A GLIMPSE OF THE NUMINOUS BY JEFF GARDINER

My first collection of short stories is being published by Eibonvale Press in January 2012. It is entitled A Glimpse of the Numinous and I’m getting myself prepared for all the times I shall be asked to explain the word ‘numinous’. It’s an under-used word which richly expresses the deeper realities of reality itself. It suggests something metaphysical or supernatural, and is useful for denoting those strange experiences that are very difficult to define. The collection employs horror, slipstream, romance and comedy elements – but I prefer to think that my writing is never constrained by genre boundaries.

The term ‘numinous’ was coined by theologian Rudolf Otto in his influential book The Idea of the Holy (Das Heilige) first published in 1917. It combines the words ‘numen’ (spirit or deity)and ‘ominous’ to find a way of expressing the experience of being in the presence of a divine power.

When defining the numinous, Otto refers to what he called ‘mysterium tremendum’, which is linked with the idea of awe felt in the presence of the divine: ‘there is an element which may … profoundly affect us and occupy the mind with a wellnigh bewildering strength.’ (p12). Mysterium implies that which is ‘wholly other’ from the self; tremendum connotes an overpowering urgency brought on by ‘supernatural dread’. Otto also comments on the sense of fascination this brings (‘fascinans’); and what he termed the ‘creature-feeling’ of being overwhelmed by a ‘self-abasement into nothingness before an overpowering, absolute might of some kind.’

In summary, numinous refers to the presence of divinity which evokes a personal feeling of both fear and attraction; or in Otto’s words: ‘It may burst in sudden eruption up from the depths of the soul with spasms and convulsions, or lead to the strangest excitements, to intoxicating frenzy, to transport, and to ecstasy. It has its wild and demonic forms and can sink to an almost grisly horror and shuddering.’

Thus the concept of the numinous has a close alliance with that gothic term ‘the Uncanny’ which derives from Freud’s ‘unheimlich’ (that which is strange or unfamiliar). When Otto attempts to explain ‘numinous awe’, he delves into mystical language and compares it to other more familiar notions: ‘The idea of the sublime is closely similar to that of the numinous’ (p43). Gothic texts are usually analysed through the concept of the sublime (that which produces awe and terror – sometimes linked with nature or creation).

My short story collection begins with an inscription by Rudolf Otto taken from the following extract from The Idea of the Holy: ‘Beneath our own human soul and sense of the personal, lies ‘that “wholly other”, whose profundities, impenetrable to any concept, can yet be grasped in the numinous self-feeling by one who has experience of the deeper life.’ (p208)

In my collection, A Glimpse of the Numinous, my hope is that the reader has some experience of ‘the deeper life’. These glimpses include wonders and challenges, which may be terrifying, fascinating or simply absurd. The hope is to connect on a profound level. I certainly believe there are many things which cannot be explained by rational thought and these stories explore those experiences which defy rational understanding. In fact I’d go further and say that it is those very things in life which cannot be explained that make life much more wonderful, mystical and exciting.

Jeff Gardiner – Author Interview

         The following interview was first published in ‘Midnight Street’ # 14

 

What inspired you to be a writer?

I believe that it is through being creative that we reach our potential as individuals. Those moments when I have felt most alive or inspired are during moments of intense creativity, or of deep-felt emotion. Creativity, like emotion, brings out the best in us and perhaps is as close as we get to spiritual insight. So to answer the question, I have a deep desire to be creative and have found writing to be cathartic. I used to think I was good at acting too and still do some amateur ham-acting, but I think dreams of Oscar-winning glory are probably beyond me now.

I began writing at an early age but never quite knew what to write or how to go about it. University gave me time to express my feelings in the form of self-indulgent doggerel poetry, which I hope will never see the light of day, and I also wrote some shockingly bad scripts and plays.  The first stories I ever wrote were ill-disciplined and overwrought with intentions. But I do believe a writer has to write a lot of crap before finding a voice.

To what extent has the work of other writers influenced you?

I’ve always loved reading and did the classic child thing of reading at night under the covers with a torch. My imagination was initially captured by Enid Blyton and classics like ‘Wind in the Willows’. As a boy I loved DC comics too and still enjoy graphic novels as a guilty pleasure.

But a big mention has to go to Michael Moorcock. At about the age of thirteen I read The Winds of Limbo (aka ‘The Fireclown’), and some of his short stories (‘The Deep Fix’, ‘The Golden Barge’). Their originality, mind-bending concepts and glorious vocabulary had me transfixed. I didn’t know such wonders could be so freely available. I quickly progressed to the Eternal Champion cycle, before graduating onto Gloriana’ and Mother London. I became a bit of a Moorcock completist devouring his psychedelic, phantasmagorical prose. Moorcock’s link with Hawkwind also helped me develop another love: heavy rock. Two other authors who affected me deeply are Herman Hesse and Mervyn Peake. There are so many books and writers. One contemporary author worth mentioning is Graham Joyce. I love books that force me to use my imagination or that explore emotional or spiritual realities.

What aspects of life motivate you to continue writing?

It’s important to be the best person you can be and not just give up when life seems hard. Becoming a writer (and I am still at the beginning somewhere) is bloody hard. Rejections and bad reviews really hurt and it would be easy to give up. At the moment my writing doesn’t pay the bills or mortgage, so it would be easy (and possibly more responsible) to give up and do something more financially lucrative. But if I did then I wouldn’t be happy; and surely being happy and enjoying a good quality of life is worth more than becoming a victim of the rat-race.

How do your family and friends respond to your writing ambitions?

