THE LARGE AND THE SMALL PT. 2

 Neologism Neurosis time again-- 

In Part 1, I discussed the way "scale," with respect to the number of pivotal icons in a narrative, affected the tenor of different literary genres. I was talking specifically about the disparate ways readers and critics react to the polarized fantasy-subgenres of J.R.R. Tolkien's "epic fantasy" and Robert E. Howard's "sword-and-sorcery." Some poking around revealed that there are actually jargonistic ways of talking about scale in the sciences, where "macroscale" means "large scale" and "microscale" means "small scale." But coinages like "macroscale-icons" and the opposing neologism are both cumbersome.

I'll note in passing that Tolkienian "epic fantasy" has sometimes been marketed as "high fantasy," though I'll bet nothing has ever been marketed as "low fantasy" even though critics have bent their brains about what the "high/low" distinction ought to connote. I won't endorse the dichotomy here in any way. "Low" carries irrelevant negative connotations, just as I mentioned in Part 1 that antonyms for words like "epic" and "expansive" usually have negative connotations. But going back to the contrasted examples of THE ILIAD and THE ODYSSEY, there's nothing intrinsically negative about the latter narrative following the destinies of one main character and a couple of pivotal support-characters, rather than charting a huge panoply of pivotal characters as does the former. The humbler "microscale" endeavors of Sir Gawain in GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT possess what I'll call an "intensive" quality, a quality not possible for any single story in the macroscale world of Malory's MORTE D'ARTHUR-- "intensive" being more or less opposed in my mind to "expansive."

I may as well mention that these distinctions about "large scale/expansive" vs. "small scale/intensive" certainly don't apply only to magical fantasy stories. The first literary opposition that occurred to me was that of the "expansive" MOBY DICK of Melville and the "intensive" LIGHT IN AUGUST of Faulkner, and I'm sure that there are thousands of other potential examples. 

So "expansive/intensive" is a possible jargonistic application, which I may or may not keep exploring. I will note that when I was looking at other words that carried the tonality of "epic," I was very attracted to both the words "panoramic" and "panoptic." Both certainly characterize Tolkien and his emulators, and "panoptic" is likeable because the essence of expansive narratives is that they give the reader the sense of participating in a huge number of viewpoints, i.e., lots of "eyes" with their own interpretations. By comparison, Howard and his emulators offer readers a more circumscribed number of eyes-- but here too, there's no good antonym for "panoptic." If I wanted to bring that word into my jargon-verse, I'd have to make up another neologism, such as "oligoptic," based on the Greek word-element "oligo" for "a few." So for the time being, if I use any terms at all, I'll describe "macroscale iconicity" as "expansive" and "microscale iconicity" as "intensive."

Of course the actual readership of fantasies will inevitably keep using the familiar terms of "epic fantasy" and "sword-and-sorcery." Yet even while I admit that fact, I'll still maintain that sword-and-sorcery holds "intensive narrative tendencies" with other subgenres that focus on small casts of characters, like PINOCCHIO, GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT, and the majority of both rural "folktales" and citified "literary fairy tales."        

Yet if I wanted to change all the marketing terms to suit me, what would I choose? It would have to be something straightforward, and the first thing that comes to mind is the way 20th-century pop fiction was given shorthand terms based on elements widely common to the genres involved: "horse operas" for westerns, "space operas" for science fiction. So what would be the dominant elements that I would use, not only to distinguish expansive fantasy from the intensive type, but also to bring together all those subgenres I thought fell under the aegis of the intensive type?

Two words, sometimes used to mean the same thing, occur to me: "quest" and "journey." But in my view, a "quest" is intrinsically an organized endeavor, often by several people as in MORTE D'ARTHUR and LORD OF THE RINGS, to accomplish a specific end. In contrast, a "journey" need not have a specific end. It can have such, as when Gawain wanders about trying to figure out how to avoid falling victim to the Green Knight's ax. But the prose versions of both Conan and Pinocchio travel from adventure to adventure, often giving their readers a sort of guided tour of a particular world's weird wonders. A "journey" can also be performed by an ensemble-- the two heroes of Fritz Leiber's, the four kids of Lewis's first Narnia book-- but I'd generalize that if an author goes over six pivotal characters in his ensemble, he loses his ability to "intensely" focus on the fortunes of a handful of characters.    

So "quest operas" would be my preferred term for both LORD OF THE RINGS and THE ILIAD, though in the latter, the quest is for the Greeks to find a way to conquer Troy, which is possible through both the reclamation of Achilles (in Homer) and the invention of the Trojan Horse (in other works of the so-called "Epic Cycle").     

And "journey operas" take in CONAN THE CONQUEROR, THE ODYSSEY, PINOCCHIO and "Jack the Giant Killer."    

THE LARGE AND THE SMALL

 Responding to an online comment to my reprinting CUTTING REMARKS ON SWORD-AND-SORCERY on a forum:

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 I'd agree that there's no way to know what subgenre has intrinsically greater variety-- one can always imagine infinite variations on any theme-- so I might modify my statement to say that there was the *perception* of epic fantasy having greater variety, just because of the difference in *scale* between the oeuvre of Tolkien and that of Howard.  

"Scale" is a tough thing to define, but it might be more accurate overall. I did an antonym-check on both the word "epic" and the emotional tonality it usually carries for me, that of being "expansive," and almost all the antonyms to both make the thing opposite look rather crappy, with the most value-free ones being things like "humble" or "restrictive." 

We know, though, people started calling Tolkien "epic" simply because the RINGS story involves a ton of characters and moving parts in comparison with less "expansive" fare like Conan. But one has to be cautious about implying that there's nothing "epic" about Conan. The REH story "People of the Black Circle" sets up the Cimmerian to defeat a circle of evil mystics out to conquer the world. I'm re-reading DC's 1970s barbarian-comic CLAW, and after three or four episodic stories someone unleashes a destructive demon on the world, and it's up to hero Claw and his sidekick to find the mystic items that can expel the critter. So really the only thing "small-scale" about a S&S story is usually that it involves fewer starring and supporting characters than the "large-scale" kind. At the same time, being "small-scale" allows a hero, or pair of heroes, to get involved in comparatively small-scale conflicts, like Good Ol' Conan Brown trying to plunder a great tower and releasing an enslaved entity in "Tower of the Elephant." Is an "epic fantasy" short story even possible?

In FLAME Murphy quotes from the prologue of an S&S collection, SWORDS AND DARK MAGIC, in which the editors made a very limited comparison to the two famous epics of Homer, saying simply, "If high fantasy is a child of THE ILIAD, then sword-and-sorcery is the product of THE ODYSSEY." This is a fine insight because even though we call both Homeric poems "epic," clearly ODYSSEY is just dealing with the struggles of one man and some supporting characters (the family back on Ithaca) facing an epic array of entities, while in ILIAD one might call Achilles the central character but the story devotes almost equal space to twenty or so "support characters," including Odysseus. Murphy then takes the editors' insight in some untenable directions, but nothing that demolishes the validity of the original idea.

Of course, even calling S&S "small-scale" doesn't define that much. As you point out, Jack Vance's Cugel books, which I haven't read for many years and which Murphy also cites, don't contain much swordplay, focusing on a "hero" who often outwits enemies rather than outfighting them. For that matter, there are a lot of fantasies that no one would term "S&S" that are also "small-scale," like literary fairy tales: PINOCCHIO, BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. Yet a few folktales involve pitched combat, like the folkloric "Jack the Giant Killer." A lot of knights-in-armor fantasies of the medieval era have the same plot structure as barbarian stories-- solitary hero rides around getting into trouble-- and don't involve major "epic" actions like finding the Holy Grail, and I wondered which if any of these Howard might have read, even in bowdlerized forms. 

