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.

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

]]> http://jeffgardiner.wordpress.com/2011/12/14/jeff-gardiner-author-interview/feed/ 0 jeffgardiner jeff bw img005 http://jeffgardiner.wordpress.com/2011/11/05/suspension-of-disbelief/ http://jeffgardiner.wordpress.com/2011/11/05/suspension-of-disbelief/#comments Sat, 05 Nov 2011 14:55:09 +0000 jeffgardiner http://jeffgardiner.wordpress.com/?p=59 Continue reading →]]> 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”.

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 …’ )

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.

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.

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.

John Clute in his Encyclopedia of Fantasy (1997) begins with Brian Attebery’s vague concept of fantasy as a ‘fuzzy set’ where clear boundaries do not exist and where the best
definition is derived from exploring significant texts. Beyond this however,
Clute does contrive a most helpful definition: ‘a fantasy text is a self-coherent narrative which, when set in our reality, tells a story which is
impossible in the world as we perceive it; when set in an otherworld or secondary
world, that otherworld will be impossible, but stories set there will be
possible in that otherworld’s terms’. He also provides some more specific
definitions of sub-genres of fantasy, including Dark Fantasy, Heroic Fantasy,
Recursive Fantasy, Science Fantasy and Urban Fantasy, which demand further
exploration. The encyclopedia is a useful tool for the fantasy critic and may
well become the definitive reference book for the fantasy reader and scholar,
but what is missing is the depth of research into the critical theory of
fantasy.

Origins

Fantasy is the oldest form of storytelling and generations have relied
on legends, myths and fables as part of their cultural heritage and system of
socialization. Fantasy begins in the primeval depths of man’s mind creating
superstition about world and divine power. Ancient myths and religious belief
systems have created pantheons of gods, demons, heroes and monsters to
symbolise the origins of creation and explain the workings of the universe; to
personify good and evil; to help moralise and legitimise law and order, and
therefore power and punishment. Sir James Frazer in his study of magic and
ritual, The Golden Bough (1890), reminds us of the importance of
mythology and rituals, warning us not to dismiss them as primitive and
irrelevant. ‘To stigmatise these premises as ridiculous because we can easily
detect their falseness, would be ungrateful as well as unphilosophical’. The
same warning is pertinent to those who reject fantasy literature.

The psychiatrist, C.G. Jung believed that ‘primordial experiences rend
from top to bottom the curtain upon which is painted the picture of an ordered
world and allow a glimpse into the unfathomable abyss’. Fantasy allows us to
enter the spiritual realm of the ‘collective consciousness’ of humanity that
helps us to find our own individual identity and Jung applied psychological
models to fairy tales and romantic texts in his book, Modern Man In Search
of a Soul (1933). The process Jung called ‘individuation’, of becoming
whole or enlightened, demands a symbolism of transcendence. We need to reclaim
the mythologies as represented by the ancient poets and modern fantasists in
order to gain a greater personal and spiritual hold on our own realities. Continuing
Jung’s theory, Michael Moorcock  explains how fabulous romance subconsciously symbolizes the inner landscape of the mind; ‘When we read a good fantasy we are being admitted into the subterranean worlds of our own souls’.

The hero-warrior, such as Hercules or Cuchulain, is an archetype which
exists in all cultures and Jung developed the idea by suggesting that ‘the
God-image does not coincide with the unconscious as such, but with a special
content of it, namely the archetype of the self’. Archetypes help us to create
symbols to express our deepest fears and emotions. Through these archetypes
fantasy forces us to confront those parts of our life that are inexplicable and
deeply personal. These stories have become an important part of our
understanding of self and society.

Medieval romantic poetry, such as the legend of St. Brendan from the tenth century and
the chivalric poems of the sixteenth century, like Palmerin of England, follow
these mythical patterns. Whilst the heroic epic represents tribal warfare, the
romance is concerned with quest and the mystery of the supernatural, employing
visionary themes, metaphysical imagery and baroque language. Since then fantasy
has been developed by literary movements and forms such as Gothic Romance,
Decadence, surrealism, horror, sf and postmodernism. These texts testify that
fears, hopes and dreams are best expressed through fantasy. Some of the
greatest novels written today are fantastic literature without much of the
general public or academic world realising.