I’m lucky because my family are immensely supportive. Having two wonderful daughters inspires and motivates me to be a good dad and role-model. My wife, Sandy, has always encouraged me, especially when I suggested working part-time. It went against my male instincts to become the lower-income earner, but Sandy was an immense source of strength in those times of self-doubt. I worried that people would consider me a selfish dreamer failing in his duty, but I found family and friends to be positive and even intrigued by what I do. My parents have always been open to me doing things is a less conventional way. They dutifully read my work and are always encouraging even if some of it is not to their taste. Thankfully they keep any bitter disappointment to themselves!

Since having children (they are now 7 and 5) I have had less time for writing. Whilst the girls were little, my wife also went part-time so that we could look after them ourselves. That’s still the arrangement now, but now they are both are at school full-time so at last I have two days a week wholly dedicated to writing. It’s like a gift. I have been given this gift of time which I must not waste. (You’ll be glad to hear I cancelled my Sky Sports subscription).

Tell me about your work. What genres are you most comfortable writing in?

I enjoy writing horror, slipstream and comedy or just about themes that fascinate me such as spirituality or relationships. There are fantasy or gothic elements in much of my writing. Even my most ‘realistic’ stories contain unusual motifs or something slightly out of the ordinary: mostly because life is anything but ordinary. Reality contains fears, joy, dreams, emotions and that indefinable sense of the numinous. I want to capture in my writing those moments when life is exhilarating, transcendent, intoxicating, ghastly, unnerving, provocative, absurd or just plain inexplicable. I agree with Moorcock who breaks genre boundaries. He boldly stated that there are no genres – just good writing.

Writers should be able to dip into genres and use them as resources to make a story more profound or to help engage the reader. The general public need to be a bit more daring in what they are willing to read. Reading is a sensory experience and just as many of us are willing to see different types of films, we must also be willing to try out different forms of literature.

Are there any subjects that are taboo for you?

I believe in freedom of speech rather than censorship, but I have a personal moral code and as a parent I believe children need to be protected until they are emotionally ready to confront certain horrors and taboos. We have a duty to young people to prepare them for this amazing and dangerous world. This is an interesting question for me, because for three days a week I am a secondary school teacher. I have to accept that when my stories are published it means my pupils will have access to them. Some of my stories are not suitable for the younger children I teach, so it worries me about the overlap between my role as a teacher and as a writer. It’s a concern that I haven’t worked out the answer for yet. I’m still waiting for a complaint from parents who feel I’m not suitable to be teaching their child. In my mind the two roles are separate.

What are your thoughts on the way literature has developed over the years?

The development of literature is being seriously limited by a very conservative publishing industry. If you don’t fit into an existing successful and easily marketable genre or you’re not a celebrity, then it’s difficult to get a manuscript accepted or even read by a big publisher. The small presses are the real future: that’s where the experiments take place. It’s because of them that literature continues to evolve and be reinvigorated.

One question keeps occurring to me: How do we get teenagers to read more books? I guess the first answer is that we need to write more books that will enthral and captivate them. The problem is that reading is an activity that demands imagination, intelligence, stamina and concentration. Unfortunately there are too many easier and more-readily gratifying alternatives. My observation of some teenagers is that with so many fun, whizzy distractions at their fingertips, the idea of having to actively work hard and concentrate on a book is less attractive. I wish I had an answer to this one.

Genre fiction encompasses fantasy, science fiction and slipstream which, apart from occasional exceptions, seem unable to break out into the mainstream. Do you think this is true?

I think slipstream, which has a wider brief, is more likely to break through. Some sf and fantasy can remain quite narrow in their scope and will only ever appeal to a small audience. There’s nothing wrong with that. The popularity of something is not always a reflection of its quality. I’d rather not be confined or marginalised as an author – to feel I must keep churning out the same old stuff. I have nothing against genre writing but like any art form there is good and bad stuff. There is good and bad sf; good and bad romantic literature; good and bad teenage novels. I just wish all readers would widen their interests and keep challenging themselves to read different styles and types of writing. My hope for contemporary literature is that slipstream becomes mainstream. I have written on this very topic on my blog at jeffgardiner.wordpress.com.

Tell me about your non-fiction

My initial publishing success was with non-fiction. My book, The Age of Chaos: the Multiverse of Michael Moorcock, was a heavily-edited adaptation of an academic thesis with all the dull bits removed. I wanted to show how Moorcock’s work is worthy of study as he is often maligned as a pulp writer. Books such as the Dancers at the End of Time series, the whole Jerry Cornelius mythos and the Col Pyat tetralogy are too good to be ignored.

I’ve had some success with articles – many about early fantasy authors. For a while I was a regular columnist in the BFS’ Prism and with Wormwood and Alien Online. I even had a number of articles translated into German. As a film buff and rock music fan I dream of becoming a film critic or music journo but I probably need to actively do something about it rather than just wait for Empire or Classic Rock magazine to come to me.

What are the main differences in the way you tackle different types of writing?

Writing non-fiction involves clearly expressing opinions or informing the reader on a topic having done extensive research. It requires a strictly logical approach and perhaps a more populist appeal. Fiction, on the other hand, needs a more individual voice and demands that elusive quality: the imagination. Some writing tutors advise “only write what you know”. Hmm. That’s true for non-fiction to an extent, but how many great novels would not exist if the authors had taken that advice?

What would you say are the most important qualities for a writer to possess? I read a long time ago that you need “a hide like a rhinoceros” to be a writer. Do you think this is true?

Yes, you definitely need to be thick-skinned because unless you are a genius you will have to deal with rejection … lots of it. So you need self-belief, which doesn’t come naturally. Being a parent is a good apprenticeship as I constantly doubt I’m doing as well as I should, and I did go through a harrowing period of being rejected by one daughter (”No! Mummy nicer!”). Tenacity is also a major quality. Don’t give up. If the first stories don’t sell then write some better ones. Keep having projects on the go so you’re not sitting at home pinning all your hopes on one manuscript. Being a writer is a huge risk. But each rejection and knock back is a challenge to continually improve.

