, supernatural horror, fantasy?

Uhh... let me get back to you on that.

*The Picture of Dorian Gray*: Literary Aesthetics, Fantasy, and the Undecided Text

A couple of days ago I tried out a book club on the West Side of Cleveland. Here's their webpage on meetup.com:  a ne{o}lit book club. The book club was great, and for my part (if you live in the Cleveland Area) I highly recommend coming to a meeting.

The book they were discussing was Oscar Wilde's famous, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891). I've always loved this book! I find it really intriguing because, like Henry James's The Turn of the Screw (a ghost story), it is a text that is generally categorized as "literature" while at the same time it has many genre or weird elements.

Intuitively, I jump to describe The Picture of Dorian Gray as a fantasy. Not a "second world fantasy" like J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. It's definitely a fantasy, though.

Consider the premise: there's a magical/supernatural painting the preserves and extends the youth of a young man. All of his horrible actions--all the stains on his soul--appear on the painting rather than on his body. The painting is a kind of "objectified soul" that Dorian can look on and meditate on. This is fantasy! Wilde has definitely deviated from the reality principle here.

It's so interesting, though, that folks rarely file this novel under the rubric of fantasy. This novel seems to announce itself as literature, as high literary art. In fact, the preface to the novel is often cited in anthologies of literary criticism and aesthetic philosophy as inaugurating or at least anticipating the highest of the high literary art: aestheticism or High Modernism. Very often, folks who believe in the importance of aesthetics and literature hearken back to this preface and cite it as a kind of articulation of first principles. Here's a link to the full manuscript of the preface: The Preface to Dorian Gray. See if you disagree with me.

I'd like to highlight a brief passage from this preface: "They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty." Why is this significant here? Well, genre literature--or "weird literature" (science fiction, fantasy, supernatural horror)--has often been criticized and dismissed by literary scholars because of its apparent disregard of "literary beauty." Genre writers, the argument goes, write in a pulp style. Genre writers aren't concerned with form, only content. They don't experiment with literary aesthetics. Unlike High Modernists writers, genre writers aren't concerned with experimenting with the capacities of literary art (e.g. poetic language, narrative, genre, etc..).

I'll be honest. I'm not sure where I stand on this issue. As much as I love weird literature, there's indeed something to this knee-jerk argument. There are lots of genre writers who just don't give a fig for literature as "art." Their project, their productions, the commitment is first and foremost to entertainment--to spinning a good yarn. To be more specific, genre writers seem more concerned with creating an emotion, what literary critics might call an affect (i.e. the fantasy stirs wonders, the horror stirs horror, the science fiction stirs feelings of the sublime or vastness).

The reason why I find The Picture of Dorian of Gray so interesting it that it seems to disrupt this clean framework: (1) genre writers are clumsy writers who aren't concerned with art; (2) high modernist writers are concerned with art and their concern with art can be glimpsed in their focus on language and form.

Dorian Gray is a fantasy, an example of what I like to call "weird literature." And yet--it tends to be framed in a way that runs contrary to how genre literature--fantasy, specifically--is often described, as aesthetically naieve, as pulp. Hmm...This is why I think it's "undecided."

The "Humane" Narrative Pacing of George R.R. Martin's *A Game of Thrones*

Biographical aside: I finished my writing my dissertation prospectus, had it approved by my advisory committee, and then I circulated my approved document to my department. And so, that means I'm pretty much "go for launch" as far as my dissertation is concerned. This feels really good.

To celebrate, I allowed myself to fully indulge in a long fantasy novel, George R.R. Martin's, A Game of Thrones. I've been spending about 2 or 3 hours a day reading this monster. And, in spite of that, I'm still only about two thirds of the way through it. The slow pace by which I'm moving through A Game of Thrones has given me pause. Thus, I want to reflect this morning on "narrative pacing" in the "contemporary" fantasy novel (i.e. mid-1990s to today).

Fast and Slow Narrative Pacing

What do I mean by "narrative pacing"? I mean, the speed by which the narrative of the novel is related. Better to just give some examples of what I'm thinking: a fantasy novel with fast narrative pacing would have lots of crisis events very quickly. For example, in the first 3 pages there might be a fight; or the villain might make an appearance; or the major psychological conflict of the protagonist might be related. A fantasy novel with slow narrative pacing would have very few crisis events in the opening pages. Lots of time would be spent on characterization, the description of environment, the establishment of ambiance.

This distinction between slow narrative pacing and fast narrative pacing is very simplistic and I'm not suggesting we can easily fold any book into this framework. It is useful, I think, to consider how quickly a story is told. To do so throws into focus something very interesting George R.R. Martin does.

I'm not done with the novel yet, but I can tell you this: its narrative pace is very, very slow. The predominant narrative mode of the story is what I like to call the "cafe scene," by which I mean a scene that consists of a lot of folks talking about what's happening, very often over beverages (tea, ale, coffee, etc.) Indeed, the vast majority of the plot in A Game of Thrones is related, I think, through dialogue among the characters. You learn who each character is, what kind of character they are, what their desires are, where they are going, etc. etc., through their spoken words, their "direct discourse" (as narrative theorists would call it). Indeed, we might think about A Game of Thrones as a collection of dialogues as opposed to traditional novel.

There's something interesting about dialog, and this is connected to temporality. Dialog unfolds in a kind of "real time." Let me explain by highlighting an extended passage. Tyrion Lannister is yelling at his nephew Joffrey for not offering condolences to Catelyn Stark:

"You get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall on your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with with them" (88, Bantam Edition)

As you read this the scene is mentally actualized in your mind in a specific temporal fashion: you're forced into the role of the "listener" of this dialog; thus, you, as reader, are forced into same temporal positon as the two folks having dialog, Joffrey and Tyrion. Let me try to make things clear by offering a contrast. You won't find this line in A Game of Thrones:

"Tyrion chastised Joffrey for 10 years. The boy grew up to hate him."