On top of all that, having lots of characters doesn't mean a story is more complex. I read the first three SHANNARA books over 20 years ago, and I remember nearly nothing about them, while by comparison I recall a lot more incidents even from simple "Clonan" books by writers like Jakes and Fox, not because those books were great but because this or that incident held visceral appeal.

I may amuse myself trying to think of neologisms for "stories with many pivotal characters" and stories with few pivotal characters," but there's probably no new term that will ever change the status quo.

 

          

 

AN AESTHETIC OF NONSENSE PT. 1

I'll commence this assault upon the Domain of Nonsense, this attempt to make nonsense make sense, with a contrasting example drawn from J.R.R. Tolkien's signature effort to defend his conception of fantasy from all those who have sought to downgrade that uber-genre. I will build upon my discussion partly on the points I made in the COMPENSATION CONSIDERATIONS essay-series, beginning here, though that series did not address the concept of nonsense fiction. But instead of rehashing those essays, I'll confine this essay to a quick re-examination of Tolkien's illustration of the way authors create what he called "arresting strangeness."                                                                                                                             "Anyone inheriting the fantastic device of human language can say the green sun. Many can then imagine or picture it. But that is not enough—though it may already be a more potent thing than many a “thumbnail sketch” or “transcript of life” that receives literary praise.  To make a Secondary World inside which the green sun will be credible, commanding Secondary Belief, will probably require labour and thought, and will certainly demand a special skill, a kind of elvish craft. Few attempt such difficult tasks. But when they are attempted and in any degree accomplished then we have a rare achievement of Art: indeed narrative art, story-making in its primary and most potent mode."-- ON FAIRY-STORIES.                                                                                                                                                Okay, fair enough. It takes special effort to imagine a world where a phenomenon of our "Primary World," the sun that appears to most persons on Earth as yellow, is actually green. No argument there. But what if you have--                                                                                       

                                                                                                                Can one make a world with a polka-dot sun credible? If such a sun is depicted, particularly in a medium that can show rather than describe it, it will certainly seem strange to the reader and arrest any expectations that this is a world like our own. But a sun with a precise polka-dot pattern-- or even something more random, like the spots on a leopard-- is unlikely to seem credible in any way. The polka-dot sun is strange, but it departs from a causally coherent world so radically that one cannot make it credible in itself. At most, an author can posit that the world with a polka-dot sun is one where anything can come into existence "just because"-- which will lead me into Part 2 of this aesthetic endeavor.                                                                                                        

THE READING RHEUM: DON RODRIGUEZ, CHRONICLES OF SHADOW VALLEY (1922)

Except for readers who have a desire to understand the many historical permutations of what I call "the magical fantasy" genre, most people are acquainted with the early 20th-century writer Lord Dunsany in terms of his being an influence on two better-known authors, Lovecraft and Tolkien. The only widely distributed paperback editions of Dunsany's work were six works reprinted releases under the Ballantine fantasy imprint in the early 1970s.

I read most of the Dunsany paperbacks many years ago, except for DON RODRIGUEZ, the author's first published novel. I had enjoyed most of the works in the Ballantine series, both short stories and two other fantasy-novels, so I expected to find the same virtues in RODRIGUEZ as I'd found in the others.

But this first novel is not only devoid of Dunsany's signature use of exalting language, it's written in a tiresome, pseudo-archaic dialect that never uses one word when ten can be fit in. Here's a sample from the first chapter:

Now there were no wars at that time so far as was known in Spain, but that old lord's eldest son, regarding those last words of his father as a commandment, determined then and there in that dim, vast chamber to gird his legacy to him and seek for the wars, wherever the wars might be, so soon as the obsequies of the sepulture were ended. And of those obsequies I tell not here, for they are fully told in the Black Books of Spain, and the deeds of that old lord's youth are told in the Golden Stories. The Book of Maidens mentions him, and again we read of him in Gardens of Spain.

Far worse is the fact that almost nothing of consequence happens in RODRIGUEZ. The titular don is a young man disinherited by his dying father back in the days of medieval Spain. He goes forth to make his own way, planning to acquire both a wife and a castle, not necessarily in that order. This might sound like a good setup for adventure, but Dunsany almost seems to be trying NOT to describe anything exciting. The most engrossing event occurs early in the novel, when the young Don rents quarters in an inn. The evil innkeeper, borrowing a schtick from the stories of Theseus, plans to kill the Don when he sleeps that night and steal all of his possessions. A servant warns the Don, who sets up a trap for the innkeeper and kills him. 

The Don then agrees to let the servant who warned him become his servant, even though the impecunious nobleman doesn't have a lot of money. Then the two wander about getting involved in various paltry events-- talking with a sorcerer who shows them visions of past and future wars, liberating another nobleman from some officious policemen. After the duo go through various unexciting events, the Don eventually makes a contact who initially seems supernatural, but is not, and that individual sets the Don up with a castle, so that he can marry a woman he's conveniently fallen in love with.

The near-total lack of romance and adventure might make one suspect that Dunsany had some notion of emulating satirical works like those of Cervantes or Voltaire. But there's no satire here, and I'm almost at a loss to figure out what Dunsany was trying to accomplish.

The closest clue I can find appears in an online observation about Dunsany's historical significance to the fantasy-genre.

Lord Dunsany's first novel, "Don Rodriguez: Chronicles of Shadow Valley conveys its young disinherited protagonist through a fantasized Spain, gifting him with a Sancho Panza companion, good luck with magicians, and a castle" [The Encyclopedia of Fantasy]. It is a landmark tale for Dunsany, beginning his move from the otherworldly short stories for which his reputation is justly famous to novels, such as the follow-up The King of Elfland's Daughter and The Charwoman's Shadow. L. Sprague de Camp has said: "Dunsany was the second writer (William Morris in the 1880s being the first) fully to exploit the possibilities of ... adventurous fantasy laid in imaginary lands, with gods, witches, spirits, and magic, like children's fairy tales but on a sophisticated adult level." But more than this, Dunsany was probably the single greatest influence on fantasy writers during the first half of the 20th century.H P Lovecraft, in early fiction, like The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, imitated him, and very well.-- FANTASTIC FICTION.

It's probably quite true that in terms of "adult fantasy"-- that is, excluding juvenile-oriented authors like Baum and Barrie-- that Dunsany was picking up on a precedent established by William Morris. Morris is of extreme importance, as De Canp said, to the history of otherworldly fantasy-- but I've read and reviewed Morris' four otherworld-fantasies, and he adopted an archaic, fusty style like what Dunsany uses in RODRIGUEZ. I don't think Morris ever wrote anything as utterly dull as RODRIGUEZ. But perhaps Dunsany had some idea of emulating, not just Morris, but the episodic nature of early chivalric romances. That might explain why he was able to use his more imaginative language in his earlier short stories (which date back to the early 1900s), but for his novel Dunsany chose to follow this dull episodic model. Of his handful of later novels, I've read just two, and I remember both as having the same enchanting combination of beautiful language and engrossing magical concepts I found in the earlier short stories. But RODRIGUEZ barely qualifies as a "magical fantasy story" at all, and then only because of the hero's rather pointless encounter with the sorcerer. I saw one review claiming that the Don makes a small cameo in a 1926 Dunsany novel, THE CHARWOMAN'S SHADOW, which I remember liking and may attempt to reread for comparison's sake in the near future.

