Worlds So Strange and Diverse: Towards a Genological Taxonomy of Non-mimetic Literature 1443875260, 9781443875264

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Worlds So Strange and Diverse

Worlds So Strange and Diverse Towards a Genological Taxonomy of Non-mimetic Literature By

Grzegorz Trębicki

Worlds So Strange and Diverse: Towards a Genological Taxonomy of Non-mimetic Literature By Grzegorz Trębicki Readers: Brian Attebery, Terri Doughty and Jadwiga Węgrodzka This book first published 2015 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2015 by Grzegorz Trębicki All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-7181-8 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-7181-5

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Part I Chapter One ............................................................................................... 12 The Great Taxonomical Confusion 1. Popular, Literary-Critical and Genological Discourses 2. The Fantastic and Fantasy Literature Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 27 Taxonomies of Non-mimetic Literature 1. A Multitude of Approaches 2. Popular Notions and Taxonomies 3. Thematic Classifications of Non-mimetic Literature 4. Literary-Critical and Theoretical Taxonomies of Non-Mimetic Literature Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 56 Towards a Genological Taxonomy of Non-mimetic Literature: Supragenological Types of Fiction Part II Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 70 Contemporary Exomimetic Fiction 1. The Exomimetic Mode 2. Science Fiction vs. Secondary World Fantasy: Sister Exomimetic Genres 3. Science Fantasy – Towards New Forms of Exomimetic Literature 4. Dystopia, Cyberpunk and Beyond

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Table of Contents

Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 111 Contemporary Antimimetic Fiction 1. The Antimimetic Mode 2. The Contemporary Magical Novel and Beyond 3. Multi-universes Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 135 Contemporary Fantastic Fiction 1. The Fantastic Mode 2. Contemporary Horror Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 151 Contemporary Paramimetic Fiction Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 155 Metaconventional Non-mimetic Fiction Conclusions ............................................................................................. 163 Appendix ................................................................................................. 168 Genological Categories of Contemporary Non-mimetic Literature Bibliography ............................................................................................ 185 Index ........................................................................................................ 207

INTRODUCTION1

Contemporary non-mimetic or, in other words, so-called “fantastic” literature (or simply fantasy)2 is an extremely popular phenomenon of crucial literary and extra-literary import. Long gone are the times when the literature in question was regarded as a subject at best frivolous and at worst derisory and unsuitable for serious scholarly research. On the contrary, it has become increasingly à la mode in academic circles. At the same time, however—in some respects, at least, and in some particular fields of research—the outcome is far from satisfactory. It seems that, 1

The main assumptions of the present study were originally presented in the article “Supragenological Types of Fiction vs. Contemporary Non-mimetic Literature”, Science Fiction Studies 41.3 (November 2014): 481-501. The study quotes or develops large parts of argumentation included therein. 2 I feel it absolutely necessary to emphasise at the very beginning of this study that there is a discrepancy between certain popular denominations that are traditionally used in the debate on non-mimetic literature, on the one hand (such as the extremely confusing words “fantasy” and “the fantastic”), and strictly genological terms specific for the methodology I am using, on the other hand. Although I obviously rely on the latter, occasional references to the former seem to be unavoidable, as they are deeply rooted in contemporary discourse. Thus, in order to pursue maximum clarity, I have decided to, at least in some cases, apply them in a parallel way to the terms that are specific to my approach, while at the same time trying to negotiate between both terminological sets. I have also attempted to refrain from any duplications, wherever possible, to avoid additional confusion. The main exceptions are “the fantastic” (used here as the denomination of a certain intra-textual operation described at length in Chapter Three) and “fantastic literature” (referring specifically to the supragenological type of fantastic fiction as opposed to other supragenological types, i.e. mimetic fiction, exomimetic fiction, paramimetic fiction, antimimetic fiction and metaconventional fiction, respectively). I have decided to retain them as they are inherent in Zgorzelski’s methodology, from which I draw on; it must be, however, noted that these are very different understandings of the terms in question than the most widespread commonsensical as well as literary-critical ones. On the other hand, the word “fantasy” will not be applied here as a literary-theoretical term at all (as it will be replaced by more specific terms such as “secondary world fantasy” or “contemporary magical novel”), and whenever it is used it will refer to a certain cultural or popular category.

2

Introduction

paradoxically, the great popularity of non-mimetic fiction is as much accompanied by a growing interest on the part of critics and scholars (and, consequently, a flood of various analyses and papers), as it is by rising terminological and cognitive confusion. This confusion is especially well pronounced in the sphere of taxonomical discussion. It is perhaps surprising that although “fantastic” or “non-mimetic” fiction has received so much critical attention in the last 40 years, relatively few comprehensive taxonomical proposals have been presented. As Farah Mendlesohn observes, “while there are many single author or single text studies in genre fantasy criticism, there is little comparative criticism beyond the study of metaphorical and thematic elements” (Rhetorics xiii). Most of the taxonomical debate that has ensued so far either relied on strictly cultural or civilisational3 rather than literarytheoretical notions, sometimes accepted, perhaps a bit indiscriminately, in the world of literary criticism, or critical concepts which came into being, in a way, as a by-product of the ongoing discussion on the meaning and significance of such denominations as “fantasy” or “the fantastic”. Very few researchers have revealed taxonomical interest per se, still fewer taxonomical attempts encompass the whole body of “non-realistic”4 literature. 3

Whenever I speak about the “cultural” or “civilisational” perspective within the present study I refer to the status of literary texts as certain social, cultural and civilisational documents rather than simply to their existence as works of art (literature). Since I focus almost entirely on the latter in the present study, my position might be probably described as largely “essentialist” or “substantialist” (see Gruszewska-Blaim and Blaim 7; Zgorzelski, “Literary Texts, Cultural Texts” 11-15). In other words, I emphasise the necessity of the distinction between the discussion of a literary text as a work of art (the proper subject of the study of literature in its narrower meaning as applied within this work) and the research of a literary text as a document of cultural relevance (and thus belonging, at least partly, to the sphere of more broadly defined cultural studies—a position that is much more popular in the contemporary world of interdisciplinary research and is represented, for example, by such notable academic critics as Rosemary Jackson or Marek Oziewicz, as mentioned in Chapter One). 4 I am purposely putting the word “non-realistic” in inverted commas here and in other places (the same obviously applies to the word “realistic”) to emphasise that I only refer to their popular usage in common speech, but that I do not perceive them as proper literary-theoretical terms. As Robert Scholes states: “It is because reality cannot be recorded that realism is dead. All writing, all composition, is construction. We do not imitate the world, we construct versions of it. There is no mimesis, only poiesis. No recording. Only constructing” (“The Fictional Criticism” 7). Also, Andrzej Zgorzelski, when giving his arguments for the renouncement of the very notion of realism, remarks that it is based on an inadequate comparison between textual and empirical realities (see Chapter Two, note 6) “and so disagrees

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3

The existing proposals are often mutually incompatible as they represent diverse methodologies and approaches. There is, obviously, nothing wrong with this heterogeneity in itself, as it helps perceive literary phenomena from different angles. Problems arise, however, when particular approaches are not clearly defined or consistently maintained throughout the discussion, which is, unfortunately, sometimes the case. To make matters worse, the whole discourse is marked with tremendous terminological confusion as the same terms are used, one might argue, a bit carelessly when referring to different concepts or categories (vide the multitude of definitions of “the fantastic” or “fantasy”). The aim of this study is, however, neither to dismiss the indubitable achievements of existing criticism despite its occasional (and partly unavoidable) shortcomings or inconsistencies, nor to engage in polemics with particular holistic theories by executing an attempt to create another theory. My purpose is simply to look at contemporary non-mimetic literature in all its richness and diversity from one particular angle— focusing mainly on the precise description of diverse “fantastic” ways of creating fictional realities in relation to the “realistic” (or the mimetic) mode,5 and, subsequently, to initiate a taxonomical discussion based on this specific perception.6 This whole venture is also based on my deepest conviction that there is a need for a possibly comprehensive, descriptive rather than evaluative with the autonomous nature of literature, the interest itself in such a comparison suggesting subversively that one of the aims of literature is to inform about the surrounding reality” (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 12). 5 Due to the reasons stated in the previous note, I prefer to speak about the diverse mimetic vs. non-mimetic ways of constructing fictional realities rather than to refer directly to the “real” or “zero world” (understood as "empirically verifiable properties around the author"; see Suvin, “On the Poetics” 372 note 2; comp. Wolfe, Critical Terms 143) while describing particular “fantastic” genres. See the discussion in Chapter Three. 6 The present study is the final result of wide-ranging research on non-mimetic literature conducted over a span of several years. In the process several fragments of this research were published in the form of individual articles which, in turn, after necessary (and sometimes considerable) adaptations have been incorporated into the present work. The publications in question are: “Kulturowe taksonomie literatury niemimetycznej”, “Critical-Literary Taxonomies of Non-Mimetic Literature”, “The Fantastic and the Genological Research. Andrzej Zgorzelski’s Born of the Fantastic”, “Narratologiczna taksonomia fantasy: propozycje teoretyczno-literackie Farah Mendlesohn”, “Contemporary Metaconventional Nonmimetic Literature: Theoretical Preliminaries” and the already mentioned “Supragenological Types of Fiction vs. Contemporary Non-mimetic Literature”.