The temporal perspective here is much wider. The amount of years that are narrated are not connected to a basic human perspective. Here we've adopted a kind of "historical" stance.

Conclusion

What strikes me about A Game of Thrones is how it always seems anchored in that specific, human temporality. The events unfold--this is a strange way of putting things--in real time. We become "embedded" in the human perspectives of the characters. Martin does this very well. But, I think this is a narrative characteristic of much of the contemporary fantasy coming out now. That's why these novels are getting to be so very huge.

Defining the Zombie Apocalypse (Post 1): Not a Fantasy, Not a Sci-fi, Not a Horror

Yesterday I finished reading Compendium 1 of Robert Kirkman's comic, The Walking Dead (issues #1-#48).

First off, I really enjoyed it! I have some minor resevervations that I'll explore in a later post. But, in general, if you haven't read the comic book and love the show (this was how I came to it), I highly recommend it to you. It's so interesting.

But, before I get into discussing specifically The Walking Dead (this will come in a later post), I want to explore some thoughts about the "zombie apocalypse" genre.

It was a strange realization, but when I started seriously considering "the zombie apocalypse" sub-genre, I realized I don't know how to describe it.

Is the "zombie apocalypse" a fantasy?

Well, the dead rising is a common theme in modern fantasy. The icon of the sword wielding hero fighting an animated human skeleton is a common trope in modern fantasy (sword and sorcery specifically). And yet, in many zombie apocalypse texts there is a tendency to attempt to describe the phenomenon of the dead rising in terms of scientific theory. E.g. it's a disease; it's a new micro-organism; it's the result of the earth passing through a comet, etc..

This seems to disqualify it as a fantasy for me, which seems to turn, specifically, on how fantastic phenomena are treated. In fantasy, the appeal is always to magic, the inexplicable. A key element of fantasy is, to my mind, the thesis that all is not explainable through recourse to the observable world.

And so, is the "zombie apocalypse" a science fiction?

Hmm. The appeal to science to explain the phenomenon of zombies seems to make it conform to the conventions of hard science fiction. It is a kind of "extrapolative" genre. It's kind of a thought experiment based upon the initiating question: "what if all the dead rose up?" And yet--it feels wrong to call the "zombie apocalypse" a science fiction as it doesn't manifest any of the familiar tropes of the genre.

The key source of drama in a zombie apocalypse is always the struggles of the survivors. The story seems to emerge from a conflict with Nature (i.e. "Nature" designated as a world filled with zombie). And so, the zombie apocalypse seems to have more in common with the naturalistic survival stories of, say, Jack London, than the speculative stories of H.G. Wells.

Is the "zombie apocalypse" a horror?

Hmm. This feels the most intuitively correct. I'm sure lots of folk would be happy just filing the sub-genre away after glimpsing the gore, the undead, etc.. I'm not willing to do that. There's something about the "zombie apocalypse" that disqualifies it as a horror to me. Before you call BS on me, let me try to make a case for it.

In a "pure" horror tale, the key aesthetic effect is the experience of horror. Thus, the monster (or the ghost, or the demon, or the alien) emerges as a kind of negativity, something that cannot be fully represented or described: you see a flash of a tail, a pair of eyes, some teeth, etc.. The "experience of horror," according to many theorists of the genre, is that moment when our language breaks down, when we can't describe what - that - thing - is. In the "zombie apocalypse," you always know precisely what the horror is: zombies. And in these zombie apocalypse tales, very often the characters become somewhat desensitized to the sight of zombies and move among them, somewhat un-fazed (although their guard is always up).

So, we're back to where we began: how do describe the "zombie apocalypse" genre. I have a working answer. I don't have time to write it up just now. Tomorrow I'll pick up where I left off.

Lin Carter's, "The Scroll of Morloc" and the Wonder-filled Primordial Scene of Humanity

Gods! It's been nearly two weeks since I last posted! I guess I underestimated how distracting writing my dissertation prospectus and teaching responsibilities would be.

Anyhow, I read a story this morning I wanted to briefly reflect on. It is a short story titled, "The Scroll of Morloc" by Lin Carter. It appears to be based on notes by Clark Ashton Smith. This story comes from the anthology, Lost Worlds, by Lin Carter, which is a collection of tales thematically unified as "a unique and marvel-haunted tour through magic lands no longer known to man" (from the back cover).

Some summary: the story relates the attempts by a disgruntled shaman--Yhemog of the Voormish tribe of Hyperborea--to desecrate a temple to Tathoggua. To an extent, the shaman succeeds; however, his success comes with it more than he bargained for. I'll refrain from giving away the ending.

I really enjoyed this story. The primary effect, for me, derived from the ancient and forgotten nature of the world it's set in. I'm not sure how much of this world is Carter's and how much of it is Smith's, but Hyperborea came to life for me through this story. It suggested itself as a kind of "primordial scene" of humanity that was filled with wonder and cruelty.

I think this effect, the ability to convey an "emotional idea of the mythical past," is one of the unique capacities of fantasy literature generally and sword and sorcery specifically. Utilizing material bequeathed by Smith, I think Carter succeeds in doing that here.

To a large extent, I think, the conveying of this feeling subordinates the construction of an interesting, twisting narrative. Indeed, the narrative shape of this story is quite simple and straightforward: the protagonist infiltrates forbidden territory and has an encounter therein.

But it's not in the narrative that the pleasure of this story coheres. It's in the effect. And the effect, I believe, is connected to the quality by which the setting is conveyed.

