Wherefore is Fantasy?
(1993)

Interzone 60 (June 1992) was a special “fantasy issue”. In “Interface” in that issue, David Pringle posed the question,“… is there any real demand for short fantasy fiction, and in particular for light upbeat material of a fantasy sort?”

I’d submit that the answer is “yes”, and I’d like to enlarge the scope of the question here: to ask, “Wherefore fantasy?” and to suggest, from a personal viewpoint, why there is a demand for fantasy fiction of any length and kind.

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Firstly, can we agree what we’re discussing? To try to define fantasy (or sf, or any other genre) is fraught with difficulty; no definition can be wholly objective or clear cut. Nevertheless…

Do we mean, as David Pringle said in “Interface” IZ60, fantasy “as the book market defines the term”? Perhaps. But how does the book market define the term? For an answer, let’s turn to one of the UK’s major publishers, whose extensive fantasy (and sf) list appears predominantly under the Grafton imprint: HarperCollinsPublishers. A recent publicity flysheet, “The Heirs of Tolkien”, suggests that fantasy fiction may be characterised by —

A medieval world, complete with elves and dragons, dark lords and heroes, a quest for a magical object which will defeat the powers of evil. The book will almost certainly be accompanied by a detailed map, and a glossary of tongue-twisting names.

This is a very narrow “definition”, embracing only epic fantasy, but yet might be expected from the company who succeeded Unwin Hyman as publishers of The Lord of the Rings et al. in time for Tolkien’s centenary, and who seem to be capitalising on this. Strangely enough, however, this “definition” excludes some of the books being publicised – Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood, for example. On the other hand, HarperCollinsPublishers’ dictionary definition —

fantasy or phantasy n., pI. -sies. 1. a. imagination unrestricted by reality. b. (as modifier): a fantasy world. 2. a creation of the imagination, esp. a weird or bizarre one. 3. Psychol. a. a series of pleasing mental images, usually serving to fulfil a need not gratified in reality. b. the activity of forming such images. 4. a whimsical or far-fetched notion. 5. an illusion, hallucination or phantom. 6. a highly imaginative design or creation. 7. Music. … 8. a. literature having a large fantasy content. b. a prose or dramatic composition of this type. – vb. … [C14 fantasie, from Latin phantasia, from Greek phantazein to make visible]

— Collins English Dictionary, 3rd ed. [CED3]

— is too broad: the eighth sense seems to be the one we’re after, but it only defines the genre in terms of any or all – but probably not the seventh! – of the others.

Three of these senses stress “imagination”. Certainly this is a major element of fantasy fiction, but no more or less than it is of any other genre: fiction is “literary works invented by the imagination, …” (sense 1., CED3). Fantasy may be “weird or bizarre” (sense 2.) and serve “to fulfil a need not gratified in reality” (sense 3. a.), but these senses could be applied equally to fiction in Interzone: Science Fiction and Fantasy and, say, «O» Fashion, Fetish & Fantasies.

Although sense 6 may suggest that fantasy is more imaginative than other genres, the major difference between fantasy and say mainstream, mimetic fiction or sf is given by sense 1. a.: fantasy is “unrestricted by reality”, whereas mimetic fiction is necessarily imitative of reality, and sf is a rationally possible, or at least plausible, variation of or alternative to reality. Nevertheless, however telling this distinction between fantasy and other genres is, we still have a very loose definition of fantasy fiction… I feel that any story can be more or less a fantasy according to its content or its tone or both: a story may fairly be labelled fantasy if there is a fantasy content and, more importantly, if the tone is appropriate.

By content I mean not just the presence in a story of those fantastical elements – the genre tropes:“unicorns, gnomes and all” [David Pringle, “Interface” IZ60], “elves and dragons, dark lords and heroes, a quest for a magical object …”, &c., &c. – but also, and more importantly, how much those elements contribute to (i) the development and/or resolution of the story, and (ii) the reader’s willingness to believe in the story (or, at least, the willingness to suspend disbelief), or both.

By tone I mean the author’s point of view, attitude and approach to the material. This is by far the more subjective measurement. Tone is, to a greater or lesser extent, dictated by a story’s premise (the point the author has to prove), and also reflects the canon which informs, without necessarily directly influencing, an author’s work.

In IZ67 (January 1993), in an extract from How to Write Science Fiction, Bob Shaw asks how his own Ground Zero Man “which is a story set in the future and contains a fictional scientist and a fictional scientific device [could] fail to be classed as sf?” and answers the question by saying“it didn’t have the feel of sf” – or, as I would say, the tone of sf.