4

Introduction

taxonomy that will indiscriminately encompass the whole body of contemporary texts which might be initially described as “non-realistic” or “fantastic” or, within the methodology and terminology I am using, as “non-mimetic”. I also feel that many of the existing taxonomies, despite their cognitive merit, serve altogether slightly different purposes and, for various reasons that will be summarised in the following chapters, do not exhaustively complete the objectives I have set above. As has already been suggested, most of the serious research in the field has focused so far on approaching, from different methodological perspectives and in various cultural contexts, the extremely confusing denominations of “the fantastic” and “fantasy”, the latter being discussed, respectively, as a mode, a worldview, a cognitive strategy or a genre. What is worth noting is that many of the taxonomies that have been proposed make distinctions only within the more or less narrowly defined fantasy genre (or “super genre”, as it is sometimes referred to). They generally range from relatively simple, theme-based classifications, such as by Marshall B. Tymn, Kenneth Zahorski and Robert H. Boyer or Colin Manlove (Fantasy Literature of England), to more sophisticated, structuralist-inspired ones such as, by way of example, a recent study by Farah Mendlesohn who researches narrative patterns behind different types of fantasy fiction. Additionally, many interesting insights into mutual relationships between fantasy and mimetic fiction or fantasy and science fiction have also been provided. What appears, however, to be missing from the whole discussion are proposals concerning a more comprehensive overall referential pattern encompassing all possible types of non-mimetic fiction while more precisely describing each of them in relation to the mimetic mode. Another remarkable trait of the contemporary discourse on fantastic literature is that it has been considerably dominated by typically popular, cultural, social or civilisational perceptions. A good example of this phenomenon is the prevailing notion that divides all of non-mimetic or “fantastic” fiction into two principal genres of fantasy and science fiction (sometimes supplemented by the third genre—horror). This division, although obviously simplified and reflecting rather the reality of the publishing market than the genological order itself, is often taken for granted by critics and theorists of literature. The taxonomy that I venture to preliminarily sketch out in this book, as well as my whole methodological approach, has been described as “genological” in contradistinction to other approaches that I have qualified as “popular”, “cultural” or “literary-critical”. The term “genological” refers to the tradition of the Polish school of genology of literature in its

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structuralist variations, whose basic assumptions have been adopted for the needs of the present discussion. Thus, genology of literature is meant here as a systematic study of genres in a historical context. The vision of a literary genre applied in this work, in turn, is that of a historical-literary system, which is dynamic and evolving,7 relating to a particular set of texts which reveal similarity regarding several structural features, such as “their subject, the shaping of the narrator(s), the structuring of spatiotemporal setting, the relationships of characters and action, their language, etc.” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 37) as well as the literary conventions and traditions they employ and draw upon. It is worth noting that the above understanding of literary genre differs considerably from many popular applications of this concept. The term “genre” is most frequently used in contemporary discourse as, in fact, either a typically civilisational notion (for example, as a “marketing” label) or as a critical construct based on a particular set of filters that are applied by a given researcher in order to discuss a selected collection of texts. It is, in my opinion, absolutely essential to distinguish between popular, literary-critical, theoretical and—within this last category— strictly genological (as applied in this paper) understandings of the very term of “literary genre” itself. This distinction will obviously be parallelled by the creation of popular (civilisational), literary-critical or genological taxonomies, respectively. My principally structuralist methodology obviously has its own share of shortcomings and limitations. One might even reasonably enquire at this point whether such a strictly textual, in a manner of speaking, “technical” (and as one might suggest even “unimaginative”) approach that has been adopted in this work can bring any cognitive value into the discourse on non-mimetic literature? After all, it might be argued, something as amorphous and unregulated as contemporary fiction defies all rigid (or perhaps even relatively tentative) classifications. At this point let me once again quote Farah Mendlesohn, with whose statement I completely agree: Taxonomy … needs to be understood as a tool, not an end in itself, and it needs to be understood in the modern context that taxonomical practices are increasingly polysemic and multiplex, generated by acknowledged questions and capable of existence alongside other configurations. … The purpose of the book is not to offer a classification per se but to consider the genre in ways that open up new questions. (Rhetorics xv)

7

See, especially, the discussion in Ostaszewska and Cudak 26-28.

6

Introduction

Undoubtedly, new proposals for taxonomies are useful, if only to provide new ways of looking into the discussed material. Moreover, I strongly believe that the present discussion may contribute to a better understanding of this complex and multifaceted phenomenon which contemporary non-mimetic fiction is or, at least, to some extent it will summarise and systematise the current taxonomical debate. I plainly admit, however, that there are certain unavoidable limitations to the methodology I have adopted. This book, to quote Mendlesohn once more, is “about structure, not about meaning” (Rhetorics xvi). Contemporary, non-mimetic literature, be it science fiction or “fantasy”, is such a fascinating phenomenon for many readers and researchers because it functions in a specific way in our culture, and it brings a special cognitive value that is perhaps unattainable in conventional mimetic literature. Some of the most impressive and interesting criticism on the subject up to date has come into being as an attempt to explore the sources of this attractiveness and cognition. This study largely ignores the issue of the messages of non-mimetic literature as well as of its social and civilisational import. It primarily deals with literary conventions and operations, not with ideas and their significance; with literary genres as such, and not with what these genres tell us about the human condition. The methodology applied here seems, at first glance at least, mostly inadequate as a basic tool for various inter-disciplinary debates, or discussions of non-mimetic literature in a larger cultural context, which are of most interest nowadays to the majority of researchers and critics, and I realise that many of them may find this study uninspiring. On the other hand, it is quite reasonable to assume that particular literary operations, narrative strategies and modes of creating fictional universes, although described here in strictly structuralist, textual (rather than contextual) terms, at the same time reflect specific cultural impulses, diverse cognitive strategies and ideologies, or simply various ways of artistic dealing with reality.8 A deepened knowledge of the first can also 8 The two researchers that seem to be particularly focused on pursuing the relationship between the certain narrative structures they describe and the cultural impulses they reflect or the ideological messages they transfer are Jackson (see the discussion in Chapter Two, section 4) and Mendlesohn, who in the epilogue to her study expresses surprise about “the apparent rigidity of ideological apparatus that surround the forms [she] identify[ies]” (Rhetorics 273). This relationship is sometimes, however, overemphasised, especially at a strictly generic level. Thus, to mention just one case, secondary world fantasy as a genre is often associated with ideological conservatism, i.e. unquestioning acceptance of the narrator’s authoritative interpretation of the fictional reality or an

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help one approach the latter more precisely. Thus I do hope that the taxonomical proposals included in my discussion may prove a useful tool of reference also for scholars who are not primarily concerned with unwillingness to engage in the discussion of various social or psychological issues directly related to the contemporary empirical context (see, for example, Jackson 153-156, Mendlesohn, Rhetorics 2-58). While these observations might be true for typical epic fantasy works in the vein of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings or Stephen Donaldson’s The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever, they become totally inadequate when it comes to some more recent works, such as Richard Morgan’s A Land Fit for Heroes series. It should be understood that literary genres (as they are described in this study) are not primarily vehicles of certain specific ideologies or messages (although they might illusorily appear as such when we compare a collection of relatively similar texts from the same period), but are generalised sets of certain literary conventions and ways of creating fictional universes. On a very basic level these sets are, in a manner of speaking, purely technical, textual and narrative, and they can be used for different ideological and cognitive purposes. In Chapter Four I argue that the core features of the secondary world fantasy genre convention (if we adopt a sufficiently broad perspective) basically merely amount to setting the plot in a secondary exomimetic quasi-medieval world of relatively closed spatial and temporal parameters at a low level of technological development but with magic openly present and functioning within the presented model of the universe. Everything else can be effectively breached without ultimately breaching the genre convention itself. Thus it was equally plausible for secondary world fantasy to produce, from the 1950s to the 1980s, texts that could be described as ideologically conservative, archetypal, mythical, and unquestioningly relying on the narrator’s authoritative interpretation of the fictional reality, as it is now plausible to produce works that are in many respects exactly the opposite—subversive, anti-mythical or nihilistic. An example that in a rather spectacular way illustrates the issue is provided by Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea series. The series, as Suvin points out (“Second Earthsea Trilogy”; no page given), falls clearly into two separate trilogies—the first one including A Wizard of Earthsea, 1968, The Tombs of Atuan, 1971, and The Farthest Shore, 1972; and the second one encompassing Tehanu, 1990, Tales from Earthsea, 2001, and The Other Wind, 2001. Both trilogies apparently draw on the same secondary world fantasy genre convention and are, technically at least, set in the same secondary world. When it comes, however, to ideological content, predominating motifs, transferred messages, narrative and cognitive strategies, shaping of the protagonists or issues, both trilogies exhibit opposite tendencies to the extent that the second one practically “deconstructs” the first one. Thus both trilogies—while being secondary world fantasies set in the same world—in fact represent mutually contradicting ideological and cognitive paradigms. See Suvin, “Second Earthsea Trilogy”, comp. TrĊbicki, “The Second Life of Earthsea”.