PICKING ATTEBERRIES PT. 3

 Since I'm not sure I'll finish STORIES ABOUT STORIES, I skipped Chapter 3 and read Chapter 4, at least in part because it concerns Attebery's antagonistic relationship to Joseph Campbell.

But before getting to anything about Campbell, it occurred to me to relate Attebery's definition of myth as "any collective story that encapsulates a worldview and authorizes belief" to one of the first "mythographers" I evaluated on this blog, Eric Gould. In the work referenced here, Gould coined a term I've often used, "mythicity," but he did not share Attebery's broad valorization of any mythic tale simply because it "authorized belief."

The fact that classical and totemistic myths have to refer to some translinguistic fact-- to the Gods and Nature-- proves not that there are Gods, but that our talents for interpreting our place in the world may be distinctly limited by the nature of language.

In my own essay I registered my disagreement with Gould on that point. Nevertheless, Attebery seems to have vaulted over the epistemological question, "what authority does religious 'belief' possess, even if it expresses the collective worldview of a given tribe, nation, or ethnicity?" I would be the last to validate the Doubting Thomas fallacy of the materialists, "If you can't dissect the risen body of Christ, that means no such body ever existed." But belief can be epistemologically valid insofar as its narratives reproduce epistemological patterns that are, in a sense, common to all human experience, not just to particular human groupings. For me at least, that transcendence of particular cultures trumps the "limits of language" that Eric Gould finds so disconcerting.

At base, Joseph Campbell shared this belief in such patterns, though he was, as I've said elsewhere, rather scattershot in his hermeneutics during his unquestionably distinguished career. But since Campbell and some of his fellow travelers are not validating myth based only upon whether the myth-narratives "authorize" a particular group's "belief," it's not surprising to me that Atteberry implicitly dismisses many comparativists that came into prominence in the 1960s, lumping together "Claude Levi-Strauss, Joseph Campbell, Northrop Frye, and Mircea Eliade" as proponents of "myth criticism." Attebery is initially a bit circumspect about pinning down what he doesn't like about myth criticism, though immediately after these citations he brackets the myth-critics as sharing "the assumption that all myths are psychically available to modern writers and readers." Attebery does not at first raise the Barthesian specter of "appropriation," the idea that it's wrong to pilfer cultural artifacts from cultures not one's own. The author's initial reticence may come about because he segues from talking about the cultural influence of the myth-critics (presumably in America and Western Europe, though Attebery doesn't specify) to discussing the concomitant rise of the mass-market proliferation of the fantasy genre in the same decade and thereafter. But when he turns his attention to Campbell's HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES, it's clear the author has that devil Appropriation on his mind.

The problem with Campbell's monomyth as an analytical tool  is that it always works because it simplifies every story to the point where nothing but the monomyth is left. It ignores the many mythic stories that do not have questing heroes, and it leaves out the culturally defined values and symbols that make each tradition unique.

I disagree with only one part of this statement. As I may have said elsewhere on this blog, I have not read HERO in several years, and have not ever reviewed it, but I think it the least epistemologically valid of his works. If I had my way, Campbell would be much better known for his "four functions." But I must admit that Campbell's concept of an over-arching "super-myth," while fallible in many ways, had the effect of getting a lot of people to check out that particular book, including (allegedly) George Lucas. 

Yet Attebery makes the opposite mistake. When he bestows upon traditional myths a uniqueness that sets those stories apart from other cognate stories, he makes the same mistake Barthes did in MYTHOLOGIES. Long before there existed either "capitalist" or "post-industrial" cultures, so-called "traditional cultures" constantly swapped or stole story-ideas from each other. Did Norse Odin precede Germanic Wotan? No one knows, and no one should care. The same principle should apply to the intermingling of elements from disparate cultures in order to craft modern magical fantasies. We would not have a LORD OF THE RINGS if Tolkien had not synthesized many myth-traditions, not least the very disparate traditions of Celtic tales and medieval Christian religion. Alan Garner's WEIRDSTONE OF BRISINGAMEN is nowhere near the greatness of RINGS. But Garner's synthesis was a good one, and does not deserve to be downgraded because (according to Attebery) he "mixed mythologies indiscriminately," with "Nordic dwarves, Celtic elves, a Tolkienian evil force named Nastrond, and a Merlinesque wizard who guards a cave of sleeping warriors like those of the Germanic Frederick Barbarosa." It's odd that Attebery should invoke a 12th century German ruler in concert with a "Merlinesque wizard," rather than referencing the "sleeping warrior" myths about King Arthur, who's more frequently associated with Merlin.

In the end, the argument comes down not to logic but taste. Attebery clearly prefers modern fantasy authors to pick some corpus of culturally related myth-stories and to build from that corpus. But as I said, Tolkien himself did not do this, and as yet I have not seen the author critiquing the Oxford don on the same terms he uses toward both Campbell and Alan Garner. I too can think of many bad admixtures of disparate traditional stories, but that does not prove that "mix and match" is a bad strategy in itself. I also think Atteberry wants authors to stick to particular mythoi so that he can judge better if the creators do what he thinks most valuable: ringing in modern interpretive changes to traditional lore. 

If I make it through another chapter, I plan to address one of the major omissions in Attebery's schema: the differing dynamics of oral culture vs. written culture.

UP WITH FANTASY, DOWN WITH HORROR

 In WORLD AS WILL AND REPRESENTATION, Schopenhauer distinguishes between "intuitive" and "abstract" representations: humans share "intuitive representations" with other animals, in that they are based in the body's "percepts."  But humans alone have the power to conceive "abstract representations," for humans alone can base representations in "concepts."-- HERO VS. VILLAIN, MONSTER VS. VICTIM PART 3 (2012).

So in my previous essay I extended my terms of "grotesque and arabesque" to two "super-genres," horror and fantasy. I call them "super-genres" because both subsume so many subgenres that it's difficult to claim that any single genre embraces works as far apart as Poe's HOUSE OF USHER and the Chichester-Johnson JIHAD (for horror) or Tolkien's LORD OF THE RINGS and Clark Ashton Smith's "Zothique" stories (for fantasy). I think it's plain enough as to which super-genre is aligned with the grotesque and which is aligned with the arabesque.

It's more challenging, though, to place these super-genres-- which extend their influence far beyond their manifestations in popular fiction-- in the Schopenhaurean categories of authorial will. I've attempted to rename, for my literary project, Schopenhauer's names for his two types of representation, "intuitive" and "abstract," but I'm not going to reference any of my revisions in this essay. I want to get at a very narrow aspect of how audience expectations form patterns within authorial will.

I referenced that aspect-- or two manifestations of that aspect-- in the 2012 HUXLEY, JUNG AND STRANGENESS, where I summarized Thomas Huxley's distinctions between what he termed "upward transcendence" and "downward transcendence." 

UPWARD TRANSCENDENCE-- a state of mind that Huxley doesn't adequate define, though he associates it with "theophanies" and the veneration of a " liberating and transfiguring Spirit."


 DOWNWARD TRANSCENDENCE-- a state of mind in which the transcendence "is invariably downward into the less than human, the lower than personal."  Huxley's three main venues toward this form of transcendence are "drugs, elementary sexuality and herd-intoxication," though he mentions some others as well.