In Wizardry and Wild Romance, Michael Moorcock asserts:“The romance’s prime concern is not with characters or narrative but with the evocation of strong, powerful images; symbols conjuring up a multitude of sensations to be used… as escape from the pressures of the objective world or as a means of achieving self-awareness.” This is perhaps the nearest Moorcock gets to a definition. Although his subject is “epic fantasy”, or “romance” in the Gothick sense — “the literary genre represented by … strange and exciting adventures … events and characters remote from ordinary life … characterised by gloom, the grotesque, and the supernatural”: romance senses 5., 6., & 7.; Gothic sense 3. [CED3] — my feeling is that this comment “defines’ the tone of fantasy fiction in a wider sense.

Can we précis this discussion to give us a concise definition of fantasy?

fantasy n. a highly imaginative literary genre, using elements which are weird, bizarre or remote from ordinary reality to contribute to the development and resolution of the narrative and to the reader’s willingness to believe in the fictive reality, which, more than other genres, provides the reader with escapist entertainment and, possibly, a means to achieve self-awareness.

And here we may begin to see the answer to the eponymous question…

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The first and foremost objective of any fiction is to entertain. Whatever else is on an author’s agenda, whatever his or her manifesto, if a story isn’t entertaining, it won’t be read! So, is fantasy read because its fantastical elements – the weird, the bizarre, or even the merely remote from reality – make it intrinsically entertaining?

For myself, the answer is an emphatic “yes”. Those fantastical elements give fantasy fiction a sense of wonder, which is missing from most other genres. Sense of wonder is an expression often associated with science fiction: however, I find that most sf doesn’t hold this appeal, even though it did when I was a teenage neofan.

Has sf changed? Yes it has, but I still read sf of the same vintage as I did then, and the sense of wonder is no longer there.

Then have I changed?

Yes, I have: I’m twice the age I was then; I’ve spent six of the intervening years at university, another six years in professional employment; I’m a husband, and a father of twins; and I’ve read hundreds more books, millions more words of fiction. My attitude to what I read cannot be the same, my perceptions are obviously different. Perhaps I’m less idealistic, more pragmatic, more cynical…

Don’t misunderstand me: I still find science fiction intellectually stimulating, and thoroughly enjoy the genre which explores such ideas as how mankind might modify itself, how technological change and social upheaval can reinforce each other, the mission of the Church in times of catastrophe, the interaction of human and machine intelligence, &c., &c. [cf. Chris Gilmore, “Why is Science Fiction?” IZ62 (August 1992) – in passing, I note that all these ideas are present in Stephen Baxter’s “Inherit the Earth’ in New Worlds 2 (Vol. 62 No.218)]

But sf doesn’t now give me the same frisson that fantasy still can.

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The presence of fantastical elements, even though it may engender a sense of wonder, might be dismissed as only local colour, but the content of a fantasy story – because content encompasses how those elements are used – contributes more than just the mise en scène.

A successful story, in any genre, typically deals with people, and conflict between people, and how people are changed by that conflict. Is this so for a successful fantasy story?

One of the seminal fantasy novels, a yardstick by which most other epic fantasies are measured, and quite possibly “modern fantasy’s central work” [“The Heirs of Tolkien”], is J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

I greatly enjoyed this book, even though its English middle-class cosiness often weakens it. For example, I feel that it would be dramatically improved if Gollum perished at Cirith Ungol, devoured by Shelob, and it was left to Sam to ensure the destruction of the One Ring by plunging Frodo into the Cracks of Doom.

Nevertheless, it is a story about people, amidst an epic conflict, and people are changed by that conflict: Frodo, though he doesn’t lose his life, does lose his innocence and his vitality, so much so that he is little more than a cipher in the book’s last chapters. But it is the vast scale of the conflict, the great stature of the people in conflict, in The Lord of the Rings and many other (epic) fantasies which amplifies the human drama above that in other genres – fantasy is literally larger than life! – and is possibly the most popular facet of modern fantasy.

In particular, the scale of the “landscape” – the scope of the geography; the range of cultures (whether, at best, wholly imaginary, or, although not necessarily at worst, plagiarised from history); the size of the canvas against which the human drama unfolds – seems to be a contributory factor to the success of trilogies and longer fantasy series. Once readers have found a “fantasy world’ which they like, they are eager to return to it. Once an author has created a milieu for one story, it is cost-effective to continue to use it for more (and more). Only a vast landscape could hope to contain so many stories! Unfortunately, this is often not a good thing. But it can be, as Leiber’s Newhon, Pratchett’s Discworld, Vance’s Dying Earth show.

