Stephanie Wang: "Low Fantasy Says, 'No Questions, Please. But Only Most of the Time."

Low Fantasy Says, “No Questions, Please. But Only Most of the Time.”

If you want to read fantasy, don’t expect to understand some things. If you want to read fantasy, unapologetically celebrate the rejection of the modern nihilistic mentality. And don’t bother asking for explanations, because nine times out of ten you won’t find a response. Once you have accepted and happily signed this implicit contract, you’re on your way to becoming a fine fantasy reader.

But you’re here to read an analysis on fantasy. Let’s be real – even if we’re on board with the “no buts” and “no questions” deal, I’m sure there are still instances where you find yourself pausing at the irrationality of everything and wanting to scream a huge question mark. Why?! How can half-blood prince Orion of high fantasy The King of Elfland’s Daughter hear the “horns of Elfland [blowing] over the twilight” when that should be impossible given the time difference between Earth and Elfland? How can low fantasy Neverwhere’s Richard Mayhew be wandering inside the sewage pipes below London and suddenly find himself “outside of a very high building”? Dunsany, Gaiman, tell me why and how!

Unfortunately, even the authors probably couldn’t offer a satisfying scientific explanation.

As I was reading Dunsany’s high fantasy novel The King of Elfland’s Daughter, I asked very few questions. There was the occasional thought of ‘Why is there zero character development?’ and ‘Does Orion do anything beyond chasing unicorns?’, but I don’t recall having any serious grievances on the rationality of the alternate reality. That isn’t to say that there weren’t any questions. Alveric of Erl wonders almost for us why villagers won’t speak of Elfland. He never voices his curiosity though, because he knows that “to all these ponderings… there [are] no [answers].” Just like Alveric, even if I did have deeper questions, I quickly ignored or forgot about them. I didn’t see the need to pursue them. 

The plot was also markedly lacking in dialogue. Strange at first for someone who’s accustomed to dialogue-driven plots, I realized that dialogue wasn’t “necessary.” After all, conversations are used to discuss ideas and come to conclusions. Who needs conversations when there are no good answers to begin with? That’s high fantasy.

Of course it isn’t fair to make sweeping generalizations with one instance of high fantasy, but I find this rather interesting. We are more likely to accept the foreign worlds of high fantasy that have little semblance to our mundane one. It’s a total separation. If we were talking Philip Martin on Tolkien’s three aspects of faerie stories, reading high fantasy means skipping the Recovery and Escape phases, and fast. Anyways, if we the readers don’t, we’ll be left alone to ponder in fruitless forever.

On the other end of the spectrum is low fantasy Neverwhere, where magical London Below is a derivative of London normal. There is a moment when antihero Richard Mayhew suddenly realizes the strangeness of London Below and “homesickness engulf[s] him like a fever”. We’re homesick too, but not in the sense that we necessarily miss it. Personally, I’d forsake my entire… well, something for a day in London Below’s weird Floating Marketing. It’s more that with low fantasy, the reader straddles the normal and magical worlds, constantly reminded of what “normal” is or was. When we read low fantasy, we are the Richard Mayhews thrust uncomfortably into Magic Land.

“‘Can I ask a question?’” is Richard anthem for much of Neverwhere. And Marquis de Carabas unapologetically retorts, as much to us as to Richard Mayhew, that “‘[y]ou don’t ask any questions. You don’t get any answers.’” Shot down.

Eventually we learn to ignore that “small, reasonable voice” that tells us what we’re reading is impossible. But like Richard, it took us 200-some pages to get there. Unlike high fantasy, we have the luxury to question whatever comes our way and be the scientific skeptics that we are. That’s because low fantasy exploits our familiarity with the real world to make the escape more difficult, even for the veteran fantasy reader. It isn’t always clear when we’re in magic or not. Who knows when the author isn’t fudging with us and we’ll wake up from a dream.

So yes, you could frame the respective confusion of those books on Dunsany’s verbosity and Gaiman’s episodic style. Then we’d be discussing stylistic preference, but the ease of reading low or high fantasy is subjective. Instead, it is perhaps the frequency of question-asking that is a result of a fantasy novel’s highness or lowness.

Thoughts? Post away!