Having a vivid imagination is essential too.

How do you market yourself?

This is my weakness. I need to get better at marketing myself and networking. When my Moorcock book came out I did a lot of internet marketing and contacted local papers who were very helpful. I have an old website which at time of writing is well out of date but being reconstructed (jeffgardiner.com).

The biggest difficulty as a new writer is getting your name known. How many people have heard of Jeff Gardiner? Why should a publisher accept a manuscript that has little guarantee of sales? I need a higher profile and when my short story collection appears next year I’ll be thinking of ways to reach a wider audience. This interview is a fantastic opportunity for people to find out about me and my work, and for which I am very grateful.

Do you envision a time when you can give up the day job? Would you want to?

Unfortunately life decisions often revolve around money. We are trapped. The mortgage and bills need to be paid. Unless you marry into or inherit money then you will need some kind of income. If I was offered a big advance I’d be tempted. I enjoy my teaching and whilst it offers good holidays it is a stressful and time-consuming job. It’s almost impossible to come home from a day at school and just switch into writing mode because I’m exhausted and have marking and planning to do.

What frightens me about writing full-time is the spectre of insanity. Would I become some kind of self-absorbed troglodyte with no social skills? Would I be tempted to start sipping the Islay single malt before midday? Writers also need to live life and continue having life-experiences as normal people. One of the joys of teaching is seeing colleagues and interacting with real people (including the students).

What projects are you working on at the moment? Tell me about forthcoming publications.

I’m working on a novel based in Nigeria during the Biafran War. I was born in Nigeria whilst my parents were out there as missionaries so I have these sentimental roots. Inspired by my parents’ stories, photos and my mum’s diaries, I’m writing about the Igbo culture, myths and beliefs from an English perspective, hopefully in a way which is fully sympathetic without being patronising. It’s an exciting and frightening tale set in an unsettled place and time as seen from the eyes of an outsider.

I have two completed novels still surfing the slushpiles. One is a teenage novel with a slipstream sensibility, dealing with bullying, relationships and football; the other is a tale of obsessive love, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.

I’ve also written a number of picture books for children which I’m failing to get accepted. I probably haven’t found the right tone yet to engage the younger mind but it’s a challenge I refuse to give up on.

My exciting news is that Eibonvale Press are going to publish a collection of my short stories entitled A Glimpse of the Numinous.  David Rix of Eibonvale describes the collection as “darkly disturbing contemporary horror at its most relevant and intelligent, taking you to places that you may well find challenging and discomforting, revealing the strangeness that can colour the familiar world, both within the human mind and outside it.” (www.eibonvalepress.co.uk)

I’ll keep writing short stories too as I love the discipline of the shorter form, whilst every acceptance is another notch on the old CV bedpost. And then maybe I’ll get round to that non-fiction book about films and then there’s the screenplay … so many plans … so little time…

Jeff Gardiner

Suspension of Disbelief

Slipstream, horror and fantasy are genres which thrill, astound and invigorate the reader. This is because they fulfil the same function as mythology. Fantasy, slipstream and horror writers and filmmakers are the new Homers, Ovids, Virgils and Shakespeares.

I’m fascinated by why some people reject fantasy as something merely ‘for the kids’, as if adults aren’t allowed to have imaginations. This has been emphasised by the whole Harry Potter phenomenon. I’ve enjoyed all the books and films, but they’re not the greatest stories ever told, and it’s frustrating when adults read them, enjoy them, but then refuse to go on and read better examples of fantasy or slipstream. Those people need to try Michael Moorcock, Graham Joyce, China Mieville, Jeff Noon, Neil Gaiman ….

Poet and opium addict, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, wrote of the “willing suspension of disbelief” in his Biographia Literaria in1817. This concept is an important one for our culture that for some ungodly reason still celebrates realism over imagination. Adults need to retain their imaginations and be willing to be creative or take a risk in their reading or movie/television watching. If you have the imagination to ‘go along’ with an author or director – take that leap of faith into something original and uncertain – then you will be rewarded with something challenging; mentally and emotionally stimulating; perhaps even spiritually inspiring; and ultimately more satisfactory than the usual naturalistic, soap opera, kitchen-sink dross.

Coleridge also defined ‘Imagination’ as a god-like act of creation. He was talking about the genius of romantic poets such as Wordsworth, but we can also be sub-creators when we read fantasy. Tolkien wrote of the creation of ‘Secondary Worlds’ that comes from Enchantment. This enchantment for fairy tales is NOT just for children. In fact, as Tolkien famously argued: “Fantasy is not a lower but a higher form of Art, indeed the most nearly pure form, and so (when achieved) the most potent”. Fantasy brings with it a joy and a sense of wonder and requires an active, creative reader. And we must never be ashamed of fantasy: for enjoying monster/horror movies or for reading comics. Instead we should celebrate the imagination.

And so fantasy, horror and sf  fans continue to proudly celebrate all forms of imagination, whether it is myth, romance, gothic, decadent, supernatural, surreal, horror, science fiction, sword and sorcery, magic realism, slipstream or some new form. We should support the small specialist publishers such as the UK’s Eibonvale Press and Tartarus Press, and the small magazines that produce excellent slipstream and horror fiction, such as ‘Estronomicon’, ‘Twisted Tongue’ and ‘Midnight Street’. We must continue to direct people to great fantasy literature, from our heritage through the ‘classics’ of Morris, Lindsey, Lovecraft et al to great living writers like Jonathan Carrol, Graham Joyce and Jeffrey Ford.