But sf can have as “large” a narrative as fantasy: why is it a greater strength of fantasy than of sf? At the risk of appearing facetious,“Space is big, really big. You just wouldn’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big space is.” [Douglas Adams, The Hitch-Hikers’ Guide to the Galaxy, of course]; whereas a fantasy world – however large – retains a human scale, and the human characters their stature against the canvas. Also, fantasy milieus, especially when the product of geographical and historical plagiarism, are inherently more familiar and can evoke nostalgia for the past: la recherché du temps perdu.

Similarly, other fantastical elements are plundered from humanity’s legends and mythologies or, when an author writes with more skill, from the human psyche which underpins them (arguably, the best example of this is Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood &c.).

This “mythopœic” familiarity is often most evident when, as in M. John Harrison’s Viriconium books, The Pastel City, &c., the narrative deliberately mirrors the psychology of the protagonists – “the inner landscapes of their minds” [Michael Moorcock, Wizardry and Wild Romance] – in a way which is not available to mainstream, mimetic fiction. This is most certainly true of Gothick romance. As Chris Baldick argues in the introduction to The Oxford Book of Gothic Tales, the decayed interior settings which pervade the Gothick novel serve as neat corollaries of the similarly ingrown mental states of its characters.

This approach is clearly favoured by Moorcock – in his Elric novel The Fortress of the Pearl much of the action takes place literally within the mind of one of the characters! – and is, I think, possibly the facet which most allows fantasy to be a means of achieving self-awareness.

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Authors can use familiarity to their advantage: a reader of a fantasy with a familiar type of landscape will have conventional expectations, which an author can then contradict for dramatic effect.

In The Architecture of Desire, the somewhat disconnected sequel to Rats and Gargoyles, Mary Gentle explores the themes of guilt and duty. One of the crucial events is Valentine White Crow’s rape of Desire-of-the-Lord Guillaime. In a historical novel of the English Civil War, this would just not have been credible: Valentine would never have been in a position to abuse Desire’s trust as she does. In a contemporary novel, the rape would have had far less impact upon readers familiar with, say, Basic Instinct. In an sf novel, where a reader’s expectations are less certain, much more of the nature of the society would have to have been presented to achieve the same effect.

Hence, a story’s fantastical content may be the most effective way for an author to dramatise a particular premise.

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How else may fantasy be superior to sf?

Any sf story which stakes its success on content alone risks overburdening itself with sf gadgets and plot devices. This approach can succeed, and such“puzzle stories ~. are an integral and respected part of the field” [Bob Shaw, IZ67] However,“few [authors] seem to devise realistic, complex and involving problems, and then meet them with realistic and complex answers” [Dave Langford, “A Gadget Too Far”, New Worlds 2]. And if a story doesn’t hinge on its science-fictional elements, if they’re only props and scenery, it’s not sf-by content, but only sf-by-image, which is to say, not really sf at all.

On the other hand, if “the scientific world-view is intrinsically and unalterably opposed to the sort of human meanings people need” [Andy Robertson, review of Understanding the Present: Science and the Soul of Modern Man by Bryan Appleyard, IZ65 (November 1992)], and if “sf is the search for a definition of mankind… which will stand in our advanced but confused state of knowledge (science)” [Brian Aldiss, Trillion Year Spree], then sf-by-tone is fatally flawed: sf is limited to dealing only with “scientific’ premises.

So what makes a good sf story? Content can, but only when handled well – i.e., with rigour and restraint. Tone may, but the conflict between science and humanity may be pathological unless the author choses his viewpoint – his science – with care. Andy Robertson’s comments, cited above, suggest that sociobiology may provide the only viable framework for sf-by-tone. (Is “sf” then sociobiological fiction?)

But is there another option? I think so. Many of the sf stories I’ve recently read and most enjoyed have been, I felt, sf-by-content but fantasy-by-tone; e.g., The Hormone Jungle by Robert Reed. In such stories, the sf content could be replaced by fantasy content – technology by magic; aliens by elves, gnomes, &c.; and so on – with little or no change to the story’s premise. If this is so, are these still sf stories? Perhaps they are, if we can apply the acronym not just to science fiction but also to science fantasy. But mutatis mutandis they could equally well be labelled just fantasy.

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To sum up … In seeking an answer to the question“Wherefore fantasy?”, I’ve explored a few diverse ideas which seem to be bound by three separate threads —

1. the elements of fantasy – tropes, images, &c. – have a greater intrinsic appeal that those of other genres because they are remote from reality yet have a wide currency (whereas, even though many elements of sf are widely known to non-sf readers, many more demand acquaintance with the canon of sf);
2. fantasy can deal with matters close to human experience more ably than sf can, and, because of its remoteness from reality, more entertainingly than mimetic fiction can; and
3. a fantasy story can have a greater psychological depth and mythopœic resonance than any other genre, to dramatic effect.