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 Weird History of the Novel (Part 3): "Whether devil or man I knew not"

So, I have a complicated argument I want to make in this post, but I don't have the time to really "get into it." There are a lot of premises that I probably need time more laying out and substantiating. Let me just be forthright and lay those premises in a schematic fashion:

Premise 1: Weird fiction (by which I mean modern fantasy, supernatural horror, and science fiction) is genealogically linked to realist literature. This is because weird fiction takes as its first principle the deviation from reality. You need a bedrock of reality to deviate from before you have weirdness and strangeness.

Premise 2: Robinson Crusoe, by Daniel Defore, is one of the inaugural texts of realism. It's a good text to consider the "beginning of realism" in fiction.

Premise 3: If something evolves from something else (e.g. reptiles evolve from fish), then within the originary element we can perhaps retroactively glimpse elements of what will evolve from it. Let me stick with my fish and reptile example to further demonstrate what I mena. We can see in the "cold-blooded" nature of fish the cold-blood" nature of reptiles.

Considering these three premises, here's my argument: we can glimpse in Robinson Crusoe, what I am framing here as the inaugural moment of realism in literature, the shape of "weird fiction" literature to come. The fetus that will become modern fantasy, supernatural horror, and science fiction is growing within the stomach of early "realist" texts.

Let me try to make a case for this by supplying an example of what I mean. As my example I offer an analysis of an extended passage from Robinson Crusoe. Some context: Robinson is gathering some wood and he has a very strange experience:

While I was cutting down some wood here, I percieved that behind a very thick branch of low brushwood or underwood, there was a kind of hollow place; I was curious to look into it, and getting with difficulty into the mouth of it, I found it was pretty large, that is to say, sufficient for me to stand upright in it, and perhaps another with me; but I must confess to you, I made more haste than I did in, when looking father into the place, and which was perfectly dark, I saw two broad shining eyes of some creature, whether devil or man I knew not, which twinkled like two stars, the dim light of the cave's mouth shining durectly in and making the reflection. (174-75, my emphasis).

Here you have a moment of uncertainty. Robinson encounters something and he's not sure what it is. We can describe this experience in terms of his ability to interpret the world, to know it--his cognitive faculties. Here his cognitive faculties have failed. He's confronted with something that he is struggling to interpret: "Whether devil or man, I knew not."

This moment, when our "interpretive frameworks" fail us, i.e., when our ability to understand the world fails us, these moments are considered by famous literary Tzvetan Todorov as "the fantastic." The fantastic for Todorov is that experience where we are no longer able to know the world. Something handicaps our ability to know reality. Therefore, reality becomes an uncertainty. This is the fantastic.

Thus, the argument I want to begin to make with this post is that a kernel for modern fantasy, supernatural horror, and science fiction can be glimpsed as emerging alongside realism.

We can see something in early realism, in the first novels: it's as if when the first literary light was cast on reality this reality necessarily cast many shadows, shadows that were strange, and confusing, and occasionally wonderful, and occasionally horrifying.

Review of John H. Hocking's, "A River Through Darkness"

Last night I purchased the Kindle edition of Black Gate issue 15. My goal is to review select stories from the issue. Some brief information on Black Gate before proceeding with my review of the first story, in case you've never heard of it.

It's one of the most important and prestigious literary marketplaces and communities for the furtherance of "adventure fantasy" and "sword and sorcery".

I love the blog community associated with the magazine. I lurk through the posts and comment occasionally and have discovered so many cool writers (classic and contemporary) and bloggers through the work they do over there.

Side note: I am going to finish my extended review of the anthology, Swords and Dark Magic. The next story up is an Elric tale by Michael Moorcock titled, "Red Pearls: An Elric Story," and its approximately 50 pages, more of a novella than a short story. I'm putting off reading it just now considering I have a prospectus to write, and a bunch of reading for classes I'm teaching and auditing. I do intend to return to Swords and Dark Magic in a week or so. I'm anything is not consistent and persistent.

***

Anyhow, the first story in the magazine was titled "A River Through Darkness and Light" and was written by John H. Hocking. I've never read anything from Mr. Hocking before, but I really enjoyed this story. If this is any indication of the tone, style, and content of the narratives that await me in the rest of the magazine, then I'm eager to read on.

Some brief summary of the story: the protagonist is what is referred to as an "Archiver." I get the sense he's a "scholarly" type figure, a kind of magician, but he never uses magic or anything.

Which reminds me: a fantasist's ability to refrain from representing the supernatural/fantastic is just as important, I think, as their their readiness to represent it.