It also should not be difficult to guess which super-genre I'm likely to align with downward transcendence, and which with the upward species. Although the "intuitive representations" that human beings share with lower animals are not inherently "lower" by themselves, they become "lower" in contrast with "abstract representations," which generally suggest principles that supervene the world of base animal existence. Such principles may be metaphysical, as in religion, or empirical, as in science, but both systems depend on abstractions in order to promote the philosophies of their adherents. I may never have reason to further use terminological terms for the two forms of literary transcendence, but for convenience I'll name them after two Greek religious terms: "chthonic" for "earthbound," and "ouranian" for "heaven-bound." 

So what are the "audience expectations" I referenced above? With respect to the super-genres, horror is expected to give audiences "the worst case scenario," and fantasy is expected to give audiences "the best case scenario." There are naturally exceptions, and I named two of them above. 

HOUSE OF USHER is in every way a grim, grotesque look at familial relations, and thus represents the "mainstream" of horror fiction. In contrast, the narrative of JIHAD somewhat transcends many of the gruesome activities of both Cenobites and Nightbreed, and offers to the audience-- if not to the characters-- a metaphysical rapprochement between their respective worlds.

 LORD OF THE RINGS offers a panoramic vision of human courage against overwhelming odds, and of redemption even in the face of near-total degradation (i.e., Gollum, Frodo's "shadow-self.") Thus Tolkien's book represents the mainstream of the fantasy super-genre. In contrast, though Smith's "Zothique" stories take place in an apocalyptic fantasy-verse full of colorful arabesques, many of them have downbeat or diffident endings worthy of Smith's idol Poe. Yet none of these exceptions disprove the rule, the rule being that audiences look to fantasy for the feeling of positive life-affirmation, while they look to horror to feel as though they have met the negativity of all life-denying forces, and still survived. 

I may develop these points further, but that's a decent stopping-place for now.

THE EXCELLENT SEEDS OF HIS OWN DESTRUCTION

For once, I got permission from a forum-poster, one DoctorHermes428, to reprint here a post from CHFB that sparked my current essay. The conversation involved in part talking about the reasons why in the late 1960s Jack Kirby declined to accept any offer Stan Lee may have made re: taking over Lee's de facto Art Director duties for Marvel Comics, and why he Kirby decided instead to sever relations with Marvel in 1969 and go to work for DC Comics under head editor Carmine Infantino.

____________

I don't see how Jack Kirby would have enjoyed being Art Director, no matter if it paid better. He loved working on his own, sitting up all night over the drawing board. Being in an office with people coming in and out all day, the phone ringing, arguments over a cover layout... all this would have annoyed him beyond bearing (as I see it).
What happened at DC really broke Jack Kirby's heart. His grand plans for the Fourth World books where he had some of his favorite creators working for him, as well as his ideas for a line of black and white magazines, weren't supported by DC (mostly Carmine Infantino). 

I don't think Kirby was ever the same after this. He still turned out some fine comics but increasingly he was jus going through the motions. The spark had been damped. He wasn't out to change the world or create his life's work, he just settled down to make a living. I know most people will say, "It's just comic books, what's the big deal?" but to me it's one of the biggest missed opportunities in pop culture ever. -- DoctorHermes428.

Now in my essay STAN, JACK, AND JOE STUFF I mentioned in a general sense the way the Marvel Universe had in essence undermined Kirby's independent way of doing comics, though I didn't address any long-term creative consequences. I wrote:

From my outsider's standpoint, though, the synergy between Kirby and Lee was far different [from the Simon-Kirby collaboration], and I think Kirby got from Lee as good as he gave. But Kirby had spent a long, long time spinning his fantasies on the drawing-board, and he probably wasn't all that sensitive to the ways in which Lee MAY have turned him in new directions. Years later, when Kirby was seeking to reclaim his original art from the recalcitrant Marvel Comics, the artist said many dismissive things about Stan's talents, and some fans have taken those pronouncements as gospel. To me, the obvious fact that Kirby's later solo productions abjured the "soap opera" approach of Marvel proves to me that Kirby did not originate this approach to characterization, despite the fact that together Kirby and Lee could do soap-opera tropes better than anyone else in the business.

Kirby, unlike most professionals in his time, had an incredible capacity to remember and rework dozens of story-tropes from dozens of genres, so that much of his work, alone or in collaboration, seems like raw creativity unleashed. But he didn't always know the best way to channel his own creativity, precisely because he was so many-faceted. In addition, that creativity insured that he could never be entirely comfortable just cranking out stories for a client like DC Comics, and even if he didn't especially want to return to Marvel in the late 1950s, the ways in which his talent responded to Stan Lee's innovations re-defined the superhero genre at a time when the comic-book medium lay on the edge of extinction. Without the intense fandom that arose from Marvel Comics, it's possible that few readers would even care these days about sorting out who did what, and why.

 First, I should enlarge on what I said about "new directions." 

I've the impression that both Lee and Kirby read widely in many pulp genres as young men, and that, unlike many of their contemporaries, they were able, whether with one another or with other collaborators, to convey that enthusiasm to their young reading-audience. And of all the genres they both absorbed, the most important one to their 1960s collaborations was the genre of science fiction.

Now, the prose pulps of the 1940s would have offered a rather schizophrenic view of the genre, for one could encounter on the stands both pure "gosh-wow" space operas like Edgar Rice Burroughs and Captain Future alongside and deeper, more thoughtful philosophical meditations by authors like Asimov and Heinlein. So far as I can tell, though, almost no comics raconteurs of the 1940s tapped into the philosophical side of SF. All, including Lee and Kirby, were totally invested in "gosh-wow." And I will extend that argument (for reasons that will soon become clear) to the employment of SF in American cinema. In the decade of the 1940s, nearly no "philosophy-SF" was attempted, and the few attempts hardly came close to touching the hem of Fritz Lang's trouser-leg.

But comic book SF took on its own schizophrenic division in the very early 1950s. Going by my partial reading of the early issues of DC's flagship  SF-anthology comic, STRANGE ADVENTURES (1950), I would say that DC remained steadfastly committed to the "gosh-wow" method. In the same year that ADVENTURES debuted, William Gaines' EC Comics published its two SF-titles, WEIRD FANTASY and WEIRD SCIENCE. EC experts would know more than I of Gaines' reading-proclivities. But for whatever reasons-- which probably include the proclivities of contributors like Wally Wood-- EC's two magazines proved to be more in the spirit of "philosophy-SF" that had been best propagated in the forties by ASTOUNDING MAGAZINE and in the fifties by THE MAGAZINE OF FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION (said magazine having begun in 1949). To further support the sense of a changing ethos, American cinema suddenly began investing heavily in "thinking-man's SF," with DESTINATION MOON in 1950 and both THE THING and THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL in 1951. 

I can't say at present how much the changes to comics-SF and movie-SF affected either Lee or Kirby in the first half of the fifties. I don't think by that time either man was likely to be reading pulp magazines any more, whether the magazines were simple or sophisticated. But I have the distinct impression that both of them kept a weather-eye on the new breed of SF-movies, and that both men began emulating cinema's version of "philosophical SF" in their comic books, and MAYBE imitating EC's efforts in that department too. How much these emulations affected their work in the early 1950s is not important to my thesis. But it seems without question that when they started collaborating on SF-work in the late 1950s-- even on the works where Stan's brother Larry Leiber provided the dialogue-- they began giving the characters in their short-term anthology-tales more characterization than anything one could see in DC's gosh-wow stories of the decade.