The Moral Maturity of *Game of Thrones*

So last night my wife and I purchased a blu ray edition of Game of Thrones, a fantasy drama television series produced by HBO based on the first novel in A Song of Fire and Ice, a series of low fantasy novels by George R.R. Martin set in his fantasy world, Westeros. I'd seen the series before and loved it. Last night we watched the first episode, titled, "Winter is Coming."

Let me get the obligatory recommendation out of the way: if you haven't seen this show and you like fantasy and drama, I recommend it. Highly recommend it. It's subtle fantasy. It's nuanced. It's more about the characters and their struggles with personal circumstances and less about sorcerers and orcs and magical rings.

I'm inclined to compare the show to Peter Jackson's The Lord of Rings. I want to say, "if you like LOTR, then you'll love Game of Thrones." For most people this may be true. For some, it wouldn't be true at all. Why? Martin's work (and by extension, the show) is very dark in comparison to LOTR.

In LOTR good and evil are quite clearly defined. The bad guys look like bad guys. The good guys look like good guys.

Things aren't that simple in Game of Thrones.

A major theme of that novel and this show is how morality is not not black and white but more gray (to say nothing of the fact that a major confrontation in the show is between "The Night's Watch"--who wear all black--and "White Walkers"--who are, umm, white). The major conflict of the show is not some glorious battle between good and evil, between a dark lord and an angel; rather, it's a civil war.

Martin has a way of making you hate someone, and then making you love that that same character. It explodes your moral paradigms I think. Just as quickly as you turn a character into a monster, they become a human again. I call this "moral maturity."

The moral maturity of this show allegorically resonates to the extent that the novel (and show) end up focusing on some pretty serious, "adult" themes. As in the novel, sex is all over the place in the show. I have a hunch on that point, though; I get the sense that HBO producers--enjoying their "premium cable" affordances--throw in graphic and sometimes gratuitous sex just for the sake of it sometimes.

 Neither here nor there. Not only is the show mature in terms of graphic sexual material, it's mature in terms of its moral material. Adult in content. Adult in theme.

The Two Experiences of the Lord of the Rings: the Novels, the Films

I've started rereading J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. I'll confess. I've read The Hobbit many more times than LOTR. Also, I've watched Peter Jackson's movie versions, the Ralph Bakshi animated versions, many, many times, to the extent that I sometimes conflate those narratives with the original narrative. And so,  rereading this novel (last time I read it was in undergraduate) some of its original strangeness shines through.

One thing that strikes me about reading the novel is how feasible the world of Middle Earth is in the novels and how epic and somewhat grandiose it is in the Peter Jackson films. There's a kind of concreteness and ontological weight, if you will, to the Middle Earth of the novels that just it not there in the films. For me, in the Jackson films, the world is so colorful, so vibrant, and so artistic--beautiful, sublime, horrifying--that it seems unreal. Middle Earth in the Jackson films is so intense makes me focus on the technology and production value. What I mean is, I can't forget the bluescreens, the CGI, the props.

With the novels, the strangeness of the world, its tangibility, its history subordinates the prose style. In other words, the story being related seems to have a life of its own that precedes any narrative or literary stylistic acrobatics Tolkien might be able to pull off.

I know you're waiting for it! I'm not going to recite that lame adage, "The books are so much better than the film!" Why? Because I don't think such a move is very useful or interesting, comparing the books to the film. The only thing they share are single narrative. Artworks are composed of many, many things aside from narrative. Narrative is just one element that creates emotion.

For me, the books and the films are two separate experiences, two different media that evoke in audiences qualitatively distinct aesthetic responses. You watch films with lots of people; you read books by yourself. The dialog in a novel can be charged with lyrical beauty, and yet--the action passages can only achieve a certain amount of excitement. In the films the battle scenes are astonishing and exciting while the dialog, though intriguing, loses is nuance through truncation and needs to be bouyed by a soundtrack of emotionally charged music.

Long story short: two seperate experiences.

But I will give you this: rereading LOTR makes me realize how much the various film versions of Tolkien's masterpieces have taken liberties with the narrative.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 25)

Here is serial 25 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


No one spoke for a span after the attack until Tauos commanded that Brol's wound be tended to. Then they began a somber search for their comrades, who they assumed were dead. Eerily, the fog seemed to lift directly after the monsters flew away, and all they found to indicate the fate of their comrades was a steaming pile of entrails. They did not sleep that night and were too frightened to go in search for the Rogue. Some assumed he had died, killed by the monsters. And yet, in spite of their fears, they organized a steady watch and prepared to leave in the morning. Indeed, they praised their god when the light of morning crept in.

By the time they finished telling their story to the Rogue, it was sunset.

Brol sighed as he sat forward: "And what of your scouting venture, slave? Tell me, please, that the settlement in the canyon is rife with fresh-baked bread, soft beds, hot baths, and that the folk who live therein speak the language of my fathers," he said. He shivered. His eyes were darkening. He was perspiring profusely. The Rogue wondered whether it was wise not to have held off on the telling of their long story and to have taken Brol, straightaway, to the settlement for his wounds to be tended.

Brol indeed looked pale. The attack had taken a toll on him. When the Rogue placed his hand on his master's brow, he was not not surprised to feel it burning hot with fever. "I am fine," chattered Brol, pushing aside the Rogue's hand.

The Rogue sighed, for her he knew his report of the canyon settlement would come short of Brol's desire, that all he could say of the settlement was that the folk who lived there were strangers but seemed to be good hosts. He forced himself to tell the whole truth and not to play into the merchant's hopes. He summarized his scouting thus: he wasn't completely sure if the people of the village were to be trusted. He had certain reservations. They were reluctant to discuss their god. Furthermore, he asserted that the merchant's they may seem "primitive," who, being from a city that was at the height of its decadent era, were used to comparatively luxurious amenities. Some of the merchants were offended by this assumption on the Rogue's part. "We're city dwelling folk," Tauos said, "but we've no right to expect a tavern and copper bathtubs this far out in the wild. I'm sure, if these folks will have us, whatever they offer will be appreciated. As to their trustworthiness: I cannot say."