8

Introduction

genological explorations for their own sake, but rather with discussing non-mimetic literature in its diverse, cultural, ideological, anthropological, philosophical, psychological or literary-critical contexts. Obviously, even within more or less narrowly defined structural or narratologist research on non-mimetic/“fantastic” literature, my proposals are to be taken as one of the many possible ways of looking at the material in question. A taxonomical discussion on non-mimetic literature can be organised according to various principles (vide Mendlesohn’s, Todorov’s or Jackson’s taxonomies). In this study my interest is rather narrowly (but, hopefully, also precisely) specified—as it has already been stated, I am primarily concerned with a possibly detailed and accurate description of the relationship between diverse non-mimetic ways of modeling fictional reality and the mimetic mode. I believe that the notion of Andrzej Zgorzelski’s supragenological types of fiction, summarised in Chapter Three, most adequately approximates this relationship for my present purposes. While I regard my approach simply as one of the many possible alternatives, I also hope that it is, at the same time, internally coherent and cognitively useful. My discussion will fall into two principal parts. In the first part an attempt to systematise contemporary discourse on the taxonomy of nonmimetic literature will be executed and theoretical foundations for a possible genological taxonomy will be laid out. The first chapter, The Great Taxonomical Confusion (obviously inspired by the first chapter of Marek Oziewicz’s study), will try to diagnose the main sources of bemusement shrouding the field. In its first section the distinction between three basic types of taxonomical discourses, popular (civilisational), literary-critical and genological, will be drawn out more clearly and the methodological differences and incompatibilities resulting from the adoption of particular approaches will be explained and emphasised. The second section will address specific problems resulting from the application of ambiguous denominations of “the fantastic” and “fantasy literature”. The second chapter, Taxonomies of Non-mimetic Literature, will be devoted to a short survey of existing proposals in the field. Its second section, Popular Notions and Cultural Taxonomies, will summarise popular, civilisational perceptions of non-mimetic literature, as expressed by the publishing market, writers, fans and the reading public in general, as they, apparently, affect even more serious criticism of non-mimetic fiction. It will also be suggested that the whole current discourse on “fantastic literature” has been largely dominated by its typically cultural notions—probably more than in the case of any other category of

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contemporary literature. The next two sections, Thematic Classifications and Literary-Critical and Theoretical Taxonomies, will describe a variety of taxonomical approaches, ranging from simple classifications found in various compendiums, guidebooks and popular studies, through the complex theories of the fantastic as presented by researchers such as Tzvetan Todorov or Rosemary Jackson, to the recent narratologist distinction of Farah Mendlesohn. It must be noted that all of these proposals will not be analysed here for their own cognitive merit, but only in the context of their potential usefulness for the creation of an overall comprehensive taxonomy as described above. Finally, the third chapter, Towards a Genological Taxonomy of Nonmimetic Literature: Supragenological Types of Fiction, will present theoretical concepts introduced by Andrzej Zgorzelski. His six supragenological types of fiction will be discussed at some length and will be suggested as a skeleton for a possible genological taxonomy of all of non-mimetic literature. The second part will constitute a preliminary attempt at the creation of a possibly wide and comprehensive referential pattern for contemporary non-mimetic literature based on the particular supragenological types of fiction. Individual chapters will be devoted to exomimetic literature, antimimetic literature, fantastic literature, paramimetic literature and, finally, non-mimetic meta-conventional literature, respectively. Each of the types will be discussed at length against a possibly representative range of texts and the discussion will, hopefully, also descend to the strictly generic level, thus enabling an approximation of particular genres within each of the supragenological categories.

PART I

CHAPTER ONE THE GREAT TAXONOMICAL CONFUSION

1. Popular, Literary-Critical and Genological Discourses It is fairly obvious that texts of non-mimetic literature—much as texts of any other type of fiction—function in several distinct ways. They simultaneously belong to the spheres of literature (understood primarily as a branch of art), culture and, even more widely, civilisation. As works of art they can be subjected to specific scholarly or interpretative scrutiny, which is aimed, basically, at interpretation of their meanings and explaining the artistic mechanisms behind their creation. As works of culture they can be analysed in wider, anthropological, social, psychological, and other, contexts. They constitute, in short, a valuable document for research and reflection on the widely understood human condition in the contemporary world. Apart from that, they are also influenced by certain mechanisms which are, actually, neither artistic nor even cultural1 but, in fact, purely civilisational in nature. They can be 1

The issue of the exact relationship between artistic and cultural mechanisms is, obviously, an extremely complex one. As Zgorzelski observes: “We know, of course, that processes and mechanisms of culture and of art condition each other and their effects are intertwined. A literary genre, for instance, is born as a consequence of the conventionalising of artistic devices and artistic construction, and we are aware that automatisation and petrification are really of cultural nature. Art, while employing systems and making use of tradition, constantly strives to breach the systemic rules and frustrate reader’s expectations. In contradistinction, culture imitates what has already been proposed, repeats what in art has acquired fame, simplifies what in art and science is complex and difficult, popularises what has been accepted, confirms values recognised by the majority: the literary canon, as well as the hierarchy of genres in a particular period, are products of cultural mechanisms. Since texts can begin to function only when read by a culturally determined recipient, whatever is conventional, petrified, simplified in them is more readily understood and remembered by the reader than what is new, complex and what frustrates expectations. In this and many other ways texts are always involved with cultural mechanisms” (“Literary Texts, Cultural Texts” 12-13).

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viewed, for example, as certain products whose functioning can be discussed in terms of marketing and economy.2 Similarly, any discussion on non-mimetic literature—academic or nonacademic—can be conducted from a multitude of distinct positions, sometimes converging or overlapping, sometimes diverging, conflicting or even mutually exclusive ones. This also pertains to discussions related to, to a larger or smaller degree, taxonomical issues. Not all taxonomical debates have the same (or even similar or analogous) objectives and not all of them treat their subject matter in ways that are at least comparable. This is only natural and understandable as it results from various literary (artistic), cultural and civilisational functions of non-mimetic literature and the numerous contexts in which it can be analysed. Problems arise, however, when particular approaches are confused or not delimitated in a sufficiently clear manner. It appears that a large proportion of taxonomical bemusement obscuring the field of non-mimetic/“fantasy” literature research results from this initial misunderstanding. Therefore, in the present section I will try to look more closely into the most essential types of taxonomical discourses trying, at the same time, to clearly distinguish between their respective objectives and methods—their possible strengths as well as unavoidable deficiencies. The next part of my discussion touches upon the complex issue of the notion of “genre”, which is, probably, the most fundamental one for any taxonomical debate. Over the centuries, i.e. in the history of literary criticism and theory, this term has come to denote many diverse concepts and has become a point of much controversy. I will, obviously, not attempt to discuss all the implications related to the problem, as this would immensely exceed the scope of my present discussion; instead, I will focus on certain proprietary understandings of the term in question which are connected with particular approaches that seem to be most relevant in the context of research on non-mimetic literature. Generalising, I argue that there are three main types of discourses here which reveal their respective and distinct approaches towards the concept of literary genre. When used in reference to “fantastic literature”, this term exhibits a type of ambiguity that is quite symptomatic of the whole debate. For better or worse, it is used continuously by all of its participants, i.e. readers, publishers, fans, editors, critics and researchers alike and, as noted, it appears to function in three basic ways: I. “Literary genre” as a typically civilisational notion or even a “market category”. The notable American critic Gary K. Wolfe suggests that, 2

See, especially, Zgorzelski, “From the Short Story to the Novel Cycle” 81.

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Chapter One

although it can be argued, on the one hand, that science fiction, fantasy and horror are not real literary genres in the typical taxonomical meaning, on the other hand, the ways in which literature is written, published, distributed, read—or even reviewed—do not always or easily yield to the pure perspectives of literary theory. Clearly there are writers who identify themselves with science fiction, fantasy, and horror, just as there are authors who flee from the mere suggestion of such labels. Clearly there are publishers who find benefits in such labels, and bookstores that shelve books according to such labels, and readers who seek their reading of choice on such shelves, and who sometimes attend fan conventions clearly labeled “science fiction”, “fantasy,” and “horror”. Each field has its own canons, its own awards, its own fan organizations, its own zines and websites and podcasts and even to some degree its own artists. (Evaporating Genres1-2)

Wolfe’s remarks are quite adequate, as we cannot dismiss the obvious fact that non-mimetic literature exists not only as a literary phenomenon, but as a social and cultural one as well. Thus in the “popular” discourse, terms such as “fantasy” or “science fiction” act primarily as certain convenient labels enabling effective social communication between readers, fans, writers, publishers and reviewers. The exact criteria on the basis of which borderlines between particular “genres” are being drawn are, naturally, not stated anywhere or clearly defined, as it is common consciousness that creates and accepts them. They are, simply, certain social conventions that are consensually accepted by a sufficient number of participants of a given discourse. As the most notable Polish fantasy writer Andrzej Sapkowski states in his popular compendium, elaborating on Damon Knight’s ironic SF definition: “Fantasy literature is what is labeled as ‘fantasy’. If the book’s spine, at the very top, just beneath the publisher’s logo, features the caption ‘fantasy’ inscribed with small letters, then this book clearly belongs to fantasy genre” (10). Obviously, we may try to approximate, deduce, or simply guess the sets of criteria that determine notions of reading, writing and the reviewing public, but they are bound to be too vague and superficial to be applied directly to scholarly research. They will also probably tell us more about the social perceptions of non-mimetic texts than about the texts themselves. At the same time it must be remarked that those perceptions have exerted a profound influence on more serious criticism, as various theorists and researchers often seem to rely (one might argue a bit unquestioningly) on this typically cultural or “pop-cultural” set of notions. As I have already suggested in the introduction, the whole current discourse on “fantastic literature” has been largely dominated by them. As

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the whole issue will be analysed at greater length in Chapter Two, at this point let me only observe, further commenting on Wolfe’s reflections, that while the literary theoretical perspective does not suffice in itself in describing non-mimetic literature in its whole cultural context then, in turn, social, marketing, commercial or editorial perspectives do not constitute proper tools for formulating statements that are supposed to be genological in nature. These are, in my opinion, two distinct paradigms— each in its own right. They are constantly interacting and, therefore, probably cannot be totally separated in the discussion but, nevertheless, they should not be simply confused. II. “Literary genre” as a literary-critical notion. Further elaborating on my previous remarks, I feel it necessary to distinguish between approaches that will be denominated here as “literary-critical” and “genological”, respectively. Although literary critics seem to apply the term “literary genre” in a similar way as more theoretically inclined scholars or literary genologists do, they in fact pursue slightly different objectives and use different sets of criteria when it comes to taxonomical debates. Literary criticism frequently evaluates works of literature and analyses their cognitive potential and social usefulness against a set of criteria adopted by a given critic. In many cases the cultural relevance of texts is emphasised and they are studied in broader anthropological, psychological, philosophical or social contexts. Consequently, a “literary genre” appears here as a certain convenient construct whose main purpose is to facilitate a discussion on a particular collection of texts which has been pre-selected by a given critic. The applied criteria are, naturally (as they are bound to be in order to pursue their aims efficiently), subjective, selective and occasionally evaluative. As Colin Manlove honestly admits in his introduction to Modern Fantasy. Five Studies, “all that matters ultimately is the isolation of a particular kind of literature” (1). The taxonomies based on such an approach out of necessity reflect the critic’s attitude, thus enabling him/her to take part in a discussion on a particular collection of texts from a particular angle. They are also bound to be influenced by the author’s current agenda and his/her ideological or aesthetic preferences. This is, obviously, fully understandable and, moreover, desirable from the point of view of particular discussions. I feel it necessary to emphasise once more that I am not, in the least, questioning here the usefulness of such critical approaches—I am simply pointing to the fact that they serve different purposes than the ones I have specified in the present study. Two of the most impressive examples of such an “interdisciplinary” or