The DC gosh-wow dynamic also informed the company's SF-heavy superheroes of the late fifties and early sixties: FLASH, GREEN LANTERN, JUSTICE LEAGUE. But when Lee enlisted Kirby to collaborate on their flagship superhero title in 1961, the first thing they did was to work in one of the tragic monsters they'd been using in their SF-anthology tales, but as an ongoing hero. 

Though Lee and Kirby were very different individuals and had very different attitudes toward their creative endeavors, I think the synergy between them came from a common understanding that you could tell far more engaging comics-stories if the characters were at least on the same level of a movie like 1953's CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON. From the years 1961-1964, that's as far as their aspirations went.

Then, during the years 1965 through 1967, Kirby goes through a period of incredible dynamism in terms of designing new characters. In FANTASTIC FOUR alone, he visualized the Inhumans, Galactus and the Silver Surfer, the Kree, and the Black Panther in that short period. It's possible, as Kirby apologists believe, that Lee simply let Kirby create everything during that period and just filled in the dialogue. But there's no literal proof that Kirby never picked up any ideas from his editor and collaborator. One can only say that Lee probably could not have designed a character to save his life. That said, before Kirby wasted time coming up with a design for comics' first Black superhero, I think it's axiomatic that Lee would have signed off on spotlighting such a character. Indulging some of Kirby's wilder flights of fancy didn't mean letting the artist do whatever he pleased. Lee was the editor, the guy who made decisions about what did or didn't benefit the image of the company he was building into a small empire. So if Lee had wanted to turn King T'Challa into just another White jungle-hero, that's what Kirby would have been obliged to draw.

As DoctorHermes says, in the late sixties Kirby saw that for the first time his works were getting a little serious attention from the non-comics world. He didn't think, probably correctly, that he was getting due credit for his contributions-- though to be fair, outsiders would not have cared about the specifics of who created what. As I said in my earlier essay, only hardcore fans kept track of such minutiae. For the last two years of his second Marvel tenure, Kirby reined in his creative impulses, probably to keep from giving away any more profitable ideas to the company. One anecdote suggests that Kirby might have shown Stan Lee a few rough ideas he'd later take to DC Comics. When some interviewer related this anecdote to Stan Lee, the Marvel editor typically said that he didn't remember one way or the other.

Ironically, one of the models for Kirby's "Fourth World" was not a major SF-author, but the foremost fantasy-author of the sixties decade, J.R.R. Tolkien. To be sure, the only thing Kirby really took from Tolkien was a general metaphysical attitude toward the struggle between the Good of New Genesis and the Evil of Apokolips, a theme not present in most SF prose works. But almost all of the imagery of the Fourth World stemmed from science fiction, not fantasy. 

What Kirby presented in the Fourth World was usually "gosh-wow" SF garnished with occasional philosophical content. Nevertheless, the scripts he wrote were fully as ambitious as those he co-created with Lee. I think it's likely that, aside from just wanting to be independent of his collaboration with Lee, Kirby hoped to establish his Fourth World as an artistic rival to the Marvel Universe he'd helped build.

I like many fans wish that Carmine Infantino had allowed the Fourth World story to come to a decent conclusion. But even given such circumstances, I don't think Kirby-at-DC had a chance in hell of challenging the popularity of Marvel. I hypothesize that in the early years, both Lee and Kirby probably enjoyed, as much as any professional adults could, the fannish pleasure of having two heroes from different features clash. At least I can't look at the 1964 "The Hulk vs the Thing" and see anything but two creators having fun, rather than just hacking out a job for pay. But when Kirby went to DC, the only way he could prosper at that company-- where various characters were parceled out into separate feifdoms-- was to keep his creations isolated from everything in mainstream DC, apart from some minor usages of Superman, Jimmy Olsen, and new incarnations of the Guardian and the Newsboy Legion. 

By 1970, though, the DC approach of keeping their features largely isolated from one another was beginning to lose favor with the hardcore fan audience. Those fans were a minor subgroup of the general audience, of course. But the casual comics-readers weren't ready to commit to Kirby's big project. Could the hardcore fans have made the Fourth World profitable enough to keep it going a little longer? No one can possibly know. All we know is that comics fandom of the early 1970s was divided on the merits of the New Kirby Universe. I've seen a fair number of fans reminisce that they just couldn't get into Kirby's rather eccentric scripts, and that may be because they'd become accustomed to the greater quality control seen at Marvel under Lee's editorship. I'm fairly sure that Don Thompson expressed contempt for the Kirbyverse in his fanzine NEWFANGLES, just a year or two before he and wife Maggie began writing for the tradezine THE BUYER'S GUIDE.

I concur that after the premature cancellation of the Fourth World books, Kirby never again sought to equal the incredible creativity of either that creative era or of the 1965-67 period. Some particular ideas are very good; some are pretty bad. As for mainstream comics after Marvel's classic period, I don't see a lot of writers and artists seeking inspiration from either prose or cinematic SF with the intensity that I discern in the works of Lee and Kirby. More often, I saw the tendency to rework tropes from the Lee-Kirby days, or from standout SF-comics of the sixties, like the Fox-Infantino ADAM STRANGE. (Chris Claremont riffing on the ALIEN movies is not my idea of a meaningful SF-influence.) Kirby's creative decline mirrored the demise of both gosh-wow SF and philosophical-SF in the comics medium so far as I can see, as Lee's linking of superheroes and soap-opera melodrama (which merits separate discussion) took precedence. 

And that's as good a place as any to end these somewhat doleful meditations.

THE READING RHEUM: THE RETURN OF THE KING (1955)

 When I began blogging about LORD OF THE RINGS, I specified that, for space reasons, I wanted to concentrate on the most mythic aspects of each of the three parts. And thanks to taking that angle, I found it fascinating that the last section, RETURN OF THE KING, feels like the least mythic book.

I don't mean that there's anything in RETURN that precisely compromises the amazing vision of Tolkien's world, which was, as he mentioned, a "subcreation," an attempt to create a world like our own but according to its own internally consistent rules. But one of the rules that Tolkien sets down is that the Age of Middle-Earth is fated to come to an end, and to be succeeded by the Age of Men. The latter is more or less our own profane world, bereft of such extraordinary entities as ents, elves, dwarves and hobbits, though also missing the orcs and trolls. Tolkien clearly believed that the real world was under the aegis of Judeo-Christian authority, but this had or has nothing to do with the fantastic mythology of gods and demons given full expression in THE SILMARILLION, sort of the Middle-Earth Bible.

However, the first two parts of the trilogy are the ones in which the author lavishes loving detail upon all of his fictional entities. RETURN, instead, must be devoted to wrapping up all the multifarious plot-threads, so there's not a lot of subcreation going on there. Instead, though Tolkien means to have good win out over evil, he was absolutely determined not to show the victory as having no cost for the representatives of good. While RINGS is not an allegory for the reasons the author himself discussed, there's little question that for RETURN he drew upon his own experiences in World War One, particularly the harrowing Battle of the Somme. War is endless misery even for the noble-hearted. That said, since I never identified with Frodo's buddies Merry and Pippin-- who have parallel experiences in the field, one with King Theoden and the other with Faramir-- these sections were a slog for me. Even Gandalf in his new whiter-than-white embodiment is rather boring. About the only genuinely mythic moment in these sections is the "Macbeth" like encounter between Eowyn and the Lord of the Nazgul, where the evildoer learns that the prediction of his invulnerability to mortal men does him no good against a woman of courage. (That said, Tolkien very nearly saps Eowyn of all her symbolic depth by forging a very decorous romantic link between her and Faramir.) 