In deliberate unornamented truth the Rogue spoke about their lack of a common language, about their alien culture, and about the strangeness of their customs. Not all of what he had to say was horrible to report, however; he told of the beautiful women, of their healing arts--crude though they were. He also told of the foreboding beauty of the ruins in whose shadow they had built their village. Of these ruins, he clearly articulated suspicions: "There are many folk who have been and who will be. There were many empires that rose and fell before your city of Tabun Stoh was built. For all I know, these folks have once lived in those ruins. For all I know, these folk are the descendants of those who had once dwelt there. That, I cannot say."

The Weirding of the Writing Process: The Protagonist as a Portal (Post 2)

On Friday I started writing about the "narrative function" of the protagonist. And, after some etymological analysis, I "distilled" the characteristics of the protagonist down to three attributes:

1) They are the main character.
2) They end up in conflict.
3) The audience identifies with them.

Afterwards, I brought these attributes to question.

1) Does the idea of a "main" character necessarily entail a certain narrative structure (can you tell a story where there isn't a main character?).
2) Do all protagonist have to move toward conflict? Can there be a protagonist who resists conflict?
3) Can you have a protagonist that repulses the audience or that cannot be identified with?

I explore these questions in more detail in my previous post. Here is a link if you're interested: Post 1

But in this post I'd like to offer an alternative definition of a protagonist, a different way of thinking about protagonists.

So, protagonist's have been traditionally defined this way: the main character who approaches the conflict of the narrative who the audience identifies with and who opposes the antagonist, the villain.

Hmm...let's modify this for specifically weird narratives (i.e. science fiction, fantasy, supernatural horror).

It seems to me, speaking strictly in terms of weird fiction, this definition structurally isolates the way the reader accesses your imaginary world. Let me explain.

In fantasy, you often have a secondary world; in science fiction, you often have a world of the future; in supernatural horror, you often have a world where supernatural terrors do indeed exist. In other worlds, you have in this narrative types a distinct "alternative aesthetic space" where the rules are different.

The problem that weird writer needs to solve is, how, precisely, do I get my reader into this world?

The protagonist seems to be the key narrative tool for doing this.

Let me offer an example. Let's consider an example everyone knows, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. In The Lord of the Rings the protagonists, if you will--traditionally defined as, say, Frodo, is that access point into middle earth. He is a kind of modern character who lives in a cozy, civilized society who then branches out and explores the dangerous fantasy world.

I don't have much time to explore this idea fully here. In Post 3 I'll explore the following idea: the protagonist as a portal.

Is it useful to think of protagonists as portals to other worlds? We shall see.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 24)

Here is serial 24 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


The entire entourage lost their discipline then and scattered like deer in every direction, yelping, gargling out in fear. Some waved their blades wildly at the attackers, striking but thin air and shadow. Many of them were wounded straightaway--cruel scratches on face, neck, and flailing arms.

Brol, though his knees trembled with fear, carried the attack forward after the initial horror. He was accosted by two of the red implings and swung his knife madly and skillessly. The monsters, though they were lauging in the beginning, grew craven when they found one of the merchants had a fight in him. They spoke to each other in a fast, chittering language indiscernible by the merchants. They left their other prey alone to concentrate on Brol, who appeared to be a kind of threat. One of the implings--he seemed the largest of them, although he was small in comparison to Brol--seemed to take great offense at the merchant leader, and attacked with a viciousness unmatched by the others. He clawed Brol's face, gnawed his arm with a foaming mouth; and, using his long, black, forked tongue, he sucked one of Brol's eyeball's right out of the socket with a wet, suctioning "plop".

"I killed it then! I did this in spite of the pain and horror," Brol coughed. "By my god Evyat! I was determined to bring one of the beasts down to death, to the Vansts, with me!"

He then explained how he killed it. He brained it with the pommel of his dagger, ripped and shredded its leathery wing with his teeth, twisted its arms until the bones cracked and it stopped moving.

The other merchants testified that Brol had become an animal. It had crumbled, dead, to the ground.

The other monsters, chittering with rage, flew away screeching and cursing unknown curses in a language they did not understand. Though they were fierce, they were obviously cowards, for their fear had been bestirrred by just one death.

The Weirding of the Writing Process: Examining the Narrative Function of the Protagonist (Post 1)

Looking back through my February posts I realize I've written very little on the writing of science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror. In large part, this is because the time I have to devote to creative has really went down. Why? I'm been working on my dissertation prospectus and so, I haven't had time for creative writing (I don't count the transcription of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants, as creative writing. I'm just mechanically transcribing it at this point. No editing. No revision.). Sure, I've been getting some flash fiction writing in. But the two flashes I wrote this month have been in "realistic" genres. I wrote a literary fiction titled, "Lift," and a hardboiled detective fiction, "I Met Her Seven Times."

Well, this morning I sent out the most recent draft of my dissertation prospectus. And so, I imagine I'm going to have more time to write creatively over the next couple of days as I wait for my adviser's input. 

***

This post I want to ask a question about protagonists. More specifically, I want to meditate on the relationship between readers and the protagonist of a narrative. What kind of a relationship should a reader have with a protagonist? Let's back up: what is a protagonist?

I can feel it. This is going to be a "two parter." This post will set up the problem. Tomorrow I'll try to respond to it.