Anyhow, back the the Archiver. The story isn't just about him. It relates the struggles of a group of adventurers and their attempts to locate and pillage an ancient ruin in the search of a long, lost cache of scrolls (which may or may not be magic). In the course of their search, they encounter a group of bandits, fight with them, and--don't want to spoil it all--a supernatural element emerges.

This is great. For me, its good sword and sorcery. Why? Because the supernatural element is downplayed throughout the vast majority of the narrative. And when it emerges... it's intense. The story is filled with swordfighting, dungeon delves, strange monsters, and, of course, sorcery.

My favorite scene is perhaps when the bandit chief surprises the adventurers with... nevermind.

Let me say something about the narrative style. Hocking tends to pay attention to the surface texture of the world. His descriptions are sometimes excessive, but, if you have the patience, they really pay off. Why?

Well, as he foregrounds the "immanent" world, i.e. the "real" material world--intensifies it, if you will, through description--and by doing this he primes the reader to truly experience the supernatural. He manages to make is strange, as it should be.

In some fantasy, not enough attention paid to the physical world, matter, the immanent--whatever you want to call it--and this neglect makes the entire world feel supernatural or "fairy tale" like. This isn't to my taste. Hocking doesn't do this. You feel the world--the heat of the desert sun, the wind, the dryness of the mesa, the refreshing spray of the river.

And let me say something about the prose style: economic, precise, exciting.

All in all, I'd give this story a 4.5 out of 5.

The Weird History of the Novel (Part 2): Robinson Crusoe, Realism, and Deviations from Realism

I came across a couple passages from Robinson Crusoe recently that gave me pause. A little context: Robinson has been stranded on the island for some time now. In the first passage Robinson is admitting to having no spiritual thoughts at all. To an extent, he is surprised at himself, at his non-spiritual viewpoint. That he thoughtlessly applies himself to gathering materials for a shelter and food and thereby thinks nothing of the divine importance of his being stranded is strange to him:

"I began to be very easy, applied myself to the works proper for my preservation and supply, and was far enough from being afflicted at my condition, as a judgment from Heaven, or as the hand of God against me; these were thoughts which very seldom entered into my head" (91).

Of note here is Robinson's acknowledgement that he was not looking into things. Upon remembering his experience, he finds it strange that, taken up by more basic, economic concerns--where will he sleep, what will he eat--he thinks very little of the spiritual dimension to his fate, being stranded, alone, on an island.

A few paragraphs later, spiritual questions erupt within him. Consider this passage:

"After I had eaten, I tried to walk, but found myself so weak that I could hardly carry the gun (for I never went out without that); so I went but a little way, and sat down upon the ground, and looking out to sea, which was just before me, and very calm and smooth. As I sat here, some such thoughts as these occurred to me:

'What is this earth and sea, of which I have seen so much? Whence is it produced, and what am I, and all other creatures, wild and tame, human and brutal, whence we are?'" (93).

This passage is an interesting counterpoint to the first passage I cited. Robinson is moving along, organizing for his survival on the island. He is struggling with the "material" realities of his misfortune; and then, out of nowhere, spiritual questions flame up. They are basic questions about reality: what is the earth? What am I?

What has happened is that the immanent world has become strange to Robinson.

I find this so intriguing because often Robinson Crusoe is often cited as being unique, an innovation in fiction, for its shedding of "imaginary" plot devices like mythology, literary citatons, folklore, etc.. In this novel the material, "immanent" world--the surface texture of the world, if you will--has become a theme. 

Here, after the surface texture of the world is considered, a desire to look beyond it is betrayed. What is this world? What am I? What are those things?

We have here, in this early example of the English novel, stirrings of subsequent realism and deviations from it.

Edgar Allen Poe, "The Masque of the Red Death," and Perversity as an Aesthetic Experience

Today is Edgar Allen Poe’s birthday, and so I thought I’d write an homage to one of his best—my favorite—stories: “The Masque of the Red Death.”

This story always stirs me. It’s truly horrifying. And its not just the plot that disturbs—the story of the pestilence, the supernatural elements, the blood, the ghostly personification of the Red Death that drives alls the revelers into the black room. It’s also the tone of the narrator.

If I had to pick one adjective to describe the narrative tone, it would be, perverse.

Generally speaking, a “perverse” something is considered a deviation from the "normal" or what is expected. But I think there’s a little more to it when we describe something as perverse in an aesthetic context. Let me explain.

In art, not only is something or someone “perverse” if it deviates from the norm of things, that perverse thing is a source of pleasure. Pleasure, satisfaction, glee—these are just as important elements to the aesthetic of “perversity” as any deviation from the norm.

