Julien Mathie: "Dear Bridget Smith: Define 'Classic'..."

Dear Bridget Smith: Define “Classic”…
By Julien Mathie

After just revisiting an essay arguing that a good science fiction work by definition challenges the generally accepted boundaries that distinguish its genre I find it difficult to argue that such a thing as a “classic” work of speculative fiction can exist, so please bear with me.

Speculative fiction, the body of work comprised primarily of science fiction and fantasy, is often segregated from the greater literary canon specifically because it does not conform to conventional standards of literature. It exists to question and test the limits of what we as readers and (by extension) literary critics consider acceptable and valuable additions to the greater conversation. That said, I most frequently find myself drawn to works that are considered “classics” of science fiction and fantasy, but not because of any particular defining trait. Looking at the broad spectrum of speculative fiction works that I read, I notice only one significant similarity: they all ask important questions.

It has admittedly been several years since I last read H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds, but I remember clearly one of the questions that its human subplot invokes: Why do we conform to whatever rules suit us best at the moment? Have we no personal standards of behavior and interaction? The novel encourages us to reflect on ourselves, as any good work of literature or art should. I also enjoyed reading Asimov’s “Reason,” for its questions of motives and, ultimately, of existence. Both are widely considered “classic” representatives of the science fiction genre, but are almost entirely different in plot, setting, and general story.

But I enjoy reading far too much to specialize in any one particular genre. It is just too fun to let my mind wander, which means that I also read more than a little fantasy. From Tolkien’s ultimate high-fantasy epic The Lord of the Rings to more urban- and portal-fantasies like the Miss Peregrine series, I read voraciously. However, perhaps some of my foodie tendencies carry over into my reading habits (or vice versa), as I draw the line at meaningful works. Ursula Le Guinn said in her essay “Why Are Americans Afraid of Dragons?” that “fantasy is true, of course. It isn’t factual, but it is true [… and people] know that its truth challenges, even threatens, all that is false, all that is phony, unnecessary, and trivial in the life they have let themselves be forced into living,” and in the interest of deriving value from my forays into other worlds I find myself applying this philosophy to every good fantasy I encounter. It must, like science fiction, reveal something true about human nature or pose a juicy question that encourages introspection and conversation.

Furthermore fantasy and to some degree science fiction involve journeys; whether they be grand continent-traversing escapades or small, localized thought experiments on emotion and reason, these journeys also apply to the reader. In his essay “On Fairy-Stories,” Tolkien explored the notion that good fantasy literature provides the reader opportunity for Recovery, Escape, and Consolation, which together offer a means to renew one’s perspective of the Given World. Phillip Martin summarized this admirably in his essay “Fantasy and Belief,”

[Three] key aspects of stories set in the world of “Faerie” [are] Recovery, Escape, and Consolation. By Recovery, he meant recovering a lost power to see the world with wonder […] Escape refers to leaving behind the restraints of a modernistic world (“escaping” to a better place, getting away from […] “The Robot Age”) […] For the key role of Consolation, Tolkien pointed to the resolution of fairy stories in […] return at the end to a normal world. These aspects of fantasy, said Tolkien, are not escapist. They embrace that which we most yearn for – an acute awareness of the beauty of the real world – by leaving it, imagining richly, and then returning.

This view of fantasy, and more broadly of speculative fiction, directly implies that the good stories intentionally propose thought-provoking questions, then return the reader to a healthy state of mind such that they are able to think deeply and find a new appreciation for the Given World around them.

            So as an avid but critical reader of speculative fiction I find it impossible to identify a “classic” element for the genre that I enjoy, and am instead left with the conviction that whatever the work, it must ask meaningful questions that will allow me to wander for a time.