In contrast, Frodo and Sam, obliged to carry the fatal Ring of Power to be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom, are as mythic as in all their other appearances. And yet, I missed Frodo's "shadow-self" Gollum. I realize that the duo was not about to keep traveling with Gollum once he betrayed them to Shelob, and in any case Gollum had only one more plot-action to perform in the story. Tolkien needed to present readers with yet more barriers to the heroes reaching their goal, so that their success, however compromised, would not seem too easy. But the Orcs who menace the heroes are just penny-ante thugs with nothing memorable about them, certainly not their symbolic qualities.

Of course, the destruction of the Ring is one of literature's most renowned turnabouts. The heroes succeed in bringing the Ring to Mount Doom, but even a hobbit's unambitious nature cannot prevent Frodo from being seduced by the Ring's insidious power. But as Gandalf says several chapters back, Gollum has a special role to play, and his raging lust to be reunited with his "precious" both destroys the Ring and breaks the power of Sauron for good measure. 

The extended coda, in which Frodo and friends return to  the Shire and find it corrupted by the evil of Saruman, also takes some inspiration from Tolkien's war experiences. He was determined to show that even innocent back-country locales could be aversely affected by the tumult of armed conflict. This resolve is perfectly in tune with the verdict reached by Frodo and Sam toward the end of TWO TOWERS, where they realize that a lot of heroic stories give the heroes too easy a time rather than emphasizing what their ordeals cost them. Indeed, even after Saruman is vanquished, Frodo never really rests on his laurels, but instead passes out of Middle-Earth along with the Elves. Life goes on for the hobbits and the rest of the world, though implicitly they too will pass in their time. Yet this downbeat ending does not cancel out the mythopoeic complexity of Middle-Earth, and what readers remember best is not that world's end, but the way it was "born," coming to life as no other fantasy-world ever had before.

THE READING RHEUM: THE TWO TOWERS (1954)

 

Although Book 1 of LORD OF THE RINGS concludes with the sundering of the Fellowship, this turns out to be a "fortunate fall." All three divisions of the Fellowship end up making new allies that help them in the overall goal of defeating Sauron: allies they might not have made had they not been parted.

This is easiest to see with Merry and Pippin, kidnapped by a band of Orcs. During the first book these two Hobbits had little to do but to function as homey comedy-relief. But the upshot of their being kidnapped by the Orcs is that the Hobbits come across the Ent Treebeard. Although the Hobbits only know of Saruman's perfidy indirectly, they are able to convince the slow-moving forest shaman to rouse his fellows against the wizard. To the extent that the subtitle "Two Towers" causes one to anticipate the archetypal fall of a tower, Tolkien delivers on this expectation by having the Ents raze Saruman's citadel of Orthanc, even if Saruman himself remains free to cause more trouble.

Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas do not manage to overtake the kidnapped Hobbits, not even after a reborn Gandalf joins them. But arguably their plot-action is more important, as they come into contact with the Riders of Rohan. After freeing aging King Theoden from the influence of his advisor Wormtongue, secretly a lackey of Saruman, Gandalf and his allies are able to bring about the first victory on the field of battle for the Three (non-hobbit) races with the Battle of Helm's Deep. Then, and only then, is there a partial reunion of the Fellowship, when Gandalf's group once more encounter Merry and Pippin. To further illustrate the penchant of evil to accidentally aid good, Wormtongue, holed up in Orthanc with his master, actually gives the heroes a new resource by throwing the Palantir at them.

The successful enlistment of Rohan to the cause also gives Tolkien the chance to introduce Theoden's niece Eowyn, who will play a pivotal role in RETURN OF THE KING. In the last post I noted that female characters do not typically engage in male affairs of state, but the war with Sauron is something of a special situation. Eowyn is put in charge of Rohan in Theoden's absence, and though she herself mentions the atypicality of a woman serving in such a capacity, no one else does. No one questions either her puissance or her authority, thus illustrating that Tolkien had no issue with women being in authoritative positions, though he probably did not think it was optimal in the sort of traditional society he describes in his trilogy.

In the final part of TOWERS, Tolkien, having built up suspense as to the fate of Frodo and Sam, shows them making the most unlikely ally of all, Gollum. Gollum, memorably introduced in THE HOBBIT, has been more talked-of than seen in FELLOWSHIP, but his psychic bond to the One Ring forces the pathetic fiend to follow the two Hobbits into Mordor. This is another way in which the Forces of Evil trip themselves up, for Sauron allowed Gollum into Mordor earlier in order to glean information from him. The Dark Lord never contemplates that Gollum could learn any dangerous secrets of Mordor, secrets that could be turned against Sauron's campaign. But of course that is what happens when Gollum, unaware that Frodo and Sam journey to Mordor to destroy "the precious," guides the two heroes into the book's second tower, Cirith Ungol. 

To the best of my recollection, Cirith Ungol-- the best if not the only candidate for the second tower-- does not fall here or in RETURN OF THE KING. Nevertheless, with Gollum's help Frodo and Sam get the chance to circumvent the legions of Mordor. There's a price for the devil's  help, though, sinceh Gollum gets the chance to cross up the champions of Good by leading them into the lair of the giant spider Shelob. Gollum also has a history with Shelob, having fetched her food during his stay in Mordor, and he knows that if the spider triumphs she will have no interest in the Ring, unlike Sauron's guardian Orcs. Shelob is defeated but again a segment of the trilogy ends with separation, as the Orcs capture Frodo and Sam must figure out a means of rescue.

It's worth mentioning that for all his evil actions, Gollum is the one character not precisely tempted by the Ring's illusions of power. The Hobbits in general don't get tempted to become Princes of the Earth. Yet both Frodo and Bilbo come close to becoming mere stewards of the Ring, and if either were to keep it as long as Gollum did, it seems likely they would become as degraded. Gollum merely wants an eternal symbiosis with the thing that makes him feel powerful, the object over which he commits murder of his own kind, but he doesn't harbor any desire to USE the power to dominate others. Gollum is the evil extension of the normal Hobbits' desire to enjoy the peace and quiet of home life. Ironically, even though Gollum ends up becoming the Fellowship's most unwitting ally, his contribution would not be possible if he were capable of the vainglory seen in the Three Races of Men, Dwarves and Elves.

Note: as I conclude this post, I'm starting the re-read of RETURN, so it'll be a little while before I post on the last segment of LORD.

THE READING RHEUM: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING (1954)

In recent years I reread Tolkien's LORD OF THE RINGS with the intention of blogging about it, only to bog down because even the individual segments have too much detail to cover in a blogpost. However, for my more recent re-visit to Middle-Earth, I decided only to cover the elements I found to be the most mythic in the trilogy, and to make the assumption that anyone who reads my posts here is likely to know the basic story of LORD, even if only from the movies rather than from Tolkien's books.

One mythic opposition with which FELLOWSHIP opens is the one between Bilbo Baggains, the protagonist of the previous HOBBIT, and his younger relation Frodo. In the HOBBIT, a more cheerful and escapist story, Bilbo is a fusty and settled inhabitant of the Shire, who can only be "called to adventure" by an appeal to the pride he takes in his more venturesome ancestors. Frodo, however, is more serious, in keeping with Tolkien's graver concerns throughout the trilogy. Once Gandalf has convinced Frodo of the world-spanning danger represented by the One Ring, Frodo is motivated by sober responsibility, and other characters throughout FELLOWSHIP also reflect the resolve to "do what must be done." Late in TWO TOWERS, Frodo and Samwise get into a slightly "meta" conversation about what it means to be a character in a story rather than a reader reading the same story, and Sam rejects his earlier opinion that stories about adventurous heroes came about because the heroes wanted "sport" as an anodyne to the dull round of regular life.

