The Weird History of the Novel (Part 4): Comparing *The Hobbit* to *Robinson Crusoe*

So, this afternoon I begin teaching *The Hobbit* in my history of the novel class. I feel like this is an important moment because that book is what got me into reading and writing in the first place. I purchased a copy of it from a book fair in the 7th grade on a whim. I'd read novels before that, but none of them stirred me the way this one had. After *The Hobbit* fantasy literature had become one of the major obsessions in my life.

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Realism and Mythology

Where does *The Hobbit* fall in the history of the novel? Well, I think *The Hobbit* represents an important innovation in the history of a novel. In *The Hobbit* you have a mixture of two styles: realism and mythology. For me, *The Hobbit* (along with a lot of other texts--particularly Robert E. Howard's Conan stories) inaugurates a tradition of literature that combines realist conventions with mythological conventions.

What do I mean by "realism"? In terms of literary art we can perhaps mythologize the beginning of realism in the first book we looked in my history of the novel class, namely, Daniel Defoe's *Robinson Crusoe.* We can think of realism as both a style and a thematic content.

The Style of Realism

In terms of style, we have a slow narrative pace. Defoe spends a lot of time in his novel talking about the surface texture of the world. He refers to measurements and the quantities and the texture of the sea. I'm not saying this sort of reference didn't take in past literature. I am suggesting, though, that the way Defoe refers to the surface texture of the world is unique here. He just describes it baldly and not through allusion or simile: "e.g. the wine-dark ocean". He does not use the flourished style of the epic poet; rather, he uses the "journalistic" style of a natural philosopher or surveyor.

The Thematic Content of Realism

In terms of content, we have a narrative focused on a "normal guy." Robinson Crusoe is a middle class guy who attempts to make a fortune through an entrepreneurial enterprise. He gets stranded on the island and has to survive. Thus, we hear nothing about gods and goblins but a lot about how he gets his food, what he wears, the weather, his attempts to build a shelter. Sure, there are elements where he talks about his spiritual thoughts; and yet--these thoughts suggest less the epic mode and more the introspective, inner-focused psychologizing of later Victorian novelists.

Comparing *The Hobbit* to *Robinson Crusoe*

To a large extent Bilbo Baggins is a perfect parallel to Robinson Crusoe. Bilbo is "well to do" but he's not royalty or aristocracy. He lives in a comfortable, secure environment; Crusoe begins his life in England to parents who are going to set him up in law. In terms of style, the first part of *The Hobbit* hews pretty closely to the realism pioneered in *Robinson Crusoe*. What do the first passages relate? Dinner plans. What the dwarves and company eat, drink, and talk about. To a large extent the first chapter of *The Hobbit* ("A Unexpected Party") is more a "novel of manners" suggestive of Jane Austen's works than any epic poem or adventure fiction.

There is an important moment, however, when the dwarves begin singing their song about the coming of Smaug. Here we have the epic mode entering into the narrative. These passages are versified. There are strange, lyrical syntaxes and rare words are used. Dragons show up and exaggerated emotions are evoked. When the dwarves start singing about the desolation of Smaug we have left the novel of manners and moved into the epic.

Conclusion

I'm going to write more about *The Hobbit* as I spend time on it in class. I have this week and next set aside for it. But here's my hunch at this  point: the aesthetic power of *The Hobbit*--why it is an important "stop" on the journey of the history of the novel--derives from its "mixture" of two distinct narrative registers, the mythological and the realistic.

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.

Charles Dicken's and the "Tweaking" of Reality: Collapsing Subjectivity and Objectivity

All the Year Round: the Magazine

where Great Expectations was 

originally serialized.

So, I'm auditing a Victorian literature course this semester. And I'm interested in sharing some of my thoughts about the texts we're reading in there. We're currently reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Why discuss Charles Dickens? Why discuss Charles Dickens on a blog that is ostensibly focused on science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror?

Good question. I have a roundabout answer that will require a brief excursion in more general issues.

Tweaking Reality

I felt this for a while and am only now beginning to articulate it clearly, but, what draws me to science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror aren't necessarily their content--the aliens, the zombies, the sorcerers, etc.. Rather, what draws me to them is their unique relationship to reality. These genres--which I call the "weird genres"--tweak reality. What do I mean by tweak?

This is an obscure word usually thought to come from twiccian (to pluck) but has been used since the late sixties to refer to "fine-tuning or adjusting a complex system" (Lord Wikipedia). It's also used more colloquially to refer being "under the influence of methamphetamine" (Urban Dictionary).

I like calling upon all these shades of meaning when using the word tweak in terms of tweaking reality: (1) slightly altering the ontological rules that determine reality; (2) doing so in such a way the experience/effect of it suggests a drug-induced state, a different mode of perception; (3) and doing so in a slightly aggressive, violent way.