Fantasy Theory

In literary theory, the fantastic is usually discussed as a contrast to the seemingly preferred realistic or mimetic literature. Tzvetan Todorov in his ground-breaking study, The Fantastic (1975), gives a structuralist analysis of stories by Edgar Allan Poe and E.T.A.
Hoffman. In summary he concludes: ‘the fantastic is based essentially on the
hesitation of the reader’ referring to a tension that exists between what is
real and not real and the purest example he offers of fantastic uncertainty is
Henry James’ ambiguous narrative The Turn of the Screw.

Todorov naively suggests that ‘psychoanalysis has replaced (and thereby has made useless) the literature of the fantastic’ as if people no longer rely on supernatural explanations (the
marvellous) because science gives us rational answers (the uncanny). This is
only because his definition of fantastic literature is so limited.  The problem with Todorov’s study is that he is not interested in textual interpretation, only in formalist criticism and the difficulty occurs because a classical discipline is used to analyse
romanticism. The wrong language is being applied.

In her book Fantasy: the Literature of Subversion (1981), Rosemary Jackson develops a cultural and psychological investigation into gothic romance and texts by Dickens, Tolkien, Kafka and Pynchon. She develops Todorov’s scheme by arguing that the fantastic
is not a genre at all, but ‘a mode, which then assumes different generic
forms’. In fact, fantasy subverts or breaks conventions by constantly reinventing
itself and by tackling taboo themes and issues. It is a dangerous and powerful
form of literature.

She argues that ‘Fantasy recombines and inverts the real, but it does
not escape it: it exists in a parasitical or symbiotic relation to the real’.
In this sense all literature has an element of both realism and fantasy, which
makes the term ‘fantastic realism’ a useful one. The symbiotic relationship
between fantasy and reality is the key to appreciating the importance of
fantasy as a mode, which interrogates the important human activities of
imagination and desire.

Jackson manages to widen the fantastic canon so as to include such notables as the Brontes, Hardy, Conrad, Flaubert and Eliot – mainstream novelists also employing non-realistic modes. Jackson argues that ‘Fantasy has not disappeared, as Todorov’s theory would claim, but it has assumed different forms’. The nature of fantasy is such that as soon as one scholar creates a definition or identifies rules, then they are bound to be subverted.

Kathryn Hume, in Fantasy and Mimesis (1984), takes the debate
further by insisting that fantasy is not a genre or even a mode. ‘It is truer
to literary practice to admit that fantasy is not a separate or indeed a
separable strain, but rather an impulse as significant as the mimetic impulse,
and to recognize that both are involved in the creation of most literature’.
She also states that ‘it is the fantastic elements which allow literature to
convey most of its varied sense of meaning’.

The dismissal of fantasy says more about the society and culture than about the
merits of individual fantasy texts and Hume goes back to classical philosophy
to uncover the origins of this suspicion towards fantasy. ‘Plato and Aristotle
between them tore a large and ragged hole in western consciousness. Ever since
their day, our critical perceptions have been marred by this blind spot, and
our views of literature curiously distorted. To both philosophers, literature
was mimetic, and they analyzed only its mimetic components’.

Hume’s thesis is a well-argued and timely call for a paradigm shift in
critical theory. Our postmodern world no longer depends on solely rational
thought, because the metanarratives have been deconstructed and science does
not provide all the answers. As Hume concludes – ‘The rediscovery of fantasy
should be a cause for optimism, and good reason to alter our critical
vocabulary’. Realism has failed to represent the whole of reality in its widest
sense and critical theory has also failed to explain the fantastic, so new
terms of reference are required.

Lucie Armitt, in Theorising the Fantastic (1996), suggests that fantasy is an
elusive and intangible paradox ‘beyond our grasp and beyond articulation, but
it continues to proffer glimpses of an enticing and forbidding unknown of which
we could otherwise only dream’. This remains an evocative definition. Armitt employs Freudian and feminist readings in her interpretation of fairy tales, gothic horror, nonsense and science fiction. Armitt demonstrates how fantasy is a powerful resource
available to every writer. ‘Now we can look at the fantastic as a form of
writing which is about opening up subversive spaces within the mainstream
rather than ghettoizing fantasy by encasing it within genres’

Structuralism, as a literary perspective, fails to enable readers to
understand a text, Armitt argues, because it is so often ‘Obsessed with
classifying’ leaving a text as an empty piece of data. This leaves fantasy
literature and literary theory in a dialectical tension. Armitt is paraphrasing
other critics when she writes, ‘If … fantasy is at its most subversive when
located on the margins of the canon, then surely there is much to be said for
it being likewise located on the margins of theory’.