Tolkien's conception of the One Ring, the nexus over which Good and Evil contend, is also more sophisticated in FELLOWSHIP, though nothing in the later book precisely contradicts anything in HOBBIT. Bilbo has a grand old time turning invisible in HOBBIT, but after having the Ring for many years, he confesses in FELLOWSHIP that it's made him feel "stretched" in that his long life doesn't feel quite natural. Later Gandalf will tell Frodo that when one continues to use the Ring for the power of invisibility, the user will himself start to "fade" as he yields his actual self to the dark power created by Sauron. I speculate that this was Tolkien's way of saying that the childish desire to escape scrutiny by one's fellow man has the effect of cutting oneself off from humankind. Indeed, one of Frodo's key uses of the Ring's invisibility power occurs when he subconsciously dons the ring in front of a crowd at the Prancing Pony. Frodo's disappearance not only alerts one of Sauron's agents in that town, so that the Ringwraiths bear down upon Frodo and his friends, the careless use of dark power violates the fellow feeling that the hobbits are enjoying with the men at the inn. 

Gandalf is absent from this exploit because at the time he's been imprisoned by his former superior in the magical council, the traitor Saruman. In the exchange between the two wizards, which Gandalf relates to the proto-fellowship after escaping, Gandalf makes the significant remark that "he that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom." Saruman is in many respects a "Sauron manque," willing to bend the rest of the world to his will out of a perverse (and reductionist) will to control all reality. Of course in Book Two Saruman's ambitions are foiled by the Ents, the embodiments of the natural world against which Saruman has transgressed. Yet the forces of Sauron himself are far more formidable, as is illustrated by Gandalf's apparent death at the hands of the Balrog.

Indeed, the novel is entirely pessimistic about the chances of any mortal to master the insuperable power of the One Ring. Gandalf and Galadriel are both sorely tempted by the Ring's power, but wisely refrain, while the human Boromir strays from the correct path by trying to steal the Ring from Frodo, even though he redeems himself afterward. This incident leads to one of Tolkien's greatest innovations; after the author has gone through hell and high water to establish the Fellowship of man, elf and dwarf to defend Frodo's quest, the author then separates Frodo and his loyal servant Sam from that company-- as they indeed remain until the main action of the plot has been finished. I should note that the strange immortal Tom Bombadil alone stands outside the dark power of the Ring, but the very essence of his power makes him impotent to control or destroy the Ring as well.

To briefly address the matter of female representation in RINGS, Tolkien hews to a traditional depiction of male agency in affairs of state, while the few female characters are more symbolic figures. Still, it's interesting that FELLOWSHIP is loosely bookended by two seemingly passive female figures. The first is Goldberry, companion to Bombadil, who is explained only as a "daughter of the river," as if she were one of the Greek river-nymphs. Goldberry does not actually do anything but provide Bombadil with a haven, and so the two of them may incarnate the familiar trope that "men hunt, women nest." 

Galadriel, though, is subtler in her influence. She may not speak before all the male representatives at the Council of Elrond, but she too provides a spiritual center for the quest, and of course lends some of her power to Frodo and Sam for their later confrontation with Shelob, the incarnation of negative femininity (also a "nester" in her way). Galadriel rejects the Ring's power in FELLOWSHIP for the same reason that Gandalf does, but I find it significant that Tolkien pictures Galadriel, under the Ring's influence, becoming something like an evil goddess. Still, she refuses the temptation, and thus accepts that she will someday "go to the West" yet will retain her identity. This reinforces FELLOWSHIP's early point about how identity is lost through the ambition to control others, and TWO TOWERS continues to explore that theme in greater depth.

THE CAVE OF FREEDOM AND RESTRAINT

 

In my essay AND THE HALF-TRUTH SHALLSET YOU FREE, I noted one of the vital distinctions between philosophy and literature: that philosophy attempts to suss out truth from falsehood, while literature’s primary function is to promote fictions that have an ambiguous relationship to “truth,” whatever a given artist’s personal convictions may be. For instance, Dave Sim may believe explicitly in the revelations of the “Peoples of the Book,” but he’s still encoding those beliefs within the context of the fiction called CEREBUS.

Numerous philosophers have come up with metaphors for the search for truth, but in my personal opinion no one has ever topped Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave," summarized thusly:

Plato tells of men who have remained closed since they were children in a subterranean cave, chained so that they can only see the bottom of the cave.

Behind them stands a high and remote light, and between the light and the prisoners there is a wall that runs alongside a path. On the path walk some people carrying different objects, some argue, others do not.

Whoever is in the caves, having never observed the true object, thinks that the shadow cast at the bottom of the cave must be the real object, and that the echoes are the true voices of those people.

A prisoner frees himself and goes up the cave.

For him it is long and painful, because his eyes, which are not accustomed to light, hurt so much more that he approaches the opening of the cave.

Once accustomed, however, the prisoner can see that the shadows were only the projection of the objects brought by the servants behind the wall and now he thinks these are the real objects.

It tells of men who have remained closed since they were children in a subterranean cave, chained so that they can only see the bottom of the cave.

Behind them stands a high and remote light, and between the light and the prisoners there is a wall that runs alongside a path. On the path walk some people carrying different objects, some argue, others do not.

Whoever is in the caves, having never observed the true object, thinks that the shadow cast at the bottom of the cave must be the real object, and that the echoes are the true voices of those people.

A prisoner frees himself and goes up the cave.

For him it is long and painful, because his eyes, which are not accustomed to light, hurt so much more that he approaches the opening of the cave.

Once accustomed, however, the prisoner can see that the shadows were only the projection of the objects brought by the servants behind the wall and now he thinks these are the real objects.

The dominant interpretation of the allegory is that the chained people in the cave, able to perceive only shadows of the reality beyond the cave, symbolize human confinement to the input of their physical senses. According to the idealism of Plato (sometimes given the chimerical name of “Realism”), the World of Forms is the actual Truth Beyond the Cave, and presumably the individual who escapes the cave, and tries to convey that insight to his chained fellows, symbolizes the dilemma of the Platonic philosopher.

In addition of my deeming this the best of the “truth-seeking” metaphors, I would hazard that this may be the best known metaphor in philosophy as a whole, given that it furnishes the reader with all the basic challenges of epistemology. Further, the Cave-Allegory may be seen as consequential for the two major branches of metaphenomenal fiction: what we call “fantasy” and “science fiction.”

There have been dozens of involved histories of both “super-genres,” but I’m most concerned with the ways in which both categories developed in the late 1800s. Despite many significant precursors, the two super-genres receive their greatest codification in this period, when Jules Verne and H.G. Wells defined science fiction and William Morris defined the alternate-world fantasy. (To be sure, horror fiction undergoes a similar codification in this period, but many works in this genre make so much use of either “fantasy motifs” or “science fiction motifs” that I can’t think of horror as being entirely separable from the other two.)

Plato’s allegory in itself evokes both images of freedom and restraint; of human beings bound by their physical circumstances but nonetheless capable of obtaining some degree of freedom. Readers of this blog will be familiar with my assertion that human existence is characterized by both “affective freedom” and “cognitive restraint.” We can imagine nearly anything, despite being restrained by all the demands of physicality, winsomely styled as the “Four F’s:” food (edible matter), flax (clothing), flags (shelter) and frig (continuance of the species). As I wrote previously, the imagination may or may not lead to useful inventions that enhance the physical quality of life, but it should always be seen as instrumental to all mental formulations.