Anyhow, once again, what is a protagonist? Lord Wikipedia defines "protagonist" this way:

A protagonist (from the Greek πρωταγωνιστής protagonistes, "one who plays the first part, chief actor") is the main character (the central or primary personal figure) of a literary, theatrical, cinematic, or musical narrative, whom ends up in conflict because of the antagonist and with whom the audience is intended to most identify.

So, according to this definition, that protagonist manifests a few characteristics:

1) They are the main character.

2) They end up in conflict.

3) The audience identifies with them.

Hmm..

I find this intriguing. Let me say a little about each characteristic.

1) They are the main character. This implies that there is a "hierarchy of importance" in a cast of characters depicted by a narrative. In other words, this definition implies that there are characters in a narrative who are more important than other characters. Is this always the case? It's a hunch of mine that is has been the case for many narratives since the emergence of "novelistic" narratives or "realistic" narratives. But there are certain types of narratives that do not incorporate a "hierarchy of importance" among their cast of characters. I'm thinking of an epic like The Iliad. 

Yes, Achilles and Agamemnon are important characters in this narrative. And yet, are they the main characters? Are they more important than, say, Hector? Priam? Odysseus? etc. etc.. I'm not suggesting there is no "hierarchy of importance" in terms of the cast of characters that are depicted by the narrative of The Illiad. I do want to suggest, however, something about an intensity of this "hierarchy of importance." 

Let me put this hunch simply: in an epic like The Iliad, there are many, many characters, and they are all important. In more recent, novelistic narratives, there is a demand for a "main" character. Modern readers prefer to know who is important and who is not important. This might be changing.

2) They end up in conflict. This implies that the protagonist has to struggle with something, usually an antagonist. They have a desire or a problem that comes upon them. Can you have a protagonist who doesn't experience a crisis? Who just sits and enjoys themselves? Tea? Reading? Maybe. I don't think this would make a very interesting story. But, I can imagine a narrative where the protagonist experiences no conflict. Perhaps this would originate a conflict in itself. Perhaps for the narrative to begin the protagonist needs to seek out conflict. 

This reminds me of a stem in protagonist. Agon. Agon is Greek for "a comepetition" or "a contest." It's connected to our English work agony, which means, "extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering" (dictionary.com). Pro + agon means "towards the contest." With the meaning of our English word taken into consideration, we can understand "protagonist" to mean, that person who goes forward, faces, and courts, physical and mental suffering. Hmm...

3) The audience identifies with them. Identifies. What does this mean? One definition of to identify (the one I think this particular usage is referring to) is, "to consider (oneself) as similar to another" (dictionary.com). Hmm... So, the audience of a specific narrative should consider themselves similar to the protagonist? I'm not sure about this. I've read a lot of thrilling narratives where the "main character" or "protagonist," if you will, have been repellent to me. I'm thinking of something like Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. In terms of fantasy, Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné is a borderline villain. I rarely identify with him. I'm definitely nothing like him. And yet, he's still a great protagonist.

There's much more to be said about protagonists. This post is a first step. And yet, this focused analysis of the concept of a protagonist has raised some interesting questions for me. 

Should my readers identify with my characters? 

Should all of my stories have a main character? 

What is the relationship between main characters and conflict? 

In part 2 of this analysis of protagonists, which I aim to write on tomorrow, I will explore this more fully.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 23)

Here is serial 23 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

He wasn't believed by his comrades, for Paj--very unfortunately--was known among them as being overly superstitious, a religious zealot, and a "jumper-at-shadows". In spite of his vehement ravings, Brol, Tauos, and Rew--who were in spirit the leaders of the caravan--disregarded him. They demanded that he sleep off whatever lunacy the night fog had inspired in him.

They were concerned, however, when Paj pointed out that the one of them, the youngest--his name was Munish--was missing. Brol, Tauos, and Rew, after a quick search of the camp, could not deny this. The young ones were indeed missing. And so they called everyone together, threw stones, and, in this way, enlisted the help of two of the younger merchants, Theis and Farard. They would go out and search for Munish, but they weren't to go out very far. If they could not found the boy, then they were to return to the camp and to call for help if they needed it. They gave them short-blades of Tabunian make and had them march into the darkness looking for their lost comrade.

"It was directly after this that we knew something was wrong, that Paj had been speaking something of the truth about a horror out there in the darkness--though we thought it more likely an animal at this point," said Tauos. He tugged nervously on his long, thin, tightly braided beard.

After Theis and Farard left, bearing trembling blades, it was not long before they heard them gargle screams and their moans began emanating from the fog. Screams and moans became gurgles and then hacking and then became screams again--a perpetual, staccato of hoarse howls. This horrible orchestra of death sounds seeped into the entire camp, and so all of the merchants--the ten who remained--issued from their tents to stand, eyes wide with horror, gazing into the fog, muttering questions to themselves and wringing their hands as the screams went on. None could tell what had happened but all were frightened.

Brol was the only one who shook off his fear and began to organize them. He commanded them to arm themselves, although the two blades they had given to Theis and Farard were their only swords. They had daggers and skinning knives and two bows and some arrows, but no swords. He ordered others to secure the horses, who were, by this point, neighing as loudly as Theis and Farard were screaming in the fog. And they were kicking and stamping and going crazy and threatening to break their reins. After a few moments, when the horses were settled, the moans of pain and screams ceased. Silence lay about the camp.

Brol whispered orders to the merchants. He had them bear torches and to circle themselves around the central fire of their camp, where there was the most light. Something deep within him stirred and he knew an attack was inevitable. And he was right.

Swooping out of the fog were dozens of those read beasts, tongues waggling, monstrous grins on their toothy faces, their many-knuckled fingers dancing with delight. They raked over the merchants with long claws dripping tar, and they cackled evilly: a shrill, razorish laughter.