Fantasy’s marginalisation has much to do with the Enlightenment notion
that art was separate from reason or that artistic expression is not concerned
with ‘reality’. This is a dangerous premise that belittles the power of the
symbol and of artistic imagination. Literary theory fails fantasy because
fantasy transcends reason and explicit meaning, so that scientific tools of
enquiry are inappropriate.

More explicitly, author J.G. Ballard expresses antipathy for all
literary theory. He believes ‘all schools of “English literature” should be
closed … fiction is meant to provoke, exhilarate, entertain, inform, amuse
and scandalise – not to be poked and prodded like a cadaver on an autopsy
table’. Ballard suggests that the danger of theory is that the theory becomes
more important than the text being studied: ‘the trouble with literary
criticism is that it tends to turn into a self-serving ideology, constantly
concerned to purify itself. Leavis’ notion that the novel is a moral criticism
of life being complete bunk – the imagination, thank God, transcends morality’.

The mistake made is in attempting to impose our own order upon fantasy,
thus rewriting the text. As readers, we could take the less comfortable option
of peering into the inchoate darkness to discover something far richer than our
impotent, material existence. Fantasy involves the reader, as long as they have
not lost their imaginations and the ability to dream.

Whether we call it romance, fable, the grotesque, non­-realism, fabulation, metafiction, postmodernism or slipstream, fantasy is not so much a genre or a mode, but it is a protean
element: a resource or tool that exists for any writer to use to add depth,
colour, richness, imagination and a greater sense of reality to their art. We
should celebrate the existence of fantasy in our lives and in our arts.

‘Fantasy is not a lower but a higher form of art, indeed the most nearly pure form, and so (when achieved) the most potent.’

J.R.R. Tolkien

The ancient Greeks came to consider mythos as inferior to logos, but why should fantasy be deemed inferior to the rational word? Give me the myths any time over Plato’s dull republic, which allows no place for the artist, being too obsessed with order and stifling control. Latin writer Ovid (43 B.C. – A.D. 17) wrote Metamorphoses at the same time as the birth of Christ, and it contains the best-loved versions of the Classical myths, retelling Greek, Latin and Babylonian folklore and legends. He gives an account of creation and a flood, then after the golden age of Saturn, his son Jupiter (also known as Zeus or Jove) and Juno (Hera) become king and queen of Mount Olympus, standing alongside the pantheon of Phoebus (Apollo), Diana (Artemis), Venus (Aphrodite), Neptune (Poseidon), Mars (Ares) et al. It is Prometheus the titan who creates humans from dust, prompting the volatile relationship between the supernatural and human worlds. This begins Ovid’s epic retelling of tales about gods, demi-gods, heroes, nymphs, love, murders, journeys to the underworld, tragedies, and of course, metamorphoses. Alongside Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Virgil’s Aeneid and the Greek tragedies of Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus, Ovid has helped us to keep alive some of the most exciting and fantastical stories the world has ever created.

Myths offer us an overview of our complex world and provide us with symbolism and imagery on which to base our philosophical, religious and psychological understanding of the world around us. The seasons are explained by the abduction of Proserpina; evil enters the world via Pandora’s box; Phaeton burns the world by bringing the sun too close to the earth, thus creating deserts. Some of our language and words come directly from the myths, such as ‘lycanthropy’ from Lycaon who was turned into a wolf; ‘cygnet’ from Cygnus, who became a swan; Arachne transforms into a spider, giving us ‘arachnid’ and hence ‘arachnophobia’; and we all have an Achilles heel. Some of the tales have become overly familiar, such as the golden touch of King Midas, the twelve labours of Hercules, the fall of Icarus and the legend of the wooden Trojan horse. Shakespeare has ruined the elegiac romance of Pyramus and Thisbe, whilst the stories of Jason and Perseus have been made into epic, if not wholly successful, films.