Now, fantasy and science fiction pursue distinct epistemological patterns, each in tune with the dominant matrix in which they exist. In science fictional worlds, all wonders are predicated on extensions of scientific principles, while in fantasy, they arise from the concept of magic, which may range from traditional “faerie” spellcraft to organized notions of thaumaturgy. Within all of these worlds, the main characters are generally in the position of the man freed from the chains of his fellows and propelled into a greater cosmos.

In fantasy, a common trope is to show a youth who lives in a bucolic existence, and who finds himself drawn into events of cosmic importance, often involving the combat of good and bad wizards and/or deities. Morris uses a rough variation of this trope in his four fantasy-novels, particularly in THE SUNDERINGFLOOD, though he isn’t as successful in giving his protagonist a grounding in the magical principles governing the world. Morris’s spiritual disciple Tolkien is of course famous for having hurled protagonists Bilbo and Frodo into the greater world of sorcery, walking trees and enchanted rings. The bucolic world of the Shire, from which both hobbits hail, does not as a whole wish to be tainted with all of these momentous and enigmatic presences, but its inhabitants are not really able to reject the magical cosmos in a manner comparable to the chained people in the Cave. The very idea of magic, as a force that transcends the limits of time and space, stands aligned with the concept of affective freedom.

In contrast, the epistemology of the Cave has a more ambivalent function in science fiction. For all the differences between Verne and Wells, they have in common the fact that many of their scientific seekers—the ones who part company with the world of ordinary reality—meet catastrophic fates, explicit with respect to Captain Nemo, implicit with respect to the Time Traveler. Thus, science fiction can be somewhat aligned with the concept of cognitive restraint, and not only because the forces of science—even those of made-up, “impossible” science—are supposed to cohere with the limits of time and space.

At the same time, science fiction shows a greater emphasis upon following the destiny of the society than that of the individual. Wells’ Eloi and Morlocks are bound by the chains of a chimerical evolution much as are Plato’s cavepeople, and they are doomed never to escape, existing to illustrate to the protagonist the futility of life. Yet many of Wells’ disciples altered the Platonic paradigm in order to promote a triumphalism of science. It would probably be difficult to find a science fiction author who advocated “truth” in a Platonic World of Forms, but there are hundreds who see capital-S “Science” as such a truth. Science fiction is riddled with protagonists who live in some constricted society, whose people know nothing of scientific principles, but who break free and bring the Good News of Science to convert disbelievers. Such cosmic conversions underlie the enduring appeal of a series like Isaac Asimov’s FOUNDATION trilogy, where the advocates of a logical means of “reading history” are proven to have superior insight over all competitors.

Not a few advocates of science fiction have shown themselves to be hostile to the representations of fantasy, confounding the fictional premises of fantasy-stories with resentment of real-world religion and/or superstition. In so doing, they validate only those products of the imagination which seem to champion real-world science—even though, in point of fact, constructs like Niven’s “Ringworld” and Blish’s “Cities in Space” are not likelier to come into being than elves and orcs. It’s a shame that science fiction enthusiasts have made this conflation, for the activity of trying to fit the human imagination into a box is not only fatuous, but futile beyond anyone’s attempt to—imagine.

THE BEAUTY OF GRAVITY

In the last two sections of FOUR AGES OF DYNAMIS, I found myself questioning the conclusions I'd made in the 2012 essay-series GRAVITY'S CROSSBOW. In Part 1, I wrote:

I've noted before that of all the major philosophers to write about sublimity in connection with literature, Edmund Burke is one of the most profligate in providing examples.  However, I note that most of his examples fall into one of two mythoi: the "drama" (PARADISE LOST, HENRY IV) or the "adventure" (THE FAERIE QUEENE).  Schopenhauer, for his part, recognizes only "tragedy" (which I regard as identical with the category "drama") as sublime.
Moving to those readerships concerned with "the sense of wonder," it's my informal impression that when fans of fantasy and SF wax enthusiastic about those works with that quality, they rarely if ever center upon works of the other two mythoi, "comedy" and "irony."  In the domain of prose, works like Clarke's CHILDHOOD'S END or Tolkien's LORD OF THE RINGS are celebrated for their ability to elicit wonder.  But though one can find science-fictional marvels and magical mysteries in such works as Fredric Brown's WHAT MAD UNIVERSE or the deCamp-Pratt COMPLEAT ENCHANTER, I would say such works-- both of which are comedies-- are never celebrated for the "sense of wonder."  Ironic science fiction is often celebrated for its intellectual rigor-- indeed, if one reads Kingsley Amis' NEW MAPS FROM HELL, one gets the impression that no one ever wrote good SF but Fred Pohl and C.M. Kornbluth-- but Amis praises them for satirical visions, not for the "sense of wonder."
So, are comedy and irony in some way inimical to the sense of wonder? 

I then explored Schopenhauer's remarks on how the "serious" forms of literature encouraged emotional investment while the "ludicrous" forms did not, and, glossing this statement by categorizing the forms along Fryean lines, I attempted to show reasons why comedies and ironies did not manifest subimity in the form of "the sense of wonder."

Now, at the time I wrote the CROSSBOW series, my definition of sublimity was still fuzzy, as were some of the philosophical definitions available to me. A year later, I wrote the series TWO SUBLIMITIES HAVE I, in which I distinguished two forms of sublimity, "the dynamic-sublime," more or less identical with Kant's formulation in CRITIQUE OF JUDGMENT, and "the combinatory-sublime," which I considered more applicable to literature than Kant's second form, "the mathematical-sublime." Thus, early in the same month that I wrote the CROSSBOW series, I cited (in the essay SUBLIMELY SUPER) this example of the literary sublime:

This example suggests to me is that at the time I was groping toward a vision of the combinatory-sublime, which in the aforesaid essay I defined as sublime because of its appeal to "unboundedness."

So this was the kind of sublimity I found lacking in various works of SF/fantasy, among them being the above examples of works by Frederic Brown and Pohl-and-Kornbluth.

Now, my current system does not claim that comedies or ironies are unable to conjure with either "the dynamic-sublime" or "the combinatory-sublime." In 2012 I had not aligned my concept of "mythicity" with that of the combinatory mode, and so, in the mythcomics essays I began in 2011, I had no problem in finding examples of high mythicity for both comedies (the URUSEI YATSURA story "A Good Catch") and ironies (the "Ed the Happy Clown" continuity from YUMMY FUR).

However, I do think Schopenhauer's distinction does apply to one SUBCATEGORY of the combinatory-sublime. I think it's more difficult for "ludicrous narratives" to bring forth the specific "sense of wonder" theme of "unbounded beauty," the sort of thing one can also get from the great "mind-meld" in CHILDHOOD'S END or Tolkien's vision of elvish elegance in LORD OF THE RINGS. Beauty is harder to get across in works of the ludicrous, no matter the intensity of the "tonal levity" involved. In comedies the reader learns to expect to see another joke or slapstick pratfall just around the corner, while in ironies the reader certainly doesn't expect to see any form of beauty, unbounded or otherwise, to stand against the relentless ennui of entropy.

And thus what I wrote regarding the nature of "conviction" in the CROSSBOW series similarly applies not to the combinatory-sublime in general, but specifically to the subcategory of unbounded beauty.

Because even the unbounded type of beauty needs some degree of gravity, if only for contrast.