The Illustrations of J.R.R. Tolkien: Authoritative Visualizations of Secondary Worlds

I recently disovered the social network, Pinterest. It's really interesting. It allows you to pin images you find around the internet onto virtual "pinboards." And these pinboards are available to your friends and those who follow you on pinterest. Also, you can link to your pins.

I recently created a pinboard focused on the illustrations of J.R.R. Tolkien. Here's the link to it: The Illustrations of J.R.R. Tolkien

I find these illustrations extremely intriguing. This has a lot to do with my feelings about "secondary world fantasy." In "secondary world fantasy" a writer creates an alternative world within which to tell stories. This world is completely seperate from our world and, to a large extent, has no influence on our world save any allegorical lessons it might teach us. The interesting possibility, I think, that creating a "secondary world" holds out for any of us is the possibility of "playing god," or being a creator. Sure, all art offers this possibility. But with secondary world fantasy you, like a kind of god, are creating a world.

But what does this have to do with illustrations? Well, when you imagine something it's always great to visualize it. There's something visceral and immediate about a drawing of a mountain over a description of a mountain. But, often, secondary world fantasists have to give over the "visualization" of their worlds to other artists who are technically skilled. And so, any visual representation of that world is less the author's vision--the vision of the "god" of that secondary world--and more an interpretation of that author's vision.

For some reason, an interpretation of the author's vision ring's less true in my mind. Sure, there are great stories of collaborations between artists and fantasy writers. I can imaging fantasy writers stating to their artist, "Wow! That painting! It's great! It's just like I imagined it!" And yet, I can't believe that any interpreation of the thing can be coequivalent of the thing. Also, there is the risk that a certain visualization of a fantasy comes to contaminate the original author's vision. I am thinking of J.K. Rowling and how she said eventually, as she wrote, she imagined the faces of the actors who were depicting her characters in film.

What does this have to do with J.R.R. Tolkien's illustrations? Well, it's pretty obvious. With these illustrations you have the originary source of "Middle Earth" letting us know, in a more precise way, what "Middle Earth" looks like. I find this so intriguing! It makes me wonder if all "secondary world fantasists" should spend time learning how to draw, paint, design, etc.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 22)

Here is serial 22 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

An update: I've painstakingly transcribed 8 pages and I'm at precisely 9228 words. That's approximately 1150 words per page! I don't know what I was thinking, typing this up the way I did. 

8 fulls pages of 30 transcribed; 9228 words

I don't know why I'm fascinated with the manuscript the way I am. But, here's another picture of it. Along with my Atlantean sword. 

Please know that the Rogue would never use anything like the Atlantean sword.

Anyhow, here's serial 21!

In spite of Brol's command, the entire entourage had, but a few hours later, huddled themselves into Brol's tent to listen to his conversation with the Rogue. Thus, the tent had become thick with smoke due to the many long-stemmed reed pipes being nervously puffed on. Indeed, everyone sat around smoking, drinking steaming blackroot, and chewing trailcakes which had, at this point, become but barely palatable.

In sober voices Brol and Taous related to the Rogue was had happened. Details were filled in by an occasional merchant who squeaked in animated fashion, and Rew threw in a comment every now and again. Occasionally even Paj chirped out a comment, though he still seemed quite distraught and spent most of the time, his hands wrapped around his knees, rocking and muttering to himself in the corner of the tent. And here was their story, as the Rogue pieced it together.

Perhaps an hour after the Rogue left on Brol's horse, the merchants had a good fire going and were brewing their blackroot and tea and preparing to cook the very last of their salted meat that they had rationed to this point. The stars had come out, and Paj--a cartographer and astronomer--was pressed by the terrible notion that the constellations looked strange and unfamiliar to him. He wasn't able to confirm his suspicions and fears with the others as a thick fog rolled in that becloaked sky, camp, and distant canyon. 

The merchants were not concerned, though one or two of the more suspicious young among them muttered some misgivings. In the meantime, the night air had cooled down and this quickened them, made them feel somewhat hopeful. They had no plans to go anywhere that night and they were sure the sun's light would burn away the fog in the morning. The idea that they were approaching swampy lands disturbed them (where did this fog come from, if not a bog or swamp as nearby); but Brol chastised them and led them all in a prayer to their hearthfather god. This seemed to calm them. 

All was fine until the first disappearance was noted. 

Paj was playing a tiny woodflute on the margins of the camp shrouded in fog, when he heard the faint voice of one of his comrade's calling. Screaming? 

Not thinking of the sound as anything threatening, he put away his pipe and moved toward it. A great gust of wind came, lifting the fog like a certain for but a moment. And so, poor Paj got the first glimpse of them. 

Standing over one of his comrades, its pointy chin dripping gore, was one of those beasts. It was quickly flanked by two more who flew out of the darkness--claws outstretched, veiny wings unfurled, eyes like glimmering jewels. They grinned at him, revealing their knife-like teeth; and Paj, horrified, screamed and screamed to the highest heights his lungs could carry him, and turned and ran back to the center of the camp. 

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 21)

Here is serial 21 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


In a puddle of coagulating blood lay the small, red corpse of a mysterious creature the Rogue had not seen before. It's body was the size of a small dog or lamb. It was shaped by a particularly lanky and long-armed human, only its ribs were far more abundant, pronounced, and sharp. It's skin was a shimmering crimson red and it appeared to be stretched taut over sinewy flesh. From the shoulders branched out bat-like and leathery wings that were twice the length wide as the body was long. The wings were of thin, veiny skin, although one wing was ripped and patchy and shriveled. The most disturbing aspect of the creature, however, was its tiny face. The nose was long and pointed like the poniard. The cheekbones were high and sharp; its eyesholes were deep and the bones angled in. The eyes--which were wide open in death--were a bright green and the irises of the eyeballs were slitted like a cat's. The chin was nearly as pointy as the nose: long, curving, sharp. Finally, the mouth, which gaped open in death, was filled with hundreds of curving, knife-like teeth set in tight, black gums. The teeth were caked in greenish, yellow grime, and a long, forked and red tongue lolled from the black mouth.