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Chapter One

“cultural” literary-critical approach are provided by the studies of Rosemary Jackson and Marek Oziewicz. Jackson elaborates on Tzvetan Todorov’s theories by developing a taxonomy which enables her to delimitate the mode of “fantastic”—texts which perform a social/cultural function of subverting dominating ideologies. Oziewicz, in turn, goes through a comprehensive discussion of fantasy criticism in order to focus on the category (which he frequently denominates as “genre”) of mythopoeic fantasy, which is perceived as central and especially significant. In both cases, delimitated texts or genres are discussed in a larger, extra-literary context, and they are viewed as literary embodiments of certain ways of artistic commenting upon reality. Jackson emphasises the necessity of focusing on the “ideological implications of fantastic literature” (and criticises Todorov for his reluctance to engage in such a discussion; 61), whereas Oziewicz clearly speaks about “a battle of worldviews” (passim). Jackson’s and Oziewicz’s approaches are, obviously, marked ideologically, and, from the ideological point of view, in many respects antagonistic. Both studies, nevertheless, deal with vital issues in a coherent and persuasive way and add undeniable value to the whole discourse on non-mimetic literature. On the other hand, although both Jackson and Oziewicz become involved in the taxonomical discussion, their objectives are definitely different from those I have stated in the introduction, and the solutions provided are not fully compatible with what could be described as a strictly genological approach. In short, despite their otherwise immense cognitive merit, the proposals presented there are not completely sufficient as a suitable starting point for a more comprehensive taxonomy. Naturally, not all of the attempts which are described here as “literarycritical” have such strongly accentuated interdisciplinary or ideological agendas; some of them are definitely more theoretical and textual in nature. They are, however, often limited in either scope or approach, as a critic may focus on particular classes of texts and totally ignore others. Such is, for example, the case of the seminal work by Tzvetan Todorov on the fantastic which excludes from the discussion the whole sphere of popular literature—in other words, the works of J. R. R. Tolkien, Ursula K. Le Guin, Neil Gaiman and other writers whose works are identified as contemporary “fantasy” by most readers. Alternatively, a critic may also employ a certain set of filters (or a single filter) to help him/her emphasise particular phenomena that lie in the range of his/her immediate interests but, on the other hand, unavoidably reduce the possible comprehensiveness and universality of the proposed taxonomy (the case of, for example, Darko Suvin and William L. Godshalk).

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17

In fact, many of the discussions summarised in the last section of Chapter Two balance on the verge between the literary-critical and genological approach as described above (especially that of Farah Mendlesohn). They undoubtedly provide a coherent and structural analysis of the texts involved and offer many valuable insights into taxonomical issues. At the same time, however, they exhibit certain deficiencies which prevent them from fulfilling all of the postulates I have set before in a comprehensive taxonomy in my introduction. III. Finally, we may deal with a taxonomical discourse that is at the same time theoretical and based on the historical-literary material. Its purpose is simply to establish genological relationships within a possibly vast and unlimited number of non-mimetic texts. The literary genre is used here as a strictly genological term. Within the methodology applied in this paper it is specifically understood as a historical-literary system which is dynamic and evolving, dependent not on teleological presuppositions, but rather on definite traits of a given set of texts […] which display their similarity as regards their subject, the shaping of the narrator(s), the structuring of spatiotemporal setting, the relationships of characters and action, their language, etc. (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 37).

The birth of a new genre has to be marked by the emergence of a substantial set of structural features that clearly distinguish it in the whole genological order. It should also be characterised by a breach or significant alteration of the existing conventions. Thus “the introduction of a new thematic variant, or of a few unconventional motifs does not yet correspond to the birth of a genre” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature”).3 3

Zgorzelski also argues that the appearance of a new genre must be parallelled by “the awareness of contemporary readers, critics, and writers who recognise this genre variant as different from all other genres of the times. Such an intersubjective recognition is often most arbitrary, dependent on a multitude of cultural factors, on the general state of education, on the mutual relations between tradition and contemporary literature, on literary institutions (magazines, promotion mechanisms, sponsorship), on the advancement of criticism and academic studies, etc. Although chancy, unpredictable and often not reliable, such a recognition is nevertheless necessary to make a new genre function in literary consciousness, to make it enter the traditional genre hierarchy” (“Fantastic Literature” 36). In this sense many of the possible genres whose status is discussed in this study (for example the “contemporary magical novel” in Chapter Five) appear as purely theoretical constructs rather than historical-literary systems as described by Zgorzelski, since they have not been acknowledged by the

18

Chapter One

It must be stressed that a genre understood thus amounts to, basically, a certain generalised set of features, which are both diachronically evolving and synchronically variable, and which are realised differently in particular texts. In other words, it is largely “a construct of the observer” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature”). The aim of the discussion at a generic level, as I have noted in the introduction, is not to label texts but to describe tendencies that influence their narrative structures. The distinction between strictly genological discourse on the one hand and popular and literary-critical discourses on the other hand could probably best be summarised in the following way: 1. In contradistinction to popular (civilisational) taxonomies, a genological taxonomy is not aimed at describing a certain in nature extra-textual state of affairs (such as, for example, the commercial labelling of non-mimetic literature) nor is it to rely on its typically popular perceptions (as expressed by various publishers, editors, writers, readers and fans). Thus it is bound to be basically textual in character, i.e. based on thorough analyses of the texts themselves, the similarities and differences they reveal under closer scrutiny, the conventions they apply and the literary traditions they draw upon. 2. It should also be acknowledged that many of the critical explorations of the subject, no matter how scholarly, sincere and sophisticated they are, often serve, by definition, a different agenda. A genological taxonomy is bound to be descriptive rather than normative, non-evaluative rather than axiological, and textual rather than contextual. Instead of engaging in a contemporary ideological dispute, it will preoccupy itself with studying the evolution of literary genres in a historical context. 3. In contradistinction to many of the literary-critical “single-factor” approaches, a genological taxonomy should rely on a possibly vast range of diverse factors pertaining to all crucial elements of the texts’ structures. It is also aimed at creating a comprehensive and non-exclusive description of all of non-mimetic literature, and not merely of some of its parts. Obviously, I am not arguing here that the taxonomy I venture to preliminarily approximate in this study is bound to be in any way more “objective” than any of the more ideological treatments. Every description is, by definition, to some extent normative as it is always filtered through the researcher’s cognitive framework. I am simply emphasising at this point that it is the potential comprehensiveness that lies at the core of my interests. contemporary literary audience.

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Although I am asserting here the disparity between the genological perspective on the one hand and the “popular” or the literary-critical perspective on the other hand, assuming that the first does not mean ignoring, at the same time, the whole cultural-civilisational context in which the particular genres of non-mimetic literature have been evolving, especially since on numerous occasions this context exerted a profound influence on the shape of the genres themselves. This context will be, however, discussed from more textual positions. In the present study a strictly genological understanding of the literary genre will be applied, but I do not, in the least, disown other usages of this term in its various literary-critical and cultural applications (however, in order to avoid confusion, I will refer to them as “labels”, “classes” or “categories” within this work, thus reserving the term “genre” for genres in a genological sense), nor do I question the usefulness of taxonomies based on such understandings. All three discourses as described in this section, i.e. popular, literary-critical and strictly genological, are well grounded in their respective contexts. They are also complementary rather than exclusive. Nevertheless, awareness of the existence of the distinction as described above is, in my opinion, essential for every researcher of the subject, and highly desirable for all participants of the discourse. It will definitely help reduce the confusion that is pestering the debate.

2. The Fantastic and Fantasy Literature Already in 1979 S. C. Fredericks reasonably remarked that “words like ‘fantasy’ and ‘fantastic’ derive from common parlance and popular culture, and because their semantic fields are at once broad and vague they are unlikely to be appropriate for the refined analytical techniques typical of contemporary literary scholarship” (33). To illustrate the confusion caused by these terms, Fredericks compares various incompatible definitions of the fantastic as introduced by influential scholars such as Tzvetan Todorov, Eric Rabkin, W. R. Irwin or C. N. Manlove. He also demonstrates that the term “fantasy” is used by different researchers to denote rather different (and sometimes not even partially overlapping) classes of texts. Nearly thirty years later the issue was raised again by Marek Oziewicz, who tried to diagnose “the confusion over fantasy” in the first chapter of his seminal book on mythopoeic fantasy. Apparently, not much has changed. “The tip of the iceberg of confusion shrouding fantasy”, Oziewicz writes, “is the number of often conflicting definitions of fantasy. None of the definitions proposed so far is viable. This is frustrating to the

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point that some recent books skip the definition step altogether” (15).4 Then he quotes several other more recent critical opinions by such researchers as Diana Tixier Herald, Cathi Dunn MacRae or Martha Sammons, all of whom also testify to this terminological helplessness. “In this light it is not an exaggeration”, he summarises, “to say that after over a century of classification attempts … we are nowhere near the successful completion of the taxonomy of fantasy, let alone its definition” (15). Things are further complicated due to the ambiguous relationship between both terms in question—sometimes “the fantastic” simply functions as the adjective from “fantasy” or, conversely, fantasy denotes the class of texts in which the fantastic operates and, thus, the two words are used more or less interchangeably (in this way it is used, for example, by Jackson or Manlove). Sometimes the fantastic and fantasy are applied as denominations of different classes of texts, or they even constitute different types of categories. In numerous other cases the distinction between both seems to be unclear.5 My objective here is not to discuss all the definitions of the fantastic or fantasy that have surfaced so far in the debate, especially given that they have already been efficiently summarised elsewhere.6 Neither is it my intent to supply my own definitions and thus to contribute to the overall confusion, especially that I utterly share S. C. Fredericks’s reservations as quoted at the beginning of this section. I feel it is, nevertheless, unavoidable to relate to those ambiguous terms before I start my own taxonomical discussion. It seems that the term “fantastic”, when it is not simply used as an adjective of fantasy, surfaces most frequently in three contexts: 1. It covers “all forms of expression that are not ‘realistic’, including fantasy and SF, magic realism, fabulation, surrealism, etc.” (The 4

This is, for example, the case of an otherwise eminent study by Farah Mendlesohn. 5 Several examples of such terminological inconsistencies are given by Horstkotte (34-36). 6 Three of the most comprehensive surveys of various critical approaches towards “the fantastic” and “fantasy” as well as convenient summaries of the most significant theoretical and terminological proposals in the field are offered by Hume (3-28), Horstkotte (14-42) and, especially, Oziewicz (15-28). A useful source of reference for science fiction and fantasy criticism is provided by Wolfe in his Critical Terms. See also Attebery’s discussion of fantasy as a mode, formula and genre (Strategies 1-17) and LichaĔski’s discussion in “Problemy genologiczne literatury fantasy”.