What is striking about the Greek and Roman myths is the horrific and tragic violence that abounds between men and gods. The gods are not role models or loving deities, but have human emotions and jealousies, often engaging in petty squabbles or falling guilty of hubris themselves. Zeus takes the shape of a swan and rapes Leda; Jove rapes Callisto, a beautiful nymph, and rather than jealously avenging her husband, Juno punishes poor Callisto by turning her into a bear who is then killed by her own son. Likewise, Actaeon happens to see Diana bathing naked and for his trouble is turned into a stag and ripped apart by his own hunting hounds. Niobe makes the fatal, but seemingly common, error of not worshipping a god when ordered to do so. Her pride leads to the death of all her fourteen children before she is turned into a weeping statue. Prometheus is tortured for stealing fire from heaven – an eagle rips his guts out every day and it is constantly mended – for thirty years.

On the other hand, love is also a prominent theme, as something for which people are even willing to die. Echo wastes away in misery, heartbroken at her rejection by Narcissus, who falls in love with himself. Venus mourns for the death of Adonis, whilst Cupid and Psyche eventually marry in triumph over adversity. Pygmalion falls in love with the statue he has created of the perfect woman; the Trojan War occurs because Helen of Troy is abducted by Paris; Salmacis out of lustful obsession, refuses to let go of Hermaphroditus causing them to be joined as one one new creature who is both male and female. The haunting story of Orpheus tells of his misery when Eurydice dies on their wedding night. He visits her in the underworld and makes the mistake of turning round once more to look at her. For doing so he is silenced and cannot play his beloved lyre. Classic mythology contains some of the most beautiful romances, but also some of the most terrifying horrors.

Two of the most disturbing stories are those of Myrrha and Tereus. Myrrha is sexually attracted to her own father and she manages to seduce him and trick him into bed. This tale goes one step further than Oedipus who only unwittingly married his own mother. Tereus, however, was greedy. Obsessed with his own sister-in-law, he kidnaps her, rapes her and keeps her prisoner, cutting out her tongue to stop her telling anyone. His wife, Procne, finds out and coldly gets revenge on him by killing their own son and feeding him to Tereus. She also, rather unnecessarily, brings out the son’s head as proof. This is reminiscent of Medea who discovers her husband, Jason, is to marry another woman so she kills the bride to be with a poisoned robe and murders her own sons before escaping in a dragon-drawn chariot. Many of the tales are the most gruesome and violent you will ever read, and some people think horror is a modern phenomenon!

Classical mythology has provided a fertile nutrient tank for fantasy writers. Not mentioned here are Pan, Atlas, Medusa, Pegasus, Nemesis, Bacchus, the minotaur, cyclops, satyrs and centaurs. But of course, the Greeks and Romans do not have a hold on mythology. Every society collects and develops its own system of folklore and legends, often connected with its religious beliefs. Notable myths and legends can also be found in Egyptian, Hindu, Celtic, Norse, African tribal, American Indian, Aboriginal and Polynesian cultures.

•  In the Egyptian legend, Isis pieces together the dismembered and scattered pieces of Osiris’ body and with embalming fluid, brings him back to life.
• Hindu god Brahma has four faces, Shiva has four arms and three eyes, and Devi is the Great Mother Goddess. Vishnu is incarnated as Krishna.
• Celtic warrior Cuchulain had superhuman powers, able to make one eye disappear whilst the other grew terrifyingly large. Finn still sleeps, ready to fight for Ireland. Arthurian tales developed from the Celtic traditions.
• Norse gods Odin, Thor, Frigg and Loki battle it out in Valhalla until Ragnarok. Creatures such as elves, dwarves and giants appear in epic poems.      
• Beowulf was a Viking hero who defeated monsters and dragons.
• In Nigeria, the Ibo people believe the largest yam in a crop embodies the spirit of the King Yam and it is blessed with fresh blood. This is typical of African totemic religions. Much misunderstood is Voodoo with its worship of spirits. Wise god of death, Baron Samedi guards the eternal crossroads in his top hat.
• For North American Algonquin Indians the Manitou is a name for the Great Spirit. The shaman uses trance to exorcise spirits or give wisdom.
• Australian Aborigines believe that their ancestors went ‘walkabout’ in ‘Dreamtime’, creating all things, and each clan is named after its spirit animal.
• Maoris believe that Rangi the sky god so loved Papa the earth goddess that they would not let go of each other. When they finally did, light came into the world, but they still weep to be parted thus explaining the dew and the mists.