Fantasy is not an escape from the world – just another way of looking at it. Life is spiritual and emotional; full of dreams and desires; and it is sometimes unpredictably strange or cruel. Salman Rushdie expressed it perfectly in an interview about the stage production of Midnight’s Children at the RSC, when he explained lucidly that, “I think of fantasy as a method of producing intensified images of reality”.

Affair Retail (beginning of a scrambled story) by Jeff Gardiner

(Read the following paragraph out loud and listen carefully for its real meaning. It is made of real words, which when put together can sound like something else entirely.)

At rue missed hairy beg an when a stranger rap peered in horse spittle fuller bully toll sand other soup official wounds. Furze staid was sad mini stirred buy the docked tours until the magnet chewed of his con dish hen bee came map parent. Heed I’d too wow were slate tar. A bloods ample reeve eel desist ham two contain owe pea eights. Father re: search eye dent if eye dim as won Albert Ross, a farmer cyst from Hamster Teeth. One of thinner says had bean a cussed hummer office so shit hold the poll lease it sew append Alb hurt was sack hem mist whose old medic calls applies. His death was a mister reef or shore – peep pull cud knot egg splay nit.

(If you’re still stuck then the first line begins ‘A true mystery began when a stranger appeared …’ )

Science Fantasy: Wells and Shiel

Science Fantasy

H.G. Wells (1886-1946)
H.G. Wells is known as the father of modern science fiction. His famous early novels, such as The Time Machine (1895), The Invisible Man (1897) and The War of the Worlds (1898) are frequently referred to as scientific romances and this perhaps gave rise to the curious sub-genre known as ‘science fantasy’; a somewhat paradoxical term. Gary K. Wolfe advocated the use of ‘science fantasy’ for fiction that employs fantasy devices in sf contexts. That is, what would normally be called fantasy is ‘explained’ in scientific or technological language. This term best fits utopian/dystopian literature: novels that look into the future or attempt to criticise some aspect of human knowledge.

Wells also wrote fantasy, social realism, comedy and supernatural fiction as well as scientific journalism, history and utopian philosophy. For example, his Men Like Gods (1923) is a vision of utopia to rival Samuel Butler’s Erewhon (1872) and Morris’ News From Nowhere (1890), which makes manifest Wells’ sympathy for liberal-anarchistic ideals. Extremely prolific, he wrote over one hundred and twenty books. He studied biology under Darwin’s champion, Thomas Huxley and became one of Britain’s most important visionaries and social commentators. His novels cover a wide variety of typical sf themes, including time-travel, scientific discovery, alien invasion, space travel and warfare; but what makes Wells stand out is that he accepted as a literary writer who also wrote great mainstream novels. This article acknowledges his contribution to fantasy.
One of his first novels was The Island of Dr. Moreau (1896), a horror novel that owes something to Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde with its depiction of another mad scientist. Edward Prendick is involved in an accident at sea and is picked up by a small boat that has come from Africa containing caged animals, where he is befriended by the dubious Montgomery whose man-servant, M’ling, is a black-faced and hairy “misshapen man”. For various reasons he is forced to set down on the island for which Montgomery is heading: Noble’s Isle in the Pacific Ocean, where he is met by Dr. Moreau who describes his home as a “biological station”.

Before discovering the true purpose of Moreau’s secret work, Prendick recalls the name of the scientist who was lauded as “a notorious vivisector” experimenting in “morbid growths”. Then when he sees a man going crawling on all fours and confronts the “Swine-Men” he suspects the doctor of vivisecting humans. Fearing for his own life, Prendick escapes and meets more of the Beast-Folk, such as a simian man, ‘a pink sloth creature’ and the enigmatic Sayer of the Law. The Beast Men seem to be developing their own primitive culture with rituals and commandments that demand human rather than bestial behaviour.

Moreau explains to Prendick that the creatures were never men, but are, in fact, “humanized animals” – surgery that includes grafting, transplants and blood transfusions. Moreau proudly explains; “It’s not simply the outward form of an animal I can change. The physiology, the chemical rhythm of a creature, may also be made to undergo an enduring modification”. He has no qualms about the ethics of his experiments that he has been undertaking for over eleven years, and willingly explains his desire to speed up the process of evolution: “I will burn out all the animal, this time I will make a rational creature of my own”. He also shows a fascistic desire to control them, but is, like Frankenstein, an irresponsible creator.

Prendick meets about sixty of Moreau’s Beast People, most of them hybrids, including a satyr and the rebellious Leopard Man who dares break Moreau’s law. The reader, along with the narrator, begins to sympathise with the Beast-Folk and despise Moreau for his unnecessary adaptations that only confuse and frighten the animals who retain their instincts to hunt and fight. This leads to the intriguing philosophical question; are the Beast-People human or animal?

The two misfits, Moreau and Montgomery become victims of their own horrific vision, leaving Prendick with the Beast-Folk, of whom he fails to gain control or respect and with his own long, matted hair and bright, alert eyes he finds himself regressing and slowly becoming one of them. Even when he is rescued he retains a “natural wildness”, and on returning to London he realises that humans still have a “bestial mark” and could easily revert back to our natural animal ways.

Wells seems to be interested in how we cope with our natural instincts and what happens when science creates a state of unnatural selection. As a student of Huxley, Wells had more than a passing interest in the theories of Darwin, particularly social-Darwinism and he has left us with this intensely horrific parable of ‘modern’ culture. Like the Morlocks in The Time Machine, the Beast-Folk seem to represent the repressed classes who do not fit in to a society that has been purposefully adapted solely to the privileged minority. It is also likely that Wells has here created an effective allegory of British Imperialism, certainly parodying the xenophobic attitudes. Even Prendick patronises and bullies the Beast People, resorting to violence, but in the end, and thankfully, he fails to replace Moreau. Instead he understands their plight and having met with them face to face on their terms, understands and sympathises, refusing to force his own attitude upon them.