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Encyclopedia of Fantasy 335) or, in a more restrictive way, contemporary fantasy (here, in turn, in its narrowest respective meaning) and science fiction. 7 2. It denotes a certain specific more or less narrowly defined class of texts that is distinct from fantasy or even opposed to it. A good example is provided by Tzvetan Todorov’s seminal study where “the fantastic” denotes a very restricted and rather peculiar group of texts. The distinction between fantasy literature and fantastic literature is, in turn, emphasised by Martin Horstkotte or Theodor Ziolkowski (see the discussion in Chapter Two). 3. It refers to a certain mode, literary operation or a contextually (that is, described in relation to cultural and civilisational phenomena and not only to purely textual ones) defined motif rather than simply a class of texts or a genre. In this way it is used, for example, by such researchers as Rabkin or Jackson. In this particular study, however, the term “fantastic” will be used only either to denote a certain specific intra-textual operation as defined by Zgorzelski (which will be described in greater detail in Chapter Three), or in relation to the specific “fantastic supragenological type of fiction” as further proposed by the researcher. It is important to emphasise the “technical” (in a manner of speaking) and “non-holistic” application of this term here—it is meant only to refer to certain specific strictly genological and purely textual as well as structurally describable phenomena that will be positioned precisely within Zgorzelski’s methodological and terminological apparatus. The situation with “fantasy literature” is, arguably, even more complex. As has already been noted, this term is used to delimitate very different classes of texts. Several of the particular discussions which involve at least rudimentary classifications will be discussed at some length in Chapter Two. At this point I will only try to approximate certain general tendencies and account for the reasons of possible misunderstandings and fallacies. In the broadest possible meaning the category of fantasy literature seems to encompass all works of fiction, both historical (sometimes even ancient collections of myths or epics such as Gilgamesh or Odyssey are evoked) and contemporary, that might be roughly (and usually in rather vague terms) qualified as “non-realistic”.

7

See, for example, Wolfe, Critical Terms vii, xi, passim.

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This approach is, for example, confirmed by several popular or even more scholarly studies which include a historical background. Thus, Richard Matthews’s Fantasy. The Liberation of Imagination searches for the roots of modern fantasy in antiquity. The chronology provided therein dates back to the year ca. 2000 BCE and starts with The Epic of Gilgamesh, then it goes through, to mention only a few titles, Mahabharata, Aeneid, Beowulf, Sir Thomas Mallory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, John Milton’s Paradise Lost, Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, Oscar Wilde’s The Happy Prince and Other Tales or James Barrie’s Peter Pan, and finally it arrives in contemporary times with the works of such writers as J. R. R. Tolkien, Ursula K. Le Guin, Stephen Donaldson and Piers Anthony, as also Gabriel Garcia Márquez, Salman Rushdie or John Barth. A very similar approach has been adopted by Farah Mendlesohn and Edward James in their Short History of Fantasy. Lin Carter, the author of probably the first popular history of fantasy, Imaginary Worlds, is slightly more selective. He also starts his book by mentioning Gilgamesh which, he insists, can be described as “an heroic fantasy laid in an imaginary world” and “as much an heroic fantasy as any of Robert Howard’s yarns of Conan of Cimmeria” (13-14). However, when it comes to contemporary works, Carter focuses primarily on contemporary “imaginary world fantasy” for adults, excluding, for example, works such as Peter Pan or A Wizard of Oz. Interestingly, in both of the works mentioned above, as well as in many other similar studies, science fiction is excluded from this broadly understood category of fantasy; although in several other cases (see my discussion in Chapter Three) it is, perhaps more logically, included. In the narrowest possible meaning, in turn, the term “fantasy” refers to a particular contemporary genre that is usually identified with works of such authors as J. R. R. Tolkien, Ursula K. Le Guin or Stephen Donaldson, whose plots are usually set in a secondary world.8 Obviously, apart from these two “extremes”, there exists a series of possible “intermediate” states. Thus, by way of example, the term “fantasy” may denote all of twentieth-century or twentieth- and nineteenth-century non-mimetic fiction (in this case excluding from the widest set the more historical works) or all of contemporary fiction (but sometimes also historical works) in which (variously described) magic constitutes an essential motif. 8 In the second part of my study I argue that “secondary world fantasy” actually is a genre in a strictly genological meaning of the term.

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This latter case is so popular in contemporary criticism that it is perhaps worth brief consideration here. It seems that a single thematic criterion, i.e. emphasis put on the presence of magic in a text, lies at the core of many perceptions of fantasy, both popular and critical. It is, for example, strongly emphasised by Lin Carter: “The essence of this sort of story can be summed up in one word: magic. A fantasy is a book or story … in which magic really works” (6). Also, Jane Mobley argues that the “world [of fantasy] is informed by Magic, and the reader must be willing to accept magic as the central force without demanding or expecting mundane explanations” (117). Patrick Merla, in turn, states that “the essential element of any true work of fantasy is magic—a force that affects the lives and actions of all creatures that inhabit the fantastic world … Real magic cannot be explained in material terms, nor manufactured with mechanical devices, nor achieved through ingested substances” (348; quoted after Lynn xliv). Similarly, Ruth Nadelman Lynn states that “‘Fantasy Literature’ is a broad term used to describe books in which magic causes impossible, and often wondrous, events to occur … The existence of the magic cannot be explained” (xvi). It appears that the application of the above criterion, in a way, enables one to place in the same category such diverse and distant (both structurally and historically) texts as, for example, Gilgamesh, Le Morte d’Arthur, Peter Pan, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or The Lord of the Rings while, at the same time, excluding science fiction. Obviously, relying on a single thematic motif is a rather controversial taxonomical strategy. Additionally, this supposedly common factor of magic proves rather illusory at closer scrutiny. In fact, “magic” functions in many distinct ways in particular non-mimetic texts and by no means can it be regarded as a homogeneous motif. Also, contrarily to what some of the authors quoted above suggest, magic is often rationalised or explained in logical terms and, in fact, in many cases it can be, in a way, “manufactured”, thus resembling the modern technology of science fiction novels.9 To deepen the confusion, apart from those relatively widespread and “consensual” understandings of the term “fantasy literature” as discussed above, there exist also more specific, untypical treatments of the issue. Several researchers (for example, Rosemary Jackson) use the term “fantasy” in their own proprietary and “non-consensual” way by assigning it to a very specifically defined and relatively narrow class of works (in Jackson’s case these are the “subversive” texts). 9

See my discussion of SWF vs. SF in Chapter Four.

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Chapter One

As a result, particular participants of the discourse on “fantasy literature” often debate about totally different sets of texts, however, these sets are usually much wider than any actual literary genre could possibly be. What is remarkable is that in the very centre of all those sets we will nearly always find the works of Tolkien, Le Guin, Donaldson, Eddings or other authors who clearly represent the specific genre of secondary world fantasy.10 This centre is surrounded by consecutive, vaster and vaster sets of texts, as if by concentric circles. The central position of particular works seems to be determined again not by their genological prominence, but rather by their cultural (civilisational, marketing, commercial, social) popularity. It is, again, by no means my intent to supply yet another definition of what fantasy literature is or is not (and even less what it should be or should not be, for that matter)—as it has already been proved that it can quite simply be anything depending on the methodology that is applied or on the researcher’s ideological filter. Instead, I will consider the possible uses of the term “fantasy” (with qualifiers or substitutes supplied when necessary or desirable) that I find most logical in the context of a more theoretical debate on literary genres. As Oziewicz states, fantasy is “at the same time a cognitive strategy and a worldview—what Brian Attebery calls ‘a mode’ and Kathryn Hume ‘a response to reality’—and involves a cluster of genres, both historic and contemporary” (13). Oziewicz also distinguishes between a “quest for a general definition of fantasy” (in which for the last 40 years most notable critics were involved and which, in my opinion, seems plausible only when applied to the study of fantasy as a cognitive strategy or mode) and “a search for definitions of specific genres which are textual expressions of certain assumptions inherent in fantasy as a worldview” (19). Further on, he also observes, commenting on Hume’s proposals, that If works as diverse as The Epic of Gilgamesh, Beowulf, Piers Plowman, Queste de Saint Graal, The Nun’s Priest’s Tale, The Faerie Queene, Dr Faustus, The Rape of the Lock, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Wuthering Heights, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a number of modern ones such as those by Tolkien, Pratchett, Fowles, Carter, Winterson, 10

An interesting experiment described by the eminent American critic Brian Attebery might be quoted here. Attebery conducted a quiz among several researchers and critics of fantasy and asked them to select works that are most archetypal and characteristic of the whole genre of fantasy. What is hardly surprising is that The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien and The Earthsea Cycle by Ursula K. Le Guin received the highest scores. See Strategies 13-14.