"Behold!" Brol said. "You see that our comrade Rew should be forgiven his enthusiastic thought not so fanciful characterization! I! I have seen such creatures depicted in the grimoires once shelved in Spiral Towers! And always. Always! Those are illustrations of demons!"

Brol looked at the Rogue and narrowed his eyes. A kind of challenge lingered there.

The gruesome sight of the red corpse lying on the ground stirred revulsion in the Rogue. His stomach lurched. But, taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. A silence fell about the camp as the merchants waited for his reaction. The Rogue looked to Brol, who now held a bloody rag to his wounded eye, and trembled, and wheezed. Obviously the doubt of the Rogue had hurt him. Thus the Rogue felt shame, for he had doubted the merchant. He had thought of Brol as a fat, city-dweller; and he had expected to see that he had killed a coyote or wolf pup, at most.

Though he did not know what it was, the Rogue now desired to know more of how the creature came upon them.

"You say a group of such as these came and killed--or dragged off!--three of us! And that you, good master, have killed one of them! Please! Tell me everything! I've a few things to tell myself, of where I went and what I found in the canyon. But. Please! Inform me of all that transpired after I left last you last eve first!"

"Indeed," said Brol, spitting, throwing aside his rag. He turned to return to his tent. "Tauos! Boil water, by the gods! Everyone else! Return to your tents!"

The Weird History of the Novel (Part 5): *The Hobbit* and the Juxtaposition of "Epic" and "Realistic" Narrative Modes

Tolkien's illustration of "the Lonely mountain"

So, today was the third day in the "History of the Novel" class that I'm teaching that focused on J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. We have one more day with it. And in the course of the discussion my take on The Hobbit crystallized. I'm taking this post as an opportunity to get it down, before it flies the coop of my brain, if you will. What is a "Web Log" for if not to log such things, I ask?

Here's my thesis put simply. I'll back up my claims below. The Hobbit represents an important moment in the history of the novel because it combines two types of narrative: (1) the realistic mode and (2) the epic mode. Let me explain what I mean by this.

We started the class with Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. This novel is often cited as "the first novel," and it represents a new kind of narrative for a variety of reasons. To make my case I need to list some of its characteristics.

Main Characteristics of the "Realist Novel"

(1) The characters featured aren't aristocrats (lords, ladies, knights, warlocks, etc.); rather, they are middle class men of business.

(2) The narrator spends time describing the micro-details of the fictional world. Lots of time in Robinson Crusoe is spent on details like what Robinson eats, how he gets his food, what kind of shelter he builds, what he wears, etc.. We take it for granted now that this level of detail is treated by novels.

(3) The narrator spends time on "psychological introspection." Robinson often reflects on his life, where he has been, what kind of person he is, and how he should change. Also, he undergoes some changes.

(4) There are no mythical elements. No dragons. No wizards. No ghosts.

Let's compare these elements to the other kind of narrative I think The Hobbit incorporates.

General Characteristics of the "Epic or Romance" 
(As an example, let's think of, say, Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur)

(1) Characters are aristocrats and royalty.

(2) The narrator does not spend time on micro-details of life and dwells, rather, on "globally significant things" like political alliances, personality conflicts, love affairs, and hatreds.

(3) The characters are not psychologically introspective and therefore appear psychologically flat. They do not undergo any apparent changes. Crisis rises from the interaction between static personality traits.

(4) There are indeed mythical elements: magical knights, fairies, wizards, giants, magical items.

***

The innovation of The Hobbit is that it combines these elements together. It strikes both an "epic" and "realist" tone. Let me highlight a few ways that it does this.

(1) Bilbo isn't an aristocrat. He's a middle-class fella, a kind of gentleman akin to Robinson; and yet, he interacts with epic characters like Elrond, Beorn, the Goblin King, the King of the Eagles, the King of the Elves, Bard Bowman. Bilbo is a normal fella. And yet he rubs shoulders with the "shakers and movers" of the world who usually populate epic narratives.

(2) The narrator spends time on micro-details, like how Bag End is built; indeed, pages and pages will be given over to meditations on what, say, the Elvish King's hall looks like; and yet--in spite of this slow narrative pace, entire battles can be glossed in a paragraph; epic battles with dragons can be related in a few sentences. We have both narrative registers: the focus on the surface-texture of the world characteristic of novels. And, we have epic narrative pacing--Esgaroth is destroyed in a paragraph; the battle of five armies is related in a few pages. And so forth.

(3) There are characters who undergo changes in this novel and there are characters who stay the same. Beorn, the Elf-King, Bard Bowman, the Master of Laketown, the Goblin King--these guys don't change. They are who they are. Bilbo and Thorin, the dwarves and Gandalf--they are psychologically complex in a way only modern "novelistic" characters can be: inconsistent, self-questioning, surprising, evolving.

(4) In The Hobbit you get meditations on both the quotidian and the epic. There are long descriptions of how many coat pegs Bilbo has; there are passages relating what he eats and his genealogy. AND! And there are passages portraying fights with giant spiders, goblin armies, encounters with strange unknown monsters (i.e. Gollum), dragons, wizards, wargs!

In sum, we have in J.R.R. Tolkien's novel an important moment in the history of the novel because he brings together two separate narrative modes: the realist and the epic.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 20)

Here is serial 20 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

Apologies for waiting so long to continue the serialization! I usually transcribe if I have the time in the evenings. Just can't seem to find the time lately.