By tweaking reality, I mean, making it strange, bending its rules, allowing something to exist or something to happen that shouldn't happen. And the effect of this tweaking reality might be best articulated as a kind of altered perception, a new experience.

For science fiction, fantasy, and horror, quotidian reality is a starting point that is deviated from. It is a kind of base that, through contrast, foregrounds non-reality. Its aesthetic effects depends on a reality principle to deviate from.

Back to Charles Dickens...


In Great Expectations Dickens plays with reality in a significant sort of way. He continuously "tweaks" reality. Consider the following passage. Some background: the main character, Pip, is watching as a convict is being taken to a prison ship:

"By the light of the torches, we saw the black Hulk lying out a little way from the mud of the shore, like a wicked Noah’s ark. Cribbed and barred and moored by massive rusty chains, the prison ship seemed in my young eyes to be ironed like the prisoners.” (39)


I’m struck by the figurative language here, the simile comparing the soldiers to the ship and vice-versa. Also, I’m struck by how Pip metaphorically figures the Hulk as a “wicked Noach’s ark.” Let me try to explain why.

Not only do we have individuals being turned into objects, we have a reversal of this effect here, the turning of the ship (an object) into an individual (a subject). Also, we have the ship being figured through a kind of literary citation, if you will, an allusion to the Biblical story of Noah and the Ark.

We have here an intense example of what narrative theorists would call “focalization.” The surface texture of the world is filtered through the interpretive lens of young Pip. It's focused through him.

Indeed, the world derives from his subjectivity—his identification of visual patterns, his literary corpus knowledge.

Remember: “Seemed in my young eyes” (39, my emphasis). This verb “seemed” gives me pause.

“Seems” implies that the world unfolded through narration is an interpretation. We don’t have here a purely subjective interpretation of the world. Folded into the narrative is an allegorical “material,” a—I’m not sure what to call it—“story substructure” that Pip’s subjectivity is colliding with.

My hunch is that there is an interplay between two worlds here: the subjective world of the narrator and the objective world. It seems that Dickens tends to play with collapsing clear cut distinctions between the subject and the object.

He tweaks reality by breaking down clear cut distinctions between where characters' "interior" consciousnesses end and where the material, "external" world begin.

Subjectivity (consciousness, if you will) spills out onto the the objective world.

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.

The Weird History of the Novel (Part 1): Robinson Crusoe and Reality

Introduction: So, I decided to try and "thread together" my professional life (teaching, literary scholarship) with my hobby/obsession (creative writing, weird fiction). And so, I'm starting a new post series, "The Weird History of the Novel." This will basically be a running commentary on the class I'm teaching this semester at Case Western Reserve University, "The History of the Novel." Though the class is an introduction to the history of the novel, this post series will have a thematic "slant" to it.  

Meta-comment/Blogging comment: Sorry for the crappy banner. Doing hand-drawn ones is taking up more time these days than I have. ::sigh:: I did, however, want to highlight this series as something I'm returning to. And, I've been told banners "brand" series and kind of make a commitment to your blog readers that this is an issue/line of thought you aim to return to.

Anyhow...

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I started re-reading Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe this morning. I'm starting my history of the novel class with it. This novel (along with a press of coffee) made me start thinking about "realism" and how "realism" is just as important for the weird genres as "deviations" from realism. Let me explain.

Robinson Crusoe is often cited as being an example of realism because, unlike the literary works that preceded it, it cites no mythology or legends nor does it overtly cite any previous literature; it's completely new, completely novel. Thus, it's considered one of the first true novels.

I like this way of defining the novel. Very often people define the novel in terms of what it is: a long narrative; lots of description; characters who come from the middle class. It's useful, though, to consider what novels aren't. In the case of Robinson Crusoe, the suggestion is that novels are realistic; that is, they represent the world as it is, devoid of mythology or the obfuscations of legend.

Hmm. It's true that some literary historians describe the first novels as a reaction against non-realistic literary genres like the romance. And yet, to say that the novel is necessarily preoccupied with the "realistic" is to set oneself up to argue that science fiction novels, fantasy novels, supernatural horror novels, aren't novels at all. I'm not sure what's at stake in this claim. For now, I'll table it.

But it's interesting. If we accept Robinson Crusoe as an example of one of the earliest novels, then we can use it to frame the novel not just as another media vehicle (e.g. the play, the song), and not just as another literary genre (e.g. the epic poem, the sonnet). In other words, we can begin to define the novel in terms of a discrete theme.

What is that theme? Reality.

Is it useful to think of the novel, the earliest novels, like Robinson Crusoe, as being thematically preoccupied with the real? Is the novel, by its very nature, preoccupied with a kind of reality principle?