 The symbolism of fantasy has become closely linked with the subconscious since Freud declared that the content of dreams relates directly to the psyche. Carl Jung, however, believed that the images of myths, such as those of The Arabian Nights and Faust, allow the individual to enter the primitive realm of the collective consciousness. Archetypes are presented in these texts, which relate to those existing in the human collective consciousness that help us to create symbols to express our deepest fears and desires. These archetypes include familiar characters such as the hero, wise woman, shadow, innocent child and tempter. In this way fantasy and myth help us to identify different parts of our own reality. Jung called fantasy texts ‘visionary’ and described their creation and subject as, “a primordial experience which surpasses man’s understanding”.

The process Jung calls ‘individuation’, of becoming whole or enlightened, demands a literature of transcendence, and symbolism of the archetypes serves an essential function in helping us to understand ourselves. We need to reclaim the primordial or archaic mythologies as represented by the ancient poets and by modern fantasists in order to gain a greater personal and spiritual hold on our own realities.

Fantastic elements in literature are frequently allusions to, or themes directly purloined from the world’s oldest legends. Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales includes stories about the Knights of the Round Table, animal fables, fairy tales and romantic songs. John Keats wrote poems about the sun god ‘Hyperion’ and of ‘Endymion’ who slept forever in a cave, whilst W.B. Yeats famously retold the legends of the Celtic Twilight. Thorne Smith in 1931 pre-empted Terry Pratchett with his hilarious satire on the classical pantheon, The Night Life of the Gods. Poul Anderson and J.R.R. Tolkien have adapted Norse and Teutonic legends in their fantasies. Henry Treece rewrote many myths as adventure stories in the 1950s, whilst Michael Moorcock has also employed various Celtic and Arthurian mythologies to his own advantage. More recently China Mieville used the Pied-Piper of Hamlyn and the Caribbean spider god Anansi in King Rat (1998), just as Neil Gaiman writes of Odin, Thoth, Anubis and others in American Gods (2001).

Many great writers continue to narrate stories with a mythical power, including venerated authors such as William Golding, Jorge Luis Borges, Angela Carter and John Barth. Contemporary fantasists have developed mythology into urban legends, thus creating new myths and stories for our cultures. Herman Hesse succinctly expressed the important function of fantasy in the following aphorism: “Like art and poetry, the religions and myths are an attempt on the part of mankind to express in images the ineffable”. And long may fantasy continue to pursue this exciting, vital and challenging task.

Some rock bands show obvious literary influences and there is a good deal of intertextuality between the two arts. Both Steely Dan and Soft Machine took their names from William Burroughs; Marillion from Tolkein; whilst bands like Iron Maiden have been inspired by such luminaries as Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Aldous Huxley. Heavy Metal is perhaps more akin to horror, owing something to Aleister Crowley, H. P. Lovecraft and Hammer Horror.

I particularly want to explore Progressive Rock, which continues to provide some of the most fantastical as well as intelligent ideas in music today. Progressive Rock is a particular sub-genre that explores moods, emotions, textures and themes with a more cultured and experimental style. Many Prog Rock bands, such as Hawkwind, Genesis and Yes released concept albums in the 1970s that explore fantasy and mythical realms to show the psychological or spiritual responses to heightened emotional experiences or altered states of consciousness. Hawkwind and Yes are still going strongly to this day.

Hawkwind
Psychedelic band Hawkwind explore science fiction themes which appeal to their drug fuelled trips into ‘inner space’. Michael Moorcock has famously written for and performed with the space rock hippies, but Hawkwind’s other writer in residence was Robert Calvert, sf poet and novelist who also contributed to 60s underground magazine, ‘Frendz’. Calvert has developed something of a cult following and his writing is of an imaginative and literary quality with its unique blend of metaphor, wordplay and surrealism. Calvert’s lyrics for ‘Spirit of the Age’ (1977) demonstrate his irony and wit:

I would’ve liked you to have been deep frozen too
And waiting still as fresh in your flesh for my return to earth
But your father refused to sign the forms to freeze you…
Your android replica is playing up again, but it’s no joke
When she comes she moans another’s name.

In a different tone, ‘Damnation Alley’ (1977) is based on the Roger Zelazny post-nuclear holocaust novel of the same name and is written using extremely effective rhyme and rhythm that reflects the urgent mood of escape.

Ride the post-atomic radioactive trash
The sky’s on fire from that nuclear flash
Diving through the burning hoop of doom
In an eight wheeled anti-radiation tomb.