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Kafka, Beckett, Barth, Bradbury, and others are dumped into one category –even if it is subdivided according to dominant mood or purported effect on the reader – the result is painfully disappointing. (19)

I find Oziewicz’s observations essential in the way they indicate one of the main sources of terminological confusion, which appears to be a basic misunderstanding about what sort of category is exactly implied when the word “fantasy” is evoked in the discussion. Unfortunately, not all participants in the discourse see the necessity of making a clear distinction between different possible applications of the term in question (Attebery, who in the first chapter of his Strategies of Fantasy speaks of fantasy as a mode, genre and formula, being one of the few positive examples). It is probably also this misunderstanding that is to a large extent responsible for the failure of the many attempts at providing a definition of fantasy, as the particular researchers too hastily take for granted the existence of fantasy as a literary genre. As a result, they desperately struggle to find a common generic identity for a class of works so diverse that their only indubitably shared characteristic is, probably, merely their opposition to the “realistic” or mimetic mode. I believe that the most logical solution when it comes to a genological discussion is to acknowledge that, elaborating on the first of Oziewicz’s statements as quoted above, fantasy is a certain cognitive strategy (meaning 1) that has over the centuries produced an immensely vast and diverse collection of literary works (meaning 2) which sometimes as a whole is also referred to as “fantastic literature”. To avoid terminological confusion I will be using here the term “non-mimetic literature”.11 It is also reasonable to assume that this large, extremely heterogeneous category will encompass a complex network of many various literary genres which are constantly evolving and interacting with one another, and that their description should perhaps also involve certain intermediate, “supragenological” categories. As it might be deduced from the previous statement, I find it rather inadequate to speak about “fantasy” as a genre, unless it is, additionally, as Oziewicz proposes, “qualified by an adjective and properly described” (24)—vide “secondary world fantasy” or “contemporary magical novel”. Thus the word “fantasy” will not be applied as a genological denomination at all in this study. It may, naturally, be used in reference to a class of texts that basically constitutes a cultural (or commercial) but not a theoretical category, and—in contradistinction to the ever elusive “genre of fantasy”—does undoubtedly exist. 11

This whole will, quite logically, also include science fiction.

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Chapter One

In other words, I am trying to argue here that the set (or actually various sets) of works commonly referred to as “fantasy literature” comprises, in fact, a number (I find Oziewicz’s phrase “cluster” especially fitting as it suggests some mutual connectivity and interference) of distinct and sometimes considerably different genres. It is, of course, still plausible and useful to discuss fantasy as a mode or cognitive strategy (as Attebery, Hume, Oziewicz and some other critics do) or, applying an adequate filter, to select from this huge collection a particular set of texts (if necessary across genre borders) to explore a vital subject critically (as Oziewicz does impressively with the category of mythopoeic fantasy). My interest in the present study, as has already been noted, is, however, strictly genological and limited to the study of literature in a narrower, textual sense. Therefore, I will neither discuss “fantasy” in its meaning (1) as specified above nor will I consider its anthropological or ideological (in other words “contextual”) implications, especially since this has already been done exhaustively by several critics.12

12

See, especially, the wide-ranging and at least partly theoretical studies by Rosemary Jackson, Marek Oziewicz, Brian Attebery (Strategies) and Kathryn Hume, as quoted above, but also numerous dissertations and articles devoted to an analysis of particular works or specific problems such as those—to mention only a few—by Robert Scholes (“The Good Witch”), T. A. Shippey, Jeanne Murray Walker, Pauline Archell-Thompson, Hans Joachim Alpers, Milena Bianga, Mariusz Stawicki, Brian Attebery (The Fantasy Tradition) or Ursula K. Le Guin (The Language of the Night).

CHAPTER TWO TAXONOMIES OF NON-MIMETIC LITERATURE

1. A Multitude of Approaches The present chapter is devoted to a brief, yet, hopefully, comprehensive survey of the existing taxonomical proposals in the field. In its second section, entitled Popular Notions and Cultural Taxonomies, I will summarise what I have called the civilisational perceptions of nonmimetic literature. These, obviously, do not amount to regular, codified systems, but can be to a reasonable extent deduced from the observation of the publishing market and the reading public. I feel it indispensable to at least superficially reflect on them as they seem to have considerably been influencing more serious or even academic criticism of non-mimetic literature. This, I hope, will also be well demonstrated in the remaining part of the chapter which deals with particular taxonomical approaches included in a rather varied selection of books and studies, ranging from popular compendiums to sophisticated scholarly dissertations. They have been provisionally grouped into two subsequent sections—Thematic Classifications and Critical-Literary and Theoretical Taxonomies, respectively. The first presents relatively simple, mainly theme-based divisions that can be primarily found in popular compendiums and encyclopedias, whereas the other discusses more complex and sophisticated academic explorations. However, this distinction is not to be perceived as rigid, especially that there seems to have been an ongoing interaction between these two discourses; for example, in his review of the most influential critical works on fantasy, Wolfe mentions not only typically academic studies by researchers such as Tzvetan Todorov, Eric Rabkin, Rosemary Jackson, Brian Attebery, etc., but also the efforts of popularisers such as Lin Carter, Roger Schlobin, Diana Waggoner or Marshall M. Tymn, Kenneth Zahorski and Robert H. Boyer. He remarks that “they implicitly add to critical debate not only in their introductions and annotations, but by their very principles of inclusion and classification” (Critical Terms xxiv). Paradoxically, sometimes these popular classifications prove to be more

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Chapter Two

comprehensive than those introduced by some academic scholars. This is probably because the former simply look for a means of a systematic description of varied material, whereas the latter are primarily concerned with conducting their particular ideological or aesthetic agendas. The debates presented in this chapter also vary in several other ways. They, for example, discuss heterogeneous and not always compatible material, which in some cases encompasses—or nearly encompasses—the whole category of non-mimetic literature, but in several others is considerably limited. Additionally, sometimes classification of the material is clearly central to the researcher’s interests, but sometimes it is only rudimentarily or incidentally touched upon. I have decided, nevertheless, that all of the cited approaches contribute in some way or other to a better understanding of the problem. Although they are not completely compatible with my present objectives, they provide many interesting and inspiring insights and ideas which, obviously, need to be reworked and translated into proper genological terms. I must also emphasise once more that I will be looking at the discussed material from a particular angle, i.e. I am merely going to test the potential usefulness of those various proposals in the context of my own genological purposes. In other words, I will not be evaluating or even merely discussing those research studies on their own grounds and, obviously, my approach is not a proper tool to explore their overall cognitive merit. I assume that in most cases they efficiently achieve their own popularising, cultural, ideological or literary-critical objectives.

2. Popular Notions and Taxonomies As I have already suggested, the whole current discourse on nonmimetic literature has been largely dominated by its typically cultural notions—probably more than in the case of any other category of contemporary literature. As Wolfe states in his chapter on fantasy theory:1 Publishers, fan writers, anthologists, bibliographers, and librarians have all contributed to the establishment not only of a fantasy canon, but also to the terminology and to the establishment of what author Samuel Delany calls “reading protocols.” … And for better or worse, the marketing and acquisitions practices of publishing houses have tended to emphasize certain

1

Wolfe seems to basically accept the notion of two distinct fields of fantasy and SF (which is spoken of in this section) and, consequently, he discusses fantasy criticism and science fiction criticism separately.

Taxonomies of Non-mimetic Literature

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conventions and narrative modes over others. (Critical Terms xxiv – xxv)2

The average reader usually does not encounter any problems in identifying texts of “fantastic literature” (no matter what his/her attitude is towards it), or even in distinguishing its subcategories or “genres”. This is, obviously, because both the reader and the texts function in a particular socio-cultural context. When visiting a bookshop, either real or virtual, we instantly encounter a section labelled “fantastic literature” which, depending on our personal preferences, we will search eagerly or avoid contemptuously. This section will probably include works that: 1. belong to non-mimetic literature, or, 2. have additionally been classified as texts from the sphere of “popular” literature.3 Even more frequently, the two major categories of “fantasy” and “science fiction” (sometimes supplemented with the third, a bit less prominent category of “horror”) are introduced straight away, separately, without the intermediate overall category of “fantastic literature”. Thus the distinction between “genres” of fantasy and science fiction is emphasised nearly as strongly as the gap between each one of them and “realistic” fiction. The division of non-mimetic literature into these two basic “genres” is so deeply rooted in the consciousness of the contemporary reader, author, publisher and critic, that it is worthwhile to ponder on its origin. Even at first sight it is apparent that it is not genologically motivated. It might be argued that this cultural “science fiction” is to a large extent synonymous with a concrete contemporary genre which has been shaped and rose to popularity in the twentieth century—no matter how we might define or describe it. However, the case of cultural “fantasy” is much more complex, as a very vast range of works by such diverse authors, both contemporary and historical, as, by way of example, J. R. R. Tolkien, Jonathan Carroll, Ray Bradbury, Lewis Carroll, William Morris, William Beckford or, stepping even more back in time, Thomas Mallory or John Milton, are included in this category. In the broadly understood context of “fantasy” 2

Compare Zgorzelski, “From the Short Story” 62-81. It seems that the joint fulfillment of both conditions is necessary for a text to be qualified as “fantastic”. In other words, in texts published by “serious” authors, functioning in the sphere of “high” literature (in contradistinction to “popular” literature”), regardless of their actual generic traits, their affinity to sometimes very similar (with respect to the mode of creating the presented world) texts labelled as “science fiction” or “fantasy” is ignored. I mean, for example, works of such writers as Haruki Murakami, Salman Rushdie, Doris Lessing or Gabriel Garcia Márquez. The criteria behind such a distinction are clearly evaluative, very subjective and raise strong controversies.