That pleasure married with strangeness is the tone of the narrator in Edgar Allen Poe’s, “The Masque of the Red Death.” He’s relating the story of a group of selfish aristocrats who have cut themselves off from the world to escape a horrible pestilence; furthermore, he’s relating the story of how they are inevitably brought down by that pestilence.

And in relating this story he strikes an almost a giddy, pleasured, tone, as if their vain attempts to keep the dangers of the world at bay are laughable. As an artistic experience, I find this quite moving. It effects my body and just the mind: it gives me the shivers. 

In this story we have a 3rd person omniscient narrator who is not “dis-interested” in his characters; he’s quite “interested” in his characters. Furthermore, he seems amused by his characters, in the same way a little kid who is plucking the legs off a spider is amused by arachnids.

Let me be clear: I’m not elevating this sort of perversity for its own sake; Poe’s victory, I think, is to conjure an artistic experience out of this gruesome material.

There’s an image in this story, right after the duke falls dead, that always gets me. All night long the revelers have been avoiding the black room with the red light. The duke dies. And here is their reaction: “Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment […].” This "allegorically resonates" for me: these folks have been avoiding death and ignoring it for so long; and now that they have glimpsed true cosmic horror, they run to their deaths (the black room), embrace it.

When the narrator states at the end of the story, “And the flames of the tripod expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all,” I pecieve a quality of exulation here, a kind of grim rejoicing or celebration of death’s victory that is completely in earnest and completely perverse.

Happy birthday Mr. Poe.

Swords and Dark Magic: James Enge, "The Singing Spear," and Flatness and Roundess of Characters

After a week in Portland and a week in Columbus, I find myself returned to my home, my study in Cleveland, where the drone of my room heater and the purr of my cat and the steam of my coffee fill me with joy. It's going to be a great year.

Today I'm going to continue my series on the anthology Swords and Dark Magic. Here is a link to the other posts: Swords and Dark Magic: Extended Review

The fourth story is by James Enge and is titled, "The Singing Spear." It concerns the adventures of a drunkard who is also an enchanter of weapons whose name is Morlock. I won't give away the plot. Suffice it to say it is indeed sword and sorcery in tone: murder, drinking, sorcery, moral ambiguity, blood, etc..

To generalize, I loved this story. Second to the Steven Erikson, this story is my favorite. And I'd have to say this is because of the protagonist, Morlock. He's very interesting. At first he seems to be a stereotypical sword and sorcery protagonist--a brooding warrior who is out for himself, haunted by demons, drinking them away. And yet, in the course of a single swordly-and-sorcerous adventure, he surprises you with his depth, with behavior and feelings that I believe were quite surprising.

I've never read Enge's other work but this makes me very eager to seek it out and read more. Here is a link to his webpage and blog: http://jamesenge.com/

Reflecting on Morlock reminds me of an important characteristic of interesting characters, namely, their capacity to change. Narrative theorists reflect a lot on fictional characters and how they function in narratives. Often they re-hash two designations coined by E.M. Forster in his book Aspects of the Novel (1927), namely, flat characters versus round characters.

Flat characters are characters have no hidden depth or complexity; round characters do. I like to think about the distinction between flat and round characters in terms of their relationships to character types. Flat characters embrace their character type through action; round characters resist or subvert their character types through action.

First, what is a character type? It's a fully-formed character role lingering somewhere in our unconscious mind that we deploy in order to understand people. For example: I go to a bar, encounter a young man who wears a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, camouflage pants, and who has a shaved head. This happens to be a local bar in a rural area. Before I even meet him I make certain assumptions: he is a redneck, a hillbilly, etc..

Yes, character types are narratologist's word for stereotypes, except stereotypes are always considered negative, slightly insulting, whereas character types are considered the fundamental cognitive apparatuses by which we understand the world and the people we encounter in it.

Continuing with out example: suppose this fella, upon talking with him, professes his love of the Ohio State Buckeyes, talks about his love of country music, starts telling you stories about his tractor, his rifles, how he recently bagged a few deer. If he showed up in a story, he would be a flat character.

In reality, no one really exists as a flat character. We are all complex and unique and therefore character types always fall short when used on normal people.

Let's reconsider our example: suppose this fella, upon talking with him, professes his love for Debussy and country music; suppose he loves playing D&D and enjoys a good football game. Suppose, if you will, he drives a tractor but also is Jewish, is a virologists as a local university, and writes horrible poetry that he won't share with anyone. This would be a round character.

In reality, we're all round characters. And yet--and yet! in reality, we all treat each other as if we are flat characters (that is, until we get to know eachother). 