His use of metaphor is always vivid and original, for example, in ‘High Rise’ (1977), the skyscraper is described as ‘A flypaper stuck with human life’ and when someone is pushed from a window his body on the pavement becomes a ‘Starfish of human blood shape / Tentacles of human gore’.

Calvert’s most psychedelic lyrics are contained in the song ‘Steppenwolf’ (1976), inspired by Herman Hesse’s masterly novel about madness and altered states of mind and Calvert evokes a strange mood of melancholy and paranoia through his use of certain abstract images to reflect the changing emotions of the despairing voice of the narrator. Note also the subtle use of alliteration.

The moons are howling mouth of mercury
Quicksilver quivering in the sky
It echoes like a cave of chromium
They’ll vacuum up my soul when I die.

In the same song and typical of Calvert’s style, he chooses precise vocabulary to metaphorically describe the eyes of the man-wolf: ‘My eyes are convex lenses of ebony / Embedded in amber’.

Calvert was an artist using words to paint his portraits of urban and futuristic fantasy and his death in 1988 was tragic and untimely. He certainly was visionary but whether this was inspired by genius or acid is left purely to conjecture.

Genesis
Not many rock bands work with known writers, but there are certainly lyricists within rock bands whose poetry is of a great literary quality. One of those is the erudite Peter Gabriel who fronted the classic line up of Genesis. Nursery Cryme (1971) utilises influences from nursery rhymes, Greek mythology and traditional English culture; the front cover of the album is a grotesque parody of Alice in Wonderland. The track ‘Musical Box’ is about the ghost of a decapitated boy who falls in love with his murderer leading to the discovery of sexuality. The lyrics move from ‘Old King Cole’ to ‘Brush back through your hair and let me get to know your flesh’. This sense of lost childhood innocence and the realisation that the adult world is a frightening place is most clearly shown in the lines:

And the nurse will tell you lies
Of a kingdom beyond the skies
But I am lost within this half-world…

The final track, ‘The Fountain of Salmacis’ is a retelling of the Greek myth of Hermaphroditus, which can be found in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. A water nymph, Salmacis, falls in love with Hermaphroditus, the love-child of Hermes and Aphrodite, who, unfortunately, rejects her advances. Not to be put off the nymph embraces him, refusing to let go and calls on the gods to unite them forever. According to the Genesis song:

Unearthly calm descended from the sky
And then their flesh and bones were strangely merged
Forever to be joined as one.

The song is worthy of the myth and it highlights themes of sexuality and gender.
‘The Battle of Epping Forest’ from Selling England by the Pound (1973) is a typical Peter Gabriel lyric with its puns and daft characters putting it in the tradition of nonsense poetry or absurd comedy. The song describes certain characters involved in a gang fight and includes lots of witty word-play and neologisms, including the ‘thumpire’, ‘robbing hood’, ‘a karmachanic with overall charms’

However, Gabriel’s magnum opus is, without a doubt, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (1974). This is a double concept album about the individual human psyche. The style is that of a postmodern, surreal urban fantasy that owes something to Mervyn Peake. It covers a psychological landscape with Freudian imagery of fears, dreams, castration and plenty of sexual symbolism such as caves, secret passages, cocoons and lakes. The narrative also contains a number of Jungian archetypes like Lilith, the demon woman who disturbs men at night, and the Lamia, serpent-like sirens who seduce people only to devour them.

The story is hard to follow, but it tells of Rael (an anagram of ‘real’), who, after a strange vision, wakes up in a womb-like cocoon in a cave leading to the majestic song ‘In the Cage’. This extended track begins with a lullaby, ‘And I can’t keep me from creeping sleep/ Sleep deep in the deep’ but is quickly disturbed by the sensation of ‘drowning in a liquid fear’. In the cave stalagmites and stalactites become the bars of a cage, leading to a further vision of people trapped in their lives left only with their memories. Mention of ‘strap’ and ‘strait-jacket’ makes you realise that Rael is perhaps a patient in a psychiatric ward:

When they got me by the neck and feet
Pressure’s building, can’t take more,
My headaches charge. My earaches roar.