3

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even such archaic texts as Beowulf or The Epic of Gilgamesh are sometimes mentioned. As has already been pointed out in Chapter One, it is clear that in the case of such a huge and diverse array of texts coming from different literary epochs, we cannot deal with a single literary genre in the historical-literary, genological meaning of the term, but rather with multiple genres representing various traditions and stages in the development of literature. This might be schematised in the following way: “fantasy” = all non-mimetic literature – science fiction. Two major factors seem to be responsible for this situation. First, there undoubtedly exists a certain terminological confusion caused by the ambiguity of the English word “fantasy” (see my discussion in Chapter One, section 2). Second, the simplified “taxonomy”, as suggested previously (i.e. the division of non-mimetic literature into “SF” and “fantasy”), results from the very nature of cultural and civilisational procedures. It cannot be ignored that contemporary genres of non-mimetic prose (especially science fiction and fantasy) are the creations of as much artistic as cultural and civilisational mechanisms. Both the rise of science fiction in pulp magazines in the 1930s and 1940s and the dynamic evolution of the specific genre of secondary world fantasy in the second half of the twentieth century4 have largely been affected by market mechanisms, and indirectly it was the readers, editors and publishers that shaped both genres in their statistical form. The genre of secondary world fantasy—while drawing upon earlier traditions (chivalric romance, magical fairy tale, heroic epoch, myth)—at the same time evolved in a parallel way (and largely in opposition) to science fiction, often competing with it for its position on the reading market. This situation must have contributed to the popular dualistic vision of the taxonomy of non-mimetic literature. It should also be remembered that, at least statistically, the works of secondary world fantasy (henceforward abbreviated as “SWF”) came to dominate in the mid-twentieth century on the market of popular nonmimetic literature (if we exclude science fiction). Consequently, most other non-mimetic and non-science-fictional works, both historical and 4

For a historical study of the evolution of the science fiction genre convention from a genological point of view, consult Zgorzelski’s Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction. For a similar study of the evolution of secondary world fantasy see TrĊbicki’s Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku.

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contemporary, have been rather provisionally and superficially attached to the vague category of fantasy, whose core has been formed around the actual genre of SWF. Sometimes this is relatively justified, as in the case of William Morris’s novels, which can be associated with the beginnings of secondary world fantasy, and sometimes less so, as in the case of such classic works as, for example, Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, or such contemporary novels as Replay by Ken Grimwood or the Land of Laughs by Jonathan Carroll, which show relatively little affinity to the novels of J. R. R. Tolkien, Ursula K. Le Guin or Stephen Donaldson. Obviously, as cultural mechanisms by their nature vulgarise, petrify and conventionalise artistic mechanisms, in very much the same way the cultural reception of literary phenomena will also tend to bend towards a certain simplification of description. The popular division of “fantastic” (non-mimetic) literature into “science fiction” and “fantasy”, regardless of the certain market mechanisms that influenced its emergence, seems to also be based on relatively simple thematic and receptive criteria: texts that are allegedly “rational” or “futuristic”, or those in which “science” (or more precisely: advanced technology) constitutes a major scenographic element, are counterbalanced by works that are allegedly “irrational” or “archaic”, or those in which technology is, in turn, replaced by magic. Or, as it is sometimes suggested, texts perceived as explorative and intellectually engaging are pitted against those deemed ludic, “emotional” or “archetypal”. The suggested division apparently fulfils certain socio-cultural functions—it supplies a hint to publishers, booksellers (helping them in a proper positioning of a given literary product), readers (enabling them to reach for the right volumes, but also shaping their tastes), critics (conveniently suggesting proper tools for analysis of a particular text and juxtaposing it with other, supposedly similar texts), and even writers themselves (giving instructions for writing books that will meet the requirements of a convention that has already been accepted by the market). And, as has already been noted, even if it does not reflect genological order, it does reflect the marketing reality of publishers’ stock and the statistical reality of booksellers’ shelves. It is rather surprising how often this popular distinction is unquestionably taken for granted by otherwise scrupulous researchers. This is, for example, the case of Farah Mendlesohn’s splendid narratologist study (see section 4). Some other researchers, such as Gary Wolfe, even seem to concede that all possible classifications of nonmimetic literature have to unavoidably be rooted in their social

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perceptions, and that perhaps no strictly genological discussion is feasible or even necessary (Evaporating Genres, 1; passim). The influence of these popular notions as summarised above will be especially visible in the thematic classifications of non-mimetic literature as discussed in the subsequent section.

3. Thematic Classifications of Non-mimetic Literature In this section I will try to reflect on the relatively simple, in a manner of speaking, “single-factor” or “thematic” classifications that can mostly be found in popular compendiums and guidebooks on fantasy or fantastic literature—which are generally aimed at the common reader (but, occasionally, at the same time also exhibit more scholarly ambitions), as well as in some academic attempts at the issue. One of the dominant notions here, as has been suggested in the previous section, is the division of non-mimetic literature into two pseudogenres of “fantasy” and “science fiction”. As science fiction seems to be a relatively well-researched and, to some extent, self-explanatory as well as somehow self-contained and hermetic category, the taxonomical efforts on the part of the majority of critics focus on the fantasy field. This fantasy “genre” is variously delineated by particular researchers, but science fiction is usually excluded and separated from it in the ensuing debate. The mutual relationships between fantasy, understood as such, SF and mimetic fiction are in some cases explored and in other cases ignored, but there are relatively few approaches which perceive non-mimetic literature as a certain overall category opposed directly and “dualistically” to mimetic fiction, and they venture to systematically delimitate particular classes of texts within this whole. In other words, most of the proposals present the taxonomies of variously understood fantasy as they view science fiction as a completely separate class of texts and place it not inside, but outside their frameworks. I will start my review from The Encyclopedia of Fantasy, edited by John Clute and John Grant—currently probably the most authoritative and comprehensive reference work. Clute and Grant state that “fantasy is a field of literature radically different from science fiction” and “unlike science-fiction, it is literature remarkably hard to define” (vii). Despite this, a “rough definition” of fantasy is proposed. It is, according to The Encyclopedia… “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 another world, that otherworld will be impossible, but stories set there will be possible in the otherworld’s terms” (viii). This provisionary definition

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struggles to consensually summarise some previous criticism. At the same time, in a way that is quite characteristic of many current discussions,5 it confuses empirical and textual realities by juxtaposing them directly.6 It also clearly falls into two separate parts by striving to cover two different sets of texts.7 Despite the distinction perceived by The Encyclopedia, it is also, perhaps, arguable whether this definition truly excludes science fiction texts which, after all, present—in a manner of speaking—impossible but perfectly coherent worlds. Interestingly, the sibling volume, The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, edited by John Clute and Paul Nicholls, does not provide an analogous definition of science fiction, as if taking the concept for granted. It does, nevertheless, make an attempt to delimitate between the realms of fantasy and science fiction. The authors emphasise, first of all, the impurity and heterogeneity of both genres which constantly interact with each other. From this reasonable remark they, however, go on directly to a controversial statement that “it is 5

See, especially, W. R. Irwin’s definition which is exemplary in this respect: “a story based on and controlled by an overt violation of what is generally accepted as possibility” (105). Similar elements surface in definitions by Tymn, Zahorski and Boyer: “Fantasy, as a literary genre, is composed of works in which nonrational phenomena play a significant part … The nonrational phenomena of fantasy simply do not fall within human experience or accord with natural laws as we know them” (3) and Kathryn Hume: “deliberate departure from the limits of what is usually accepted or normal” (xii). Compare also Schlobin, The Literature of Fantasy 170 and Mobley 134. 6 This problem is discussed at length by Scholes, “The Fictional Criticism” 2-7 and Zgorzelski, “Theoretical Preliminaries” 11-18. The latter states, for example, that “since the nature of notation is semiotic, neither a literary nor any other text can reflect the generally nonsemiotic reality around us. Between a semiotic and phenomenal reality there is an abysmal difference. Moreover, we say that a literary text is autonomous also by virtue of its world model being an intentional object. And the nature of the intentional object is such (among others) that the inquiry about its truth vis-á-vis the phenomenal reality does not appear valid. Hence, since the likeness of the intentional object to any real object does not determine its truthfulness or falsity, since the statements in a literary text are quasi-statements (Ingarden 1960: 179-212; 224-228, 229-244) which refer only to the states of objects within the textual world model, there is no sense in any direct comparison of a fictional universe with the reality we live in” (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 12). 7 Those two parts of definition would correspond to the categories of “low” vs. “high” fantasy as introduced by Tymn, Boyer and Zahorski and discussed later in this chapter. It is also, in a way, analogous (that is, helps to delimitate similar groups of texts) to antimimetic/fantastic vs. exomimetic modes as presented by Zgorzelski within his system of supragenological types of fiction.