Wells always writes with impeccable objectivity and sets us challenges on personal, cultural and global levels. Victorian sensibilities were shocked by this horrific vision and particularly by the idea that humans cannot control nature. The popularisation of Darwin’s theories gave rise to fears of natural degeneration and social chaos. But Wells’ novel refuses to romanticise about the noble savage, but stands as a warning to us all.

His excellent utopian novel, In the Days of the Comet (1906) suggests that the only hope for humanity lies in the effects of a magical gas. This book could also be called a scientific romance, although there is certainly less science and more romance, being as it is more interested in social relationships and ethical philosophy. H.G. Wells criticises British society in In the Days of the Comet, romantically envisaging a pre-hippy unified world, although he was wary of violent revolution, so he devised a fantastical condition that might bring this ideal to realisation.

The narrator, Willie Leadford, reflects back on events leading up to “the Great Change” as a seventeen year old, surly and belligerent socialist – a working-class lad who loses his sweetheart, Nettie, to a rich young gentleman; is sick of his tedious factory job; caught up in a miners’ strike and sceptical about his mother’s religious views. Sick of the blatant corruption and inequality, he laments how the old world, which is our existing world still today, is still “full of preventable disorder, preventable diseases and preventable pain of harshness and stupid unmeditated cruelties” and sets out to destroy “the hydra of Capitalism and Monopoly”. Leadford’s personal life, so full of anger and jealousy is paralleled on a world scale by England and Germany standing on the brink of war.
All this occurs beneath the shadow of an approaching comet that seems to be heading straight for Earth. Leadford buys a revolver with the intention of killing both Nettie, and her lover who represents the repressive bourgeoisie. As he is considering suicide the world is covered in “a luminous green haze” and the Earth is recreated into a utopia, bringing with it hope, love, health and happiness: “the dawn of a new time”.

After the change, people live in communes and destroy all the symbols of the old world order in fires of purification and individuals begin to reconsider the meanings of love and relationships. By the end of the novel H.G. Wells explores what must have been a subversive idea at the time of publication as Leadford realises that he loves Nettie and another woman Anna, whilst Nettie wants both her lovers, asking “Why must I not have both?” The four of them set up a happy home together.

This novel is not really science fiction and it seems ironic that most of H.G. Wells’ novels are not sf. Another author who is not really an sf writer is M.P. Shiel.

M.P. Shiel (1865-1947)
Renowned for his supernatural fiction and science fantasy written in a flamboyant, poetic style, Matthew Phipps Shiel still has a cult following. He was born in the West Indies and after travelling extensively through Europe he was drawn to the decadence of fin-de-siécle London. His particular obsession revolved around his philosophy of the ‘overman’ or ‘superman’, as expounded by Nietszche to identify the individual who shows “the will to power”: that is he creates his own values and triumphs and understands the human condition. Shiel was a colourful character: a philosopher, multi-linguist, megalomaniac and possibly insane. His mother may well have been a freed slave and he inherited the title of King of Redonda, a small island near Antigua, from his Irish father. He is credited with coining the phrase “yellow peril” and rather unfairly denounced as anti-Semitic.

Prince Zaleski (1895) was clearly influenced by Poe’s detective tales of M. Dupin, but more exotic and atmospheric; worthy of inclusion in ‘The Yellow Book’. In these decadent short-stories the bohemian sleuth is a reclusive genius who does not have to leave his mansion or even put down his hashish-filled bhang to solve a crime. The door to his chambers is “tapestried with python skin” and he sits surrounded by antiques and curios including an Egyptian mummy.

Shiel’s acknowledged masterpiece is The Purple Cloud (1901), which follows in the shadow of The Last Man by Mary Shelley. Adam Jeffson becomes a living embodiment of the overman, triumphing in his own vitality and power. An ill-fated expedition to the North Pole unleashes a purple vapour that leaves him as the last man on Earth, marauding through cities and burning them down for seventeen years until he meets a young girl, who becomes Adam’s Eve. Adam is never an entirely reliable narrator, showing signs of madness with his confession that he hears ‘black and white’ conflicting voices, then his killing another member of the expedition, and with his later obsession with arson.

The novel’s first fifty pages are typically Gothic, with sublime descriptions and a descent into lunacy, until Jeffson awakens into the new world. The peach-smelling cloud spreads over the entire world, killing all people, animals and birds. Sailing single-handedly throughout the world, he encounters countries full of corpses and experiences “that abysmal desolation of loneliness and sense of a hostile universe”: like the pessimistic philosophy of Schopenhauer.

After crashing a train and looting a jewellers in London he sees the chance to become hedonistic and self-indulgent: “I will ravage and riot in my kingdoms”. Thus he sets out on a programme of wanton and malicious destruction. He turns into a decadent proto-hippy and takes sixteen years to build himself his perfect palace. It is in Constantinople that he meets the only other living being on Earth, a girl who becomes known as Leda, and her presence begins to change him. Whilst he is at first druel to her, she has an optimistic and noble spirit alongside an innocent faith in God. Even though he finally falls in love with her he fails to express his feelings and pushes her away. The finale seems set for tragedy, but ends with a celebration of goodness and even faith in God.

A novel of philosophy written with an expansive vocabulary and a vast imagination.

Gothic Romance

In his 1853 essay, ‘The Stones of Venice’ philosopher John Ruskin analyses the characteristics of Gothic architecture and some of the terms are relevant to fantasy specifically “savageness”, “changefulness” and “grotesqueness”. Ruskin celebrated the wild imagination of Gothic artists, which is “full of wolfish life, fierce as the winds” and “changeful as the clouds”. Then he goes further, stating, “but it is not true that for this reason we are to condemn it, or despise. Far otherwise: I believe it is in this very character that it deserves our profoundest reverence”.