Anyhow, here't the 20th serial!


***

At first, these strange words did not register with the Rogue. He thought Rew spoke figuratively. Demons.

And yet, after a moment's pause, Rew's clear conviction stirred the Rogue. Tauos and Brol did not speak up to elaborate what Rew had meant.

Demons. It was as simple as that.

But then the Rogue's natural skepticism overwhelmed him and he looked at these men, trembling, disturbed, speaking of demons, and he spat on the ground. What disturbed him more was that their superstitions had resonated with him. He then saw it as his duty to bring them back to reason. To do so he would have to identify and kill whatever it was that had attacked and wounded Brol. Perhaps it was a large cat. A wolf. It did not matter. It had become a specter to these men. And the Rogue would seek it out. The Rogue shifted his blade hanging from his belt.

"Speak clearly, man! Demons! Nonsense! You've obviously been smoking too much lassra weed to indulge in such phantasies! Now--tell me clearly. What was it that stole into the camp?"

Tauos frowned. Rew gritted his teeth. And Brol--after a moment--he laughed heartily. Standing from his chair against the protestations of the other two merchants, Brol approached the Rogue.

"Perhaps Rew and Tauos speak too soon by calling these things demons, but it was a sort of monster that crept into our sleeping camp last night. They have most surely killed three of us, or dragged them off to a fate word than death, at least. I'll prove it to you, my skeptical though good-natured slave. I managed to kill one. It's corpse is rotting outside of my tent, covered by a cloak because it was too horrible to look upon. If you're not too frightened, good slave, I'll show it to you. One look is worth an entire evening's discussion about what befell us when you went away."

The Rogue respected Brol, and so he assented. He helped Brol out of the tent. With the aid of a pole-blade used as a walking stick, Brol left his tent and proceed to go around to its back.

By that time the other merchants had heard of the Rogue's return. They had left behind their breakfasts, their steaming cups of blackroot, their conversations, in order to witness their savior's return. Many of them were mustering in the camp when Brol, the Rogue, Rew, and Tauos issued from it.

Eventually they all came to a small mound covered by a blood soaked cloak. They all stared at it wordlessly.

Brol was flanked by Tauos. Tauos was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Rew had his arms folded across his chest and his eyes seemed to tremble with suppressed emotion. And Paj--the groveling fool who met the Rogue when he returned to the camp--he was in the middle of the remaining merchants, gibbering and crying. He was muttering to himself and whispering to his companions, who leaned away from him, embarrassed and disturbed by his behavior. Obviously, whatever had happened the the merchant's during the Rogue's absence had deeply effected Paj's mind.

Brol knelt down next to the blood soaked cloak and sighed when his wound began to bleed again. "I warned you, Brol!" Tauos shouted, coming to his leader's aid. "Shut up, fool! I need to show our mercenary the horror came upon us last eve!"

With that Brol dragged off the cloak revealing a sight horrible to the Rogue. The Rogue's breath came shortly. He felt his mind reel, the knot of his sanity loosening. He swallowed.

Jim Henson's *The Storyteller*: "The Soldier and Death" and the Pleasure of Narrative Pacing

So, last night we had some friends over for wine and board games. It was a 5 player game and I bowed out, being a host. And so, while everyone played, I sat on the couch and began to aimlessly wander through Netflix's offerings. In the course of these wanderings, I came to watch one of my favorite "film fantasys" of all time, an episode from Jim Henson's 1988 "live-action/puppet" television show, The Storyteller. The episode I watched was called, "The Solider and Death."

If you haven't seen Jim Henson's The Storyteller before, I highly recommend it to you. Here's the concept of the show: each episode takes an obscure, European folktale and relates it through live acting and puppets. There are German folk tales, Russian folk tales, and Celtic folktales. And they are all done, I think, quite well.

The one that has stuck with me the most is "The Soldier and Death," episode 5 of the first season. It stars Bob Peck as the soldier. It relates such a multifaceted and swirling plot that it's very difficult to summarize. Suffice it to say, it's about a miracle worker who, in spite of his humble beginnings, comes to capture death.

There are all sorts of reasons why this is such a good production. Let me try to highlight a few.

In terms of cinematography, this episode (and other ones) is "formally" and "technically" creative. It doesn't just rely upon scene to tell a story. It's utilizes many different "narrative modes". For example, the story isn't told primarily through showing the action of the events. Sometimes the plot is related through the spoken dialog of "the Storyteller" (played by John Hurt). Hurt's acting and storytelling abilities make the folktale thrill almost as much as the puppets and the effects. And the narrative pace is diversified. Sometimes you get slow-paced "scene" and detailed sets; other times you get "summary" and two-dimensional, abstract sets.

Devil puppets

To an extent, you have here three narrative levels: the storyteller telling the stories, the specific scenes where you see the protagonist talking with people and doing things, and the more two-dimensional, abstract scenes where large swaths of the narrative is related in a sentence or two.

Put briefly, this story is great because of its ability to master narrative pace. All in all, "The Soldier and Death" doesn't last any longer than 25 minutes; and yet, in the course of those 25 minutes, you see the main character going from a humble, homeless soldier to a miracle worker, to a kind of epic hero who visits both hell and heaven. You have in these 25 minutes enough material, I think, for a series of novels, but the treatment is such that, after the 25 minutes, you feel like you've truly been taken somewhere.

Another element of this production I love: the puppets. As a little kid, these demon puppets haunted me. After watching this, I had an entire series of nightmares, featuring these little red, be-horned fellas. When I would wake up in the middle of the night, I would imagine that if I looked out my window I would see a similar cabal of demons smiling and chortling there.