The chorus changes to ‘Get me out of this pain’ and there is a conscious ambiguity between what is memory and hallucination. This is a classic fantasy technique.
This is just the beginning of Rael’s quest to find his brother who turns out to be his own doppelganger. In this way, the album is about discovering your identity through confronting your own fears, yourself and ultimately, death. Western materialist culture ultimately creates people on an endless conveyor belt and life is just a matter of ‘counting out time’. After being led by Lilith to meet Death, also known as ‘the supernatural anaesthetist’ he is seduced by the Lamia, and when he finally meets his brother, John, they realise how disfigured they have become. The only answer, apparently, is castration – to lose his sexual urges – but Rael’s dismembered penis is stolen by a Raven. Pursuing it, they are swept away by rapids before Rael discovers the surprising identity of his brother. It is here that the narrative comes to a mysterious end. Gabriel then leaves the ambiguity to us with the enigmatic ‘It’ in which it is left to us to decide what exactly ‘it’ is, and in case we have taken it too seriously then we are told ‘it’s only knock and knowall but I like it’. Maybe like life itself, it’s all just an absurd joke.

Yes
The lyrics to Yes songs are usually labelled pretentious, but like the band’s name they are always optimistic and uplifting. Sense becomes shrouded and ambivalent and words are chosen as much for their sound as their meaning thus creating a surreal soundscape where mood and tone is as important as the subject matter, like an abstract painting. Jon Anderson considers the voice and the musicality of words to be his solo instrument.
However esoteric Anderson’s poetry may be, there is certainly artistry and insight behind them. His vocabulary and lyrical style is certainly softer and more feminine than most rock lyricists, as he tends to capture moments of enlightenment and passion to express his spiritual vision of unity with nature.

The double concept album, Tales of Topographic Oceans (1973), inspired by ancient Hindu scriptures begins with a myth of epic proportions, ‘The Revealing Science of God’, which deals with the creation of the world, light, knowledge and most importantly the ‘Dawn of love’. The lyrics examine the meaning of mortality but the answer is ambiguous and inexpressible, however we are reminded that there is ‘freedom in life everlasting’. On the other hand, mankind has misused knowledge, as selfishly we ‘rape the forest’ and conduct ‘wars we do not mean’ leaving the question ‘What happened to this song we once knew so well?’ We were once, long ago, in tune with the music and dance of nature and need to listen to it once more to discover our true identity as part of creation. ‘The Remembering’ creates a gentle, inviting atmosphere, encouraging us to lie back and recall our own past – to ‘Stand on hills of long forgotten yesterdays’. This is our chance to escape our busy lives and to dream.

The third part, ‘The Ancient’ is the most avant-garde and trippy of the four passages. Here we are cast back beyond our own memories into pre-history where ancient civilizations like the Incas, Atlantis and Mayas worship creation symbolised by the sun – the giver of life. The final track, ‘Ritual,’ is a love song.

Lay upon me, hold me around lasting hours
We love when we play.

It is through genuine expressions of love that we return to innocence and joy: when we realise that we are a part of creation itself.

‘Awaken’ from Going For the One (1977) is Anderson’s favourite Yes track and it is a towering, passionate 18 minute symphony that soars to a crescendo in homage to the ‘Master of Light / Soul / Time’. ‘Awaken’ follows the transcendence of mortals:

Wish the sun to stand still
Reaching out to touch our own being…

But true redemption and fulfilment is realised in personal and intimate terms.

Like the time I ran away
And turned around
And you were standing close to me.

Either the creator has come to us, or meaning is to be found through loving relationships here and now in our ordinary lives.

The lyrics are difficult and arcane but this does not render them meaningless, rather, it adds potency in that their truths are hidden, demanding a more active and creative listener. The themes of Anderson’s lyrics are not fashionably rebellious, but they do contain some real truths worthy of investigation and perhaps our modern world is in great need of spiritual enlightenment. However pretentious Jon Anderson’s lyrics are, in the end his dominant theme is that of the life-affirming power of love; not just a sexual love but one that is fulfilling to body, mind and soul.

Other bands such as Pink Floyd, Rush, Marillion, Dream Theatre and Symphony X have also produced concept albums that have used fantasy elements and woven a further literary thread into the world of rock. In the song ‘Fugazi’ (1984), Fish from Marillion asks the poignant question, ‘Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries, where are the poets?’ and the answer is that today’s visionary poets are to be found in the world of rock music – one of the few arts today that truly inspires millions of people.