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.
Showing posts with label secondary world fantasy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label secondary world fantasy. Show all posts
Friday, March 9, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, February 13, 2012
The Weird History of the Novel (Part 5): *The Hobbit* and the Juxtaposition of "Epic" and "Realistic" Narrative Modes
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| Tolkien's illustration of "the Lonely mountain" |
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.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Dark Crystal: Secondary World Fantasy and the Authority of Material Effects
Today I’m going to review another one of my favorite films, Jim Henson’s, The Dark Crystal.
In this film Jim Henson has imagined an entirely new world. Not only does he create new races of beings—the evil Skeksis, the calm Mystics, the persevering Gelflings--he creates in this film a new planet, an entirely new ecosystem, Thra: its the flora, its fauna, its lifeforms.
There’s something about the “materiality” of these effects that imbue the film with a kind of authenticity, a kind of authenticity the best CGI couldn’t garner.
Jim Henson’s new creations—his novums, if you will--are related through artistic puppets and amazing set designs. I want to talk about them all, but I’m going to limit myself to a few highlights.
The villains of the film, the Skeksis, made such an impression on me as a young kid, and still do. Half-buzzard, half insect, beady eyes, decadent clothing: they suggest dark sorcery and decaying empires.
The main villain, the Chamberlain of the dead emperor (his name is skekSil), was my favorite Skeksi. He was one of those villains you loved to hate. He has this strange little verbal tick. In a high pitched voice he moans, “Mmmmmmm,…” which suggests he thinking. He does this throughout the film, and you come to both love and hate it.
There’s another character, Aughra, a kind of “Yoda-ish” oracle lady who helps the main character understand his fate. She is of some indeterminate race; but she has these buggy eyes and this crazy hair that always stirred me. And her gravely voice and lyrical dialog gives her a genuine authority.
There’s a scene in the film, in Aughra’s astrological laboratory, where she’s explaining “the Great Conjunction” to the protagonist; and there’s this huge model of the many planets and their courses. It’s an amazing sculpture! And you have to remind yourself—that’s not CGI! Someone built that.
Other parts of the film showcase the artistic power of Jim Henson’s studios. There’s one scene when the protagonist stumbles upon an ancient ruin of his race, the Gelflings, and there are bas-relief sculptures on a ruined wall depicting their fraught history (spoiler: all the Gelflings, aside from the two main characters, have had their souls sucked out by the Skeksis). The detail here is astounding. All the vegetation, the water running down the stone, the weeds: all of it is “artificial,” the artistic creation of a studio.
That’s why I think this film is a masterpiece: you immerse yourself in this world and begin to believe in it, and forget that all of those things, those creatures, all of those trees, living plants, natural vistas—they are all artificial creations. Sculptures. Puppets.
In this fantasy film, Jim Henson and company have--as much as anyone can hope to do--created a "secondary world".
In this film Jim Henson has imagined an entirely new world. Not only does he create new races of beings—the evil Skeksis, the calm Mystics, the persevering Gelflings--he creates in this film a new planet, an entirely new ecosystem, Thra: its the flora, its fauna, its lifeforms.
There’s something about the “materiality” of these effects that imbue the film with a kind of authenticity, a kind of authenticity the best CGI couldn’t garner.
Jim Henson’s new creations—his novums, if you will--are related through artistic puppets and amazing set designs. I want to talk about them all, but I’m going to limit myself to a few highlights.
The villains of the film, the Skeksis, made such an impression on me as a young kid, and still do. Half-buzzard, half insect, beady eyes, decadent clothing: they suggest dark sorcery and decaying empires.
The main villain, the Chamberlain of the dead emperor (his name is skekSil), was my favorite Skeksi. He was one of those villains you loved to hate. He has this strange little verbal tick. In a high pitched voice he moans, “Mmmmmmm,…” which suggests he thinking. He does this throughout the film, and you come to both love and hate it.
There’s another character, Aughra, a kind of “Yoda-ish” oracle lady who helps the main character understand his fate. She is of some indeterminate race; but she has these buggy eyes and this crazy hair that always stirred me. And her gravely voice and lyrical dialog gives her a genuine authority.
There’s a scene in the film, in Aughra’s astrological laboratory, where she’s explaining “the Great Conjunction” to the protagonist; and there’s this huge model of the many planets and their courses. It’s an amazing sculpture! And you have to remind yourself—that’s not CGI! Someone built that.