Recurring themes in fantastic writing include transformations, hallucinations, insanity, as well as the taboo subjects of violence, sexuality and death, and nowhere are these explored with more vitality than in the great Gothic texts. Gothic romance is studied on degree courses and accepted as an important ‘movement’ in Western literature and much of the best horror and fantasy writing today is accepted if the book is tagged as a ‘modern gothic’ novel.

The best books on the subject are both volumes of David Punter’s The Literature of Terror (1980, then expanded in 1996) and Fred Botting’s Gothic (1996). Botting describes Gothic literature as celebrating ‘excess’ and ‘transgressions’, highlighting key tropes such as decadence, desire, alienation and duplicity. Gothic writing is subversive and often ambiguous, and these concepts are extremely important when considering fantasy in general. Being subversive is precisely why fantasy is marginalized to a cult status and many readers are happy for it to remain as part of a subculture, rather than being subsumed into the mainstream: being part of a subculture is far more cool.

Ambiguity is often a negative criticism in literary studies as if ambivalence is a sign of bad writing or lack of control. Quite the contrary – novels that remain open and challenge the reader are often more poetic and philosophical and, certainly, these texts deserve a more creative reader. Jorge Luis Borges implores us to realise that “ambiguity is richness”.

The concept of the ‘sublime’ is a key concept when analysing Gothic romance and can be defined in terms of feelings of awe and terror at the power of nature and of the supernatural. Contradictions and opposites also occur in many Gothic texts; namely life and death, good and evil, order and chaos, reason and magic, agony and ecstasy. The best Gothic novels uncover that realm of the irrational: in spiritual terms, the supernatural and in psychological terms, the id. Gothic is subversive and unsettling because it exposes the fears and dangers that lie beneath the surface of civilisation and logic.

The Castle of Otranto (1764) by Horace Walpole is recognised as the first Gothic novel and whilst it is artistically flawed, it stands as a good melodrama with ghosts, gloomy dungeons and violence in a medieval setting. It is a chilling tale with stereotypically feudal characters who exist in a world of pagan superstition. The overt use of supernatural paraphernalia and unexplained noises in the dark appear now to be clichéd, and Walpole admits in his preface his debt to Shakespeare. The narrative races along and events are described with great economy: “At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh and heaved its breast”.

Eventually, aristocratic order is restored and if Walpole had any didactic intentions then it seems he was keen to clearly delineate between the preferred Age of Enlightenment, warning us not to recede back into a barbaric past (in direct contrast to Walter Scott’s later romantic preference).

A far superior early Gothic text is William Beckford’s Vathek (1782), which is a shockingly stark and violent oriental indulgence that concludes with a rather gratuitous punishment of the eponymous villain. Possibly even more outrageous for its time was Matthew Lewis’ The Monk (1796), a vicious tale of evil corrupting and destroying innocence. Like Beckford, he never attempts to moralise, preferring to exhilarate and scandalise the reader. Here is a short sample: “Myriads of insects … drank the blood which trickled from Ambrosio’s wounds; … and they fastened upon his sores, darting their stings into his body, covered him with their multitudes, and inflicted on him tortures the most exquisite and insupportable”. The Monk has a narrative that involves rape, incest and murder and these two Gothic books are often considered the first true horror novels.

In the 1790s Anne Radcliffe found success with her long, labyrinthine novels with their simplistic notion of the duality of good versus evil. She tended to rationalise and demystify all sources of evil, showing how it emanated from institutions such as the Spanish Inquisition.

By the turn of the century the triumvirate of romantic poets Byron, Shelley and Keats were thrilling the world with their Gothic verse, and their exploits at Villa Diodati inspired the young Mary Shelley to write what Brian Aldiss considers to be the first sf novel, Frankenstein (1818). Shelley’s great novel of isolation can be seen as a critique of science, the family and the justice and political systems of the day. Shelley’s mother was an early feminist and her father was an anarchist. The most disturbing element of the novel is the way the author makes the monster the sympathetic and tragic character, whilst Frankenstein himself becomes more of a monster than the ‘daemon’ he created; another victim of hubris. The structure of the novel is also fragmented, told in letters and as stories within stories, until the reader is lost in the complex narrative, as if we too are becoming anxious and losing our minds. The ending is consciously ambiguous, resisting resolution. It is a modern and timeless myth that still starkly retains its relevance into the 21st century.

Possibly the definitive Gothic novel is Charles Maturin’s masterpiece, Melmoth the Wanderer (1820). The whole text exudes an atmosphere of foreboding, claustrophobia, torture, alienation and paranoia. As an Irish Protestant, Maturin was keen to attack the tyranny of Catholicism and exposes the methods of the Spanish Inquisition and other arcane religious brotherhoods. Melmoth is at times a difficult read, with its complex intertwining narratives, but is at best a haunting and powerful portrait of suffering and guilt. One part of the book is set in a monastery, which slowly exposes the cruel conspiracy of a clandestine order who prepare to torture a young cenobite whose only crime has been hearing voices at night. “ I rose from my chair – then gasping, I leant on it for support. I said, ‘My God! What is all this terrible preparation for? Of what am I guilty? … Why am I not told my offence?’” The protagonist, the Wandering Jew, suffers madness, terror, pity, jealousy, hatred, madness and loss of love.