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… quite simple to erect a theoretical system that distinguishes the genres, though in practice it is not especially helpful” (408). They argue that: The usual way is to regard fantasy as a subset of fiction, a circle within a circle. (The bit between inner and outer circles is mimetic fiction, which cleaves to known reality … ) Within the inner circle of fantasy—the fiction of the presently unreal—is a smaller circle still, a subset of a subset, and this is sf. It shares with fantasy the idea of a novum: some new element, something that distinguishes the fiction of reality as presently constituted … The subset that is sf insists that the novum be explicable in terms that adhere to conventionally formulated law; the remainder, fantasy, has no such requirement … [M]imetic fiction is real, fantasy is unreal … sf is unreal but natural, as opposed to the remainder of fantasy, which is unreal and unnatural. (Or, simpler still, sf could happen, fantasy couldn’t.) … [A]ll sf is fantasy, but not all fantasy is sf … (408)

As we can see, science fiction is perceived here both as a subcategory within fantasy and as an intermediate one positioned between fantasy and mimetic fiction. Despite the editors’ claims, this rather un-hierarchical system is probably more commonsensical than theoretical. As such it adequately serves its purposes. In the case of popular compendiums or reference works aimed at a wide and varied reader—such as both of these encyclopedias, it is naturally more reasonable to rely on commonsensical notions than to engage in a complex genological dispute. However, although the above definition notably tries to find a common framework for fantasy, SF and mimetic fiction, it at the same time once more directly compares empirical and textual realities. It almost entirely relies on, by principle, subjective perceptions of what is real, possible or natural,8 and 8

Logical and theoretical problems involved in such an approach are best summarised by Zgorzelski (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 11-18). He notes that “both the popular and the critical understanding of the fantastic was based upon the common usage of the ethnical language, which makes the fantastic a synonym of ‘improbable’, ‘strange’, ‘unusual’, unreal’. We should remember, perhaps, that such an understanding is strictly connected with the recognition of what is normal, probable, usual and everyday-like in the phenomenal reality. This recognition varies from society to society and from individual to individual both in time and in space: an angel was commonly considered a real element of the world in the Middle Ages and—on the other hand—even today one can find people who will not believe in man's landing on the Moon. The establishment of norm, of what is probable and what is not depends on social agreement at a given time and in a given culture … [W]hen one speaks and observes literature, it seems really important to realise once more that—while studying it—we observe a different reality, a textual one, and that the common usage of an ethnical language is not the

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basically does not look into the more structural or internal traits of the texts involved. A similar approach has been adopted by Ruth Nadelman Lynn, who delineates fantasy literature as “books in which magic causes impossible, often wondrous events to occur.” Similarly to the authors of the Encyclopedia, she states that “[f]antasy tales can be set in our everyday world on in a “secondary” world somewhat like our own”. She also emphasises that [t]ales of fantasy should not be confused with science fiction stories, which involve a future more or less possible by scientific or technological advances” (xvi). In her own subsequent review of fantasy literature for children and young adults she groups texts according to their thematic content into such categories as “allegorical fantasy”, “animal fantasy”, “ghost fantasy”, “high fantasy”, “humorous fantasy”, “magic adventure fantasy”, “time travel fantasy”, “toy fantasy” and “witchcraft and sorcery fantasy”. Another good example of a simple theme- or motif-based taxonomy is provided by Baird Searless, Beth Meacham and Michael Franklin in A Reader’s Guide to Fantasy. The volume, which is a sequel to the similar Reader’s Guide to Science-Fiction by the same authors, acknowledges the emergence of fantasy as a new literary phenomenon which is clearly distinct from science fiction (although the authors speak of it as of a separate genre, from the context that it is rather clear that, in fact, they mean a cultural or market category).9 Despite the fact that the tone of the work is again more casual than scholarly, several insightful observations have been made here; for example, the claim that “all fiction is fantasy, no matter how realistic” (208) echoes Robert Scholes’s seminal statement.10 The authors also see the need for a category of fantasy in its widest meaning (that is, equivalent to the term non-mimetic literature in the methodology I am using), encompassing all sorts of fiction that is opposed best tool to describe what we observe. Between the laws of the surrounding reality and the laws of a literary text there is always a relation of change (among others the change of accidental chaos of reality into the teleological order of the text), and because of that there is no use in comparing them” (16-17) . 9 It is safe to assume that “fantasy” as a separate market category, as opposed to SF, came into being only in the 1960s and 1970s. It is worth noting once more here that what was, both in the case of SF and fantasy, generally recognised as the appearance of a new genre, marked, in fact, primarily the appearance of a new market category. This, in turn, obviously converged with the rapid evolution of new generic structures, but the relationship between both (that is, the genological categories and their public perceptions) is by no means simple and based on a oneto-one principle. 10 See the introduction, note 4.

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to “realistic” or mimetic writing. This “coherent” or “realistic” fantasy falls, according to them, into three main divisions—science fiction (“when the fantasy elements are given a scientific or pseudo-scientific rationale”), horror (“when they are evoked to terrify or horrify”), and, “when it’s neither”—pure fantasy. This last category is, in turn, subdivided into six major types “into which most fantasy seems naturally to fall” (185). These six types, labelled with seemingly fitting quotations or phrases, are based on predominant themes, motifs or settings. The first type, There and Back Again, includes texts “in which someone from our world ventures, falls, or is abducted into another, more magical world” (185). Beyond the Fields We Know “describes those works which take place entirely in magic worlds, with no concrete links to our own time and place” (186). Unicorns in the Garden “characterize those tales in which magical and fantastic events occur in our mundane world” (186). That Old Black Magic is introduced as a subdivision of the preceding category, including specifically stories “in which the everyday is menaced by the supernatural to inspire fright and horror”. Bambi’s children encompass tales “in which animals think, speak, and act with human intelligence”. Finally, Once and Future Kings, Queens and Heroes refers to texts “that have been handed down from time immemorial, the great legends of many cultures, which have been used by contemporary authors to provide new insights into the ancient myths or into our own time” (186). The above distinction, one-dimensional and strictly commonsensical, while adequately fulfilling its purposes (that it is guiding the potential reader), obviously lacks theoretical foundations. It is, nevertheless, remarkable that some of the ideas introduced here will reappear in the more sophisticated attempts that have been undertaken to deal with the issue. Slightly more complex is the classification proposed by Marshall Tymn, Kenneth J. Zahorski and Robert H. Boyer in their Fantasy Literature. A Core Collection and Reference Guide. Fantasy is defined here as “a literary genre in which nonrational phenomena play a significant part” (3). The authors perceive it necessary to distinguish not only between fantasy and mainstream literature, but also between fantasy “and several other nonmainstream types of literature” (4), which they specify as, chiefly, “dream visions, psychological fantasies, weird tales, lost race adventures, and science fiction” (4). As the authors suggest, “all these types resemble fantasy in that they present seemingly nonrational phenomena, but in each case there is a rational or scientific explanation for, or rationalization of, the phenomena. Fantasy offers no such scientific explanations” (4). Reliance on such a subjective and extra-textual in nature

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criterion as the presence of “nonrational phenomena” is, again, bound to raise serious theoretical doubts, but it is also worth remarking that even if we tried to apply this criterion for strictly pragmatic reasons, the results would be far from satisfactory. There are, simply, too many contemporary works which undoubtedly qualify as fantasy (and have also been included in Fantasy Literature) in which seemingly nonrational phenomena are, in fact, rationalised or explained in various ways. A very good example is posed by magic—the obligatory element of fantasy which in many, especially newer works, is described and explained in an analogous way as advanced technology in SF novels.11 Even the very existence of fantasy worlds is sometimes rationalised and explained as well (vide the concept of multi-universes).12 On the other hand, also many works that might be initially described as “lost race adventures” or “weird tales” include strongly accentuated nonrational elements. When it comes to sketching out the demarcation lines within the field of fantasy itself, Tymn, Zahorski and Boyer primarily distinguish between “low fantasy”, whose plots are set in “the primary world—this real world we live in”, and “high fantasy”, whose plots are set in a “secondary world” (5).13 Although some elements of the above description (a direct comparison of textual and empirical realities) again do not suit the theoretical premises of the present discussion, the distinction as introduced above, as well as the application of the term “secondary world fantasy”, is noteworthy because it will reappear in several subsequent treatments of the problem. Additionally, the authors also introduce such categories as myth and fairy tale fantasy, sword sorcery and heroic fantasy, gothic fantasy and science fantasy. The first two seem to be theme- or content-based subcategories of high fantasy. Gothic fantasy, in turn, according to the authors expresses “humankind’s archetypal fascination with, and fear of, the unknown and the unnatural” (15). They also state that, “just as fantasy literature in general can be divided into high and low fantasy, so too can Gothic fantasy be divided by the same differentiating criteria of causality and setting”, but at the same time they remark that “the effect of the Gothic is more startling in low fantasy”.14 Finally, the authors propose that

11

See TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku 149-150. I will briefly discuss those analogies in Chapter Four. 12 See TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku 130-136. The issue of multi-universes will also be touched upon in Chapter Five. 13 See also Zahorski and Boyer, “The Secondary Worlds of High Fantasy”. 14 See the discussion of horror in Chapter Six, section 2.

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Obviously, Tymn, Zahorski and Boyer do not aim at creating a methodologically coherent taxonomy; they simply try to negotiate between the set of rather confusing terms and conflicting definitions. The arrangement they offer is simple and usually based on single and, sometimes, methodologically unrelated factors (such as the setting in the case of low and high fantasy, the thematic content in the case of sword and sorcery, or the effect on the reader in the case of gothic fantasy). This classification cannot be regarded as fully scholarly (although it often refers to current academic criticism), but it, obviously, once again adequately serves its primary objective, which is (similarly as in the previous cases) to offer guidance to the (not necessarily academic) reader of contemporary fantasy. Nevertheless, it includes several interesting observations, such as the already mentioned division into low and high fantasy based on the setting, or the introduction of the term “secondary world fantasy” which results from it. A view of fantasy literature in a broader meaning (that is encompassing all kinds of non-mimetic writing) is also applied by Lucie Amrit in her Fantasy Fiction. An Introduction. The author lists “utopia, allegory, fable myth, science fiction, the ghost story, space opera, travelogue, the Gothic [and] cyberpunk” as the most important “modes of fiction” that are discussed in her book as “fantasy” (1). At the same time she does not truly undertake any taxonomical attempts, but simply relies on popular notions concerning the genres or classes of “fantastic fiction”. Another, apparently more self-conscious classification is offered by Colin Manlove in his work The Fantasy Literature of England. It is, however, at the same time limited in scope, as the study focuses only on English fantasy. The initial definition of fantasy that Manlove provides— “a fiction involving the supernatural or the impossible” (3)—enables one to discuss a seemingly vast range of non-mimetic texts. Characteristically, science fiction is again excluded, although, arguably, it might fit the second