Other parts of the film showcase the artistic power of Jim Henson’s studios. There’s one scene when the protagonist stumbles upon an ancient ruin of his race, the Gelflings, and there are bas-relief sculptures on a ruined wall depicting their fraught history (spoiler: all the Gelflings, aside from the two main characters, have had their souls sucked out by the Skeksis). The detail here is astounding. All the vegetation, the water running down the stone, the weeds: all of it is “artificial,” the artistic creation of a studio.
That’s why I think this film is a masterpiece: you immerse yourself in this world and begin to believe in it, and forget that all of those things, those creatures, all of those trees, living plants, natural vistas—they are all artificial creations. Sculptures. Puppets.
In this fantasy film, Jim Henson and company have--as much as anyone can hope to do--created a "secondary world".
Monday, December 26, 2011
Swords and Dark Magic: Secondary World As Distraction
Having my coffee and writing in a coffee shop this morning. I'm apartment-sitting for a friend of mine. Conveniently, its located right next to a coffee joint *and* what is widely considered Columbus, Ohio's best book store: The Book Loft, a *huge* overstock book store that boasts 32 rooms filled with books. I'll be heading over there after this.
Also, if you haven't noticed, I sketched out a banner. It's amateurish and the letters are crooked. But, I stand by my work! I was inspired by the lettering of *Weird Tales* and tried to emulate it. The wine-snob devil sitting on the wine-barrel: I have to chalk that up to spontaneous inspiration.
Enough biographical preamble!
Here are links to previous posts for your convenience and my self-satisfaction:
Swords and Dark Magic Post 1 Introduction
Swords and Dark Magic Post 2 Analysis of Steven Erikson's "Goats of Glory"
The second story is titled “Tides Elba: A Tale of the Black Company” and written by Glen Cook. I’ve never read anything by Glen Cook. I’m always surprised by how one can never fully consider oneself *well read* in genre literature—there are constantly authors who show up who you’ve never heard about and yet—and yet! Everyone else has. And not only has everyone else heard of this author but this author has a *huge* following and has been writing for many years.
Such was my experience of Glen Cook.
Apparently his *Black Company* stories have been going on for quite some time.
I glanced through a Wikipedia article and read the editors’s description of Glen Cook’s work and found that his *Black Company* stories are related through a series of novels beginning in 1985 and are still going strong today. I find that so fascinating!
For me, sword and sorcery was a proverbial flower of the 60s, 70s, and 80s that died in the 90s in the midst of a resurgence of epic, “non-adventure” based fantasy. But the work of Glen Cook’s—a novum in and of itself—is forcing me to reevaluate this assumption.
I’ve come to the point in my blog where I realize I need something: *a better model for historically narrating fantasy literature.*
It seems most blogs *answer* questions or at least relate useful information, but here is a deviation: *does anyone know of a recent history of fantasy—1970-2011?*
Anyhow, I wander. Back to “Tides Elba” and the Black Company.
Some summary: The story assumes a lot of contextual knowledge about the Black Company, their world, and their situation, and thus gets started quickly—the Black Company Mercenary Army is ordered by their employer to search out a rebel leader by the name of Tides Elba. These orders are delivered to them by a magic-carpet riding sorcerer by the name of the Limper. The members of the company are suspicious of the Limper, having had dealings with him in the past; therefore, they work together to both satisfy their obligations to their employer and to protect the welfare of the company. They do this through conspiratorial, cloak-and-dagger subterfuge. And that’s all I’ll give away.
Let me just say I didn’t care for this story as much as the first one by Steven Erikson. Why? I felt disoriented through this story and it took about 10 pages before I stopped being confused and got a handle on the situation. Wherefore? I have a hunch that I think is an important one that contains within it an useful lesson for genre writers: this story is so invested in the micro-politics of its “secondary world” that someone who is unfamiliar with it *cannot* enjoy it.
But thats not to say this story had *nothing* to endear it to me.
I liked the gruff personalities that populated the world Cook presents to us here. The main character(s) of this story is less a single individual and more the collective of the military company itself (and in this way it is similar in terms of narrative structure to the first story in this anthology, “Goats of Glory”).
But, even though the military collective—the Black Company—subordinates, to some extent, the narrative roles of individual characters in this story, the individuals are nevertheless *individuals.* Furthermore, they are individuals in an *intense* way. This intensity of character is related through some really great dialog, by which I mean natural dialog, dialog skillfully pervaded by idioms of intimacy.