Meanwhile the gothic sensibilities were influencing American writers such as Nathaniel Hawthorne and Wilkie Collins to produce ghostly tales, but more extreme were the grotesque and psychological fantasies of Edgar Allan Poe. In Britain, Charles Dickens and the Bronte sisters were using gothic elements in their now classic novels, such as Great Expectations and Wuthering Heights. Then in 1886, Robert Louis Stevenson produced the great work of duplicity, The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

Stevenson’s short novel depicts how an “apelike” murderer turns out to be the evil alter-ego or doppelganger of a respectable, professional gentleman. Questions are asked about identity and the ‘self’, but more shockingly, Dr Jekyll begins to understand the delights of a hedonistic and chaotic lifestyle. The reader is repulsed by the image of “the animal within me licking the chops of memory”; Darwin’s seminal and, then, heretical, theories had finally found a voice in artistic terms. Hyde represents that regressive throwback in evolution to show that humans too are merely beasts with brutal instincts. Freud warned the public that latent repression of the libido creates neurosis and violent frustration and now here was a book that seemed to be giving expression to these new claims. Henry Jekyll learns that “all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil”. This is a theme explored further by later writers such as Joseph Conrad and William Golding.

The iconography of evil found its greatest symbol in the vampire, and most prominently in Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), a stylish and macabre work that has provided us with an awe-inspiring archetype that has fed into the collective unconscious and become a contemporary myth as powerful as anything from the classics. Modern critics have explored the novel’s xenophobia and the metaphor of biting as sexual penetration.

Neuroses and paranoia have always interested fantasy writers and Henry James added a new dimension to the ghost story with his much cited novella, The Turn of the Screw (1898) which creates complete ambiguity derived from the unreliable narrator who may be lying or deluding herself. Paranoia and claustrophobia were taken to extremes by Franz Kafka in the 1920s whose political conspiracies create existential nightmares for individuals who are subjected to psychological torture.

In the twentieth century, the authors who probably employed gothic techniques most effectively were Mervyn Peake, who added humour and baroque language to his masterful Gormenghast trilogy; Angela Carter, whose postmodern take on fairy tales challenges preconceptions and terrifies as much as any other modern horror; and Anne Rice whose vampire novels are epic in their scale and richly flamboyant in their execution. Of course, Gothic has inspired all the horror fiction that exists and its elements are still apparent, for example in the American urban gothic of Stephen King. David Punter, in The Literature of Terror Vol 2, also refers to graphic novels by Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman.

In the world of film, the Gothic novels have inspired countless interpretations and created some of the most familiar clichés in cinematic techniques. Nosferatu (1922), Psycho (1960), The Exorcist (1971) and Bladerunner (1982) are all distinguished works of art that have employed gothic tropes, themes, imagery and atmosphere. In music, heavy metal bands like Black Sabbath and many post-punk bands, such as Bauhaus, developed songs, lyrics and images based on gothic horror, influencing the more obviously Goth bands such as Sisters of Mercy.

Gothic Romance will continue to influence contemporary culture because people will always seek to be terrified, amazed and challenged. There will always exist a desire for artists to be subversive and we should continually push the boundaries and break down conventions. Philosophers and theologians will continue to discuss the origins of evil and psychologists will always explore the workings of the inner mind. Gothic literature offers further debate on huge issues that affect the individual and society. The role of religion was always to explain the supernatural world, but now the religion of the Western world, or at least its language, comes from psychoanalysis in which we are taught to confront our fears and desires. This is the function of Gothic fantasy.

Fantasy Forms

Fantasy is not a genre of literature: it is an expression of the imagination and a response to reality. It is an impulse of equal merit to realism. The best literature is that which combines both fantasy and realism – hence fantastic realism becomes an important term for critics – or more recently, the useful ‘Slipstream’. The fact that we have to differentiate fantasy from realism and then attempt to justify it or even apologise for it is evidence of the unjust marginalisation of fantastic literature. It has been left to genre critics to argue the case for fantasy and science fiction although development in theory and criticism is slow. Science fiction is way ahead in these terms, possibly because fantasy is so hard to define, whilst sf has a more specific focus.

In basic terms, fantasy is a huge term that encapsulates many forms and genres, including myths, fairy tales, heroic romance, Gothic, horror, science fiction and magic realism.
What has happened is that definitions and appellations have become mistakenly confused. So a shop will have a section entitled Science Fiction and in it will be found fantasy and horror. Many genre magazines prefer the name science fiction and yet also review and discuss fantasy texts. For them sf includes fantasy, but this makes very little real sense. Why do they prefer the label sf to that of fantasy?

Fantasy has become misrepresented as anything copying Tolkien or plagiarising the Conan mythos. This has led to different attitudes. Firstly, a patronising one that views fantasy as jolly fairy-tale bedtime stories for children, as shown by the popularity of Harry Potter (It’s okay for adults to read but we know that it is really for the kiddies – bless ‘em) and the way folk-tales of yore have become moralising Disney fables with happy endings. Secondly, fantasy is seen as badly written pulp read by anoraks obsessed with role playing games, seeking adolescent wish fulfilment, on a par with pornography. Thirdly, fantasy does not fit in with our rational, materialistic culture, which continues to deny anything spiritual or supernatural, so who wants to read unrealistic stories about magic, other worlds, talking animals or mythical creatures? Some will accept certain fantasy texts because there is clear symbolism or allegory thus giving it direct meaning for our real world. But even then this is denying the whole concept of fantasy. Finally, some are frightened that fantasy only offers an unfeasible method of escape from our real world, thus putting fantasy literature on the same and dangerous level as hard drugs. But why is escape such a bad thing?
Let’s face it even the word ‘fantasy’ immediately creates suspicion; implying sexual desire and perversion. (As a test, type ‘fantasy’ into a search engine – but only if you’re over 18!) Our western culture equates fantasy with something capricious or preposterous. To fantasize suggests that you are unhappy or unsatisfied.