The issue, for me, is character type and conformity or non-conformity to it. Flat characters conform to a character type. Round characters resist it.

Morlock, as a sword and sorcery character, is unique because he both manifests that sword and sorcery protagonist stereotype, and yet, he resists it.
 

Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction (Part 2): The Rule of the Scalpel

The extended holiday visit to Columbus continues.

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 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! 

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. 

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.

Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction: The Pornographic Nature of Science-Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror (Part 1)

There are many different modes of literary criticism.

• There is evaluation, in which you discuss the merits or flaws of a specific piece of work. This tends to be practiced by book reviewers.
• There is historicism, in which you discuss the historical context of the literary work in order to clarify its meaning for modern audiences. Historians do this quite well.
• There is biographism, in which you situate a specific work into the context of an entire authors oeuvre. Much of the literary criticism done today on famous authors--say, Shakespeare and Joyce--is done in this mode. 
• There is structural analysis, in which you consider the structural apparatuses used by the specific literary format and analyze it in those terms; for example, the formal analysis of metered poetry is a good example of what I would like to call structural analysis.

These are, of course, caricatures of work that is never one of any of these and always a mixture of many modes.

By the way, these are my coinages that more or less resemble other conceptualizations more formally defined by historians of literary criticism. 

But in this post I want to briefly talk about a specific type of literary criticism: aesthetic analysis.

Before proceeding with my micro-discussion I need to answer this question: what relevance does this topic have for aspiring weird fiction writers? Fair enough. Just how is this important in terms of the purported focus of this blog: the writing of science fiction, fantasy, horror?

Hmm...

Here's my argument put briefly: in order to create good literature you need to be able to identify, describe, and distinguish between good and bad writing. You need to be a literary critic to be a literary artist.

This belief is obviously underpinned by a primal, perhaps more controversial belief: I believe that writing is a skill that can be honed and mastered as opposed to the more romantic view of writing as a miraculous expression of singular linguistic/narrative genius. 

For me, writing is just as much like carpentry as it is an inherited gene. In order to produce good writing, you not only need to be talented and creative but you need to be able to identify good writing and discuss its features. 

I don't deny that innate artistic skill and inspiration are *the* key elements of writerly success; nevertheless, I believe with enough commitment and enthusiasm and input, writers can more fully reach their artistic potential. With that said, developing a strong "literary critical" sensibility is a must.

O.k.. Back to aesthetic analysis. I'm not sure what the most proper term is for what I mean by aesthetic analysis as a mode of literary criticism; and so, this is what I mean by it: aesthetic analysis is an attempt to understand the effect of art on the audience of art. 

In other words, it is the study of *drum roll* how art moves us. 

Some folks might call this reception analysis or cognitive poetics. These terms are too precise for me. I'll spare you my many reservations.

Here's the major premise of aesthetic analysis: art effects people in specific ways. In other words, fantasy fills people with wonder! Science-fiction stirs people with a feeling of the sublime! Horror horrifies! Thus, we can think of each type of art as connected to a specific--let us say "emotion."

Fantasy: feelings of the "fantastic."

Science-fiction: feelings of "science-fictionality"

Horror: feelings of "horror."

Articulating things in this way then lets us imagine how each genre sets out to stir within its readers a specific bodily reaction.

And here is where I get to let loose my scandalous though hopefully thought provoking slogan: weird fiction, by which I mean science-fiction, fantasy and horror (by which I mean genre fiction), is fundamentally pornographic. 

Why?! How?! What?!

Well, let me answer this is a roundabout way by indulging in a little literary historical syllogism: 

Premise 1: Because science-fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror are often cited as 20th century phenomenon, "genre fiction" is often defined in contradistinction to the other 20th century literary phenomenon: "high modernist literature" or "pure literary art." 

Premise 2: Modernism attempts to create in its audience a kind of negative emotional state, a kind of emotional, cerebral detachment. Thus, it is considered pure art.

Conclusion: It's "opposite," genre fiction, attempt to stir its audiences emotions. It quickens their pulse, takes their breath away, boggles their mind.

Pornography acts on the body, too.

I'm opening up a big can of worms here and I'll follow up it tomorrow. I'm thinking this may be a 3 or 4 parter. 

But we have taken are first step into understanding precisely how weird fiction works. Understanding how something works then allows us to speculate on its effectiveness. And with effectiveness we then have a means by which to sharpen any value judgments we might deploying in evaluating genre literature. 

"It is good or bad?" becomes "is it effective or ineffective?" 

I'm sure there is payoff here.