Exercise: Think of one of your favorite “secondary world” fantasy novels. Next, think about the characters and conflicts this novel relates. Try to summarize it in 150 words by stripping it of the details of its secondary world. Here’s a brief example wherein I strip J.R.R. Tolkien’s *The Hobbit* of all its distinguishing characteristics—purge all traces of Middle Earth from it--while retaining the core of its narrative.
The second story is titled “Tides Elba: A Tale of the Black Company” and written by Glen Cook. I’ve never read anything by Glen Cook. I’m always surprised by how one can never fully consider oneself *well read* in genre literature—there are constantly authors who show up who you’ve never heard about and yet—and yet! Everyone else has. And not only has everyone else heard of this author but this author has a *huge* following and has been writing for many years.
Such was my experience of Glen Cook.
Apparently his *Black Company* stories have been going on for quite some time.
I glanced through a Wikipedia article and read the editors’s description of Glen Cook’s work and found that his *Black Company* stories are related through a series of novels beginning in 1985 and are still going strong today. I find that so fascinating!
For me, sword and sorcery was a proverbial flower of the 60s, 70s, and 80s that died in the 90s in the midst of a resurgence of epic, “non-adventure” based fantasy. But the work of Glen Cook’s—a novum in and of itself—is forcing me to reevaluate this assumption.
I’ve come to the point in my blog where I realize I need something: *a better model for historically narrating fantasy literature.*
It seems most blogs *answer* questions or at least relate useful information, but here is a deviation: *does anyone know of a recent history of fantasy—1970-2011?*
Anyhow, I wander. Back to “Tides Elba” and the Black Company.
Some summary: The story assumes a lot of contextual knowledge about the Black Company, their world, and their situation, and thus gets started quickly—the Black Company Mercenary Army is ordered by their employer to search out a rebel leader by the name of Tides Elba. These orders are delivered to them by a magic-carpet riding sorcerer by the name of the Limper. The members of the company are suspicious of the Limper, having had dealings with him in the past; therefore, they work together to both satisfy their obligations to their employer and to protect the welfare of the company. They do this through conspiratorial, cloak-and-dagger subterfuge. And that’s all I’ll give away.
Let me just say I didn’t care for this story as much as the first one by Steven Erikson. Why? I felt disoriented through this story and it took about 10 pages before I stopped being confused and got a handle on the situation. Wherefore? I have a hunch that I think is an important one that contains within it an useful lesson for genre writers: this story is so invested in the micro-politics of its “secondary world” that someone who is unfamiliar with it *cannot* enjoy it.
But thats not to say this story had *nothing* to endear it to me.
I liked the gruff personalities that populated the world Cook presents to us here. The main character(s) of this story is less a single individual and more the collective of the military company itself (and in this way it is similar in terms of narrative structure to the first story in this anthology, “Goats of Glory”).
But, even though the military collective—the Black Company—subordinates, to some extent, the narrative roles of individual characters in this story, the individuals are nevertheless *individuals.* Furthermore, they are individuals in an *intense* way. This intensity of character is related through some really great dialog, by which I mean natural dialog, dialog skillfully pervaded by idioms of intimacy.
Exercise: Think of one of your favorite “secondary world” fantasy novels. Next, think about the characters and conflicts this novel relates. Try to summarize it in 150 words by stripping it of the details of its secondary world. Here’s a brief example wherein I strip J.R.R. Tolkien’s *The Hobbit* of all its distinguishing characteristics—purge all traces of Middle Earth from it--while retaining the core of its narrative.
A story about a young man from a quaint village where nothing happens. He encounters a group of artisans who have been divested of their wealth and who have a plan to get it back. They set out together, have a variety of strange encounters in the wilderness, and at the end of their journey find themselves engaged in a great war after their wealth has been returned to them.
Though the micro-political details of some “secondary world” fantasies are what attracts a lot of readers to these stories, sometimes, I think, the too heavy-handed foregrounding of these details can be alienating and distracting from the core narrative. This is why, I think, more people read J.R.R. Tolkien’s *The Lord of the Rings* and less people read his histories. I think an exercise like this, rather than training us to de-emphasize such details, is a good way to remind us of the importance of plot.
Though the micro-political details of some “secondary world” fantasies are what attracts a lot of readers to these stories, sometimes, I think, the too heavy-handed foregrounding of these details can be alienating and distracting from the core narrative. This is why, I think, more people read J.R.R. Tolkien’s *The Lord of the Rings* and less people read his histories. I think an exercise like this, rather than training us to de-emphasize such details, is a good way to remind us of the importance of plot.
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