However, the Collins Concise Dictionary defines fantasy as ‘imagination unrestricted by reality’ and this gives us a useful and positive focus. Fantasy is potent exactly because it is free and unrestrained, which also makes it dangerous and subversive, which are good things to be. This freedom means that fantasy is an elusive and protean element that breaks down traditions and boundaries, which is exactly what good literature should do. The dictionary definition reminds us that whilst reality cannot limit it, fantasy is still grounded in and related to reality. I think it is important to remember that the imagination, dreams, desires and spirituality are essential elements of reality and that we ignore them at our own peril. On a related note, I also like the way that the word ‘fantastic’ has come to be used as an informal way of expressing admiration for something on a par with ‘amazing’ or ‘excellent’. This can only encourage people to become less suspicious towards fantasy literature.

To understand fantasy it is helpful to be aware of some of its permutations, which we could call genres for the sake of argument. Different critics prefer particular terms, but the following covers most of what can be considered fantasy.

Myths, legends, fables and folklore: These source texts contain stories, characters, symbolism, locations and tropes that are plundered by fantasy authors. Greek, Roman, Norse, Hindu, Pacific, African, Icelandic, Arabian and British myths and legends continue to feed into contemporary fantasy. What John Clute calls ‘taproot texts’ also include seminal works such as The Canterbury Tales, The Faerie Queene, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Don Quixote, The Pilgrim’s Progress and even Gulliver’s Travels. The anthropomorphic Wind in the Willows and Watership Down are direct descendents of fables whilst E.T.A. Hoffman’s stories are dark fairy tales.

Romance: Chivalric or medieval romance is best exemplified by the Arthurian cycle of legends and poetry, such as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight or Malory’s Morte D’Arthur. This form of heroic romance with its themes of quest and battles between good and evil is the template for classic modern fantasy as practised by William Morris, Lord Dunsany, George MacDonald, JRR Tolkien, Fritz Leiber, Michael Moorcock and Stephen Donaldson that has been much copied since and is often referred to as ‘sword and sorcery’. Sword and sorcery is a descriptive name, but ‘heroic romance’ is to be preferred. ‘Science fantasy’ on the other hand is a misnomer.

Gothic Romance: In 18th and 19th century Europe, Romanticism was an artistic movement in opposition to the ‘Classicism’ of science and reason, drawing on supernatural and mythological imagery. Leading Romantic philosophers and writers include Rousseau, Goethe, Blake, Keats et al. This movement led to the Gothic novel. The first acknowledged gothic fantasy is The Castle of Ortranto by Horace Walpole; other Gothic authors include Ann Radcliffe, Matthew Lewis and William Beckford; the two best examples are Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin and Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Gothic elements can be found in novels by Charlotte and Emily Bronte, Charles Dickens, Daphne Du Maurier, Mervyn Peake and Tanith Lee.

Horror: Horror comes directly from the Gothic Romance of Edgar Allan Poe’s tales, R.L. Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde and Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Some horror relies on supernatural elements, which are more fantastic, whilst other texts are humanistic, in that the violence and mystery can be explained rationally. The master of modern horror is of course H.P. Lovecraft who along with Clarke Ashton Smith wrote some of the classics of supernatural or ‘dark fantasy’. Not to be forgotten are Arthur Machen, Sheriden Le Fanu, Guy de Maupassant as well as contemporary best-selling authors such as Stephen King and Clive Barker.

Science Fiction: As a genre of fantasy, sf typically employs themes of space travel and technology in a futuristic setting. The term ‘hard sf’ signifies a form of explicit scientific realism. Established by H.G. Wells and Jules Verne, sf famously went through a ‘golden age’, through the years of Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke, to the ‘New Wave’ instigated by Moorcock, which was more concerned with ‘inner space’ and psychology, thus opening up the limited boundaries of sf. Cyberpunk is the latest and most important recent subgenre. Utopian fantasies and alternate realities are also often considered sf. ‘Science fantasy’ is a confusing term that Judith Merril suggested to show that sf is an aspect of fantasy.

Magic Realism: Related to surrealism, magic realism interprets reality through dream imagery and abstract symbolism and the term was quite specifically linked with Latin American writers such as Jorge Luis Borges and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Borges tends to employ intertextual references and create labyrinthine versions of reality. The term can also apply to writers such as Angela Carter and Salman Rushdie who play postmodern games with their readers.

Fabulation: Writers of fabulation tend to break generic boundaries and their mainstream books use fantasy to subvert reality – e.g. Anthony Burgess, William Burroughs, Ital Calvino, Umberto Eco, Franz Kafka and Michael Moorcock. Robert Scholes came up with ‘structural fabulation’ in an attempt to embrace novelists such as William Golding and Doris Lessing who write mainstream and fantasy novels.

Slipstream: A term devised by Bruce Stirling to categorise postmodern writers who react against reality without their books being explicitly fantasy or sf, such as Peter Ackroyd and J.G. Ballard. As the name suggests, slipstream is a reaction to and divergence from the mainstream. Some authors have stories grounded in a recognisable world but are not limited by the strictures of ‘realism’. Slipstream reminds us that reality is not simple, logical or only materialistic, but also consists of dreams, memories, creativity, emotions and spiritual reality.

Clearly, some fantasy just cannot be pigeon-holed, nor should it have to be. This is not the fault of the text, but merely points to the fact that the system of labelling and structuring literature is too limited and narrow. Fantasy continues to subvert not only existing genres and forms, but also subverts the very process of understanding and analysis, showing up literary theory as a futile and finite gesture of those obsessed with categories and labels. However, some labels are useful as a language for reference, but the critical vocabulary needs to widen further.

Fantasy should not be sidelined as the poor relation of realism; something that has to be explained. Fantasy is a potent and enriching resource that is available to any writer who wants to extend the imagination of their readers, explore our world more fully, and to challenge, subvert, shock, amaze and inspire.