Admit
it: you were at least a little bit disappointed when you turned eleven and you
didn’t get your Hogwarts letter. I know I was. So when
I was first introduced to Tokien’s theory on “fairy stories” and his claim that
all fantasy stories end with an as aspect of Consolation, that all reach the
conclusion that while magic and adventure are fun, in the end there’s really no
place like home, I was skeptical. Plenty of fantasy seems to promote a
contradictory viewpoint: that choosing a life of adventure can be worthwhile.
From
what I’ve read, I’ve concluded that Tolkien’s claim about Consolation in
fantasy applies more to high fantasy than to low fantasy.
High fantasy does, as Tolkien suggests, celebrate
the beauty of normal life. For example, let’s look at the high fantasy classic The King of
Elfland’s Daughter by Lord Dunsany. Early in the
novel, our hero, Alveric, returns from the magical Elfland with the princess
Lirazel and proceeds to marry her and raise a family in what Dunsany refers to
as “the fields we know.” They live happily for several years, and their
happiness comes from the freedom to live a normal life. When Lirazel first
arrives in the normal world, she appreciates its quaint beauty as only one who
has known nothing but magical perfection can. In a memorable scene, a small
child refuses a troll’s offer to take her to Elfland because her mother made
her a jam roll. In praising the simple joys of normal life, Dunsany convinces us that
home is where we really want to be.
In low fantasy, the real world is not looked upon so
favorably. Richard Mayhew, protagonist of Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, is the classic
victim of desk-job doom. The people in Richard’s ordinary life do not charm us
with their quaint humanity; they annoy us with their lack of depth. We are
explicitly told that Richard’s fiancée views him as a good “marital accessory.”
By the end of the novel, Richard is
fully aware of the white-picket-fence life in store for him in the real world.
It will not be bad, but we get the sense that it is not really what he wants. In high fantasy, simplicity is a
gift. In low fantasy, it is not necessarily a bad thing, but it is by no means
ideal.
In high fantasy, while the magical world is
exciting, we do not wish to remain there forever. In The King of Elfland’s Daughter,
citizens of the ordinary kingdom of Erl wish to bring magic to their land.
But as their world becomes more and more magical, they come to resent this
choice. When Alveric first journeys to Elfland, it is enchanting, an escape;
but as we learn more about Elfland, the
idea of a perfect place, one that not even time can change, becomes…creepy.
The magical worlds of high fantasy excite our imagination and satisfy our
yearning for adventure, but in the end we as readers are content to simply read
about them.
In low fantasy, the realm of the unknown is much
more appealing. In Neverwhere, Richard
ultimately concludes that a life of adventure can be a happy one. The
unpredictability of events and trivialization of death Richard encounters in
the magical world of London Below tell us that this life has its drawbacks. But
while they are denied the comfort of ordinary life, citizens of London Below live
lives of meaning. Low fantasy tells us that
adventure and meaning can be more desirable than safety and comfort.
When Tolkien claimed that “fairy stories,”
ultimately leave readers with an appreciation for the non-magical world, he was
right; that is, as long as we think of “fairy stories” as high fantasy. After
reading The King of Elfland’s Daughter,
we do come to appreciate the real world more after it is lost to the influence
of magic. You can’t honestly say that London Above was any more appealing after
coming to know London Below. High
fantasy tells us “there’s no place like home;” low fantasy inspires us to make
our lives exciting.
After getting past some early proofing errors in paragraph one, I found myself reading and nodding along in agreement to several of your points. And I confess I also laughed out loud at the idea that the unchanging world offered in, say, Elfland is "creepy." I suppose the argument could be made that if you find it creepy, you as a reader haven't fully "recovered" the mindset of childhood, but that seems too convenient. Is the assumption then that childhood doesn't hunger for adventure and change? No, I think there's something to be said for one kind of fantasy being an invitation to escape, and the other being a promise of possibilities -- a kind of suggestion that maybe, just maybe, this ordinary world we know isn't as played-out as we've been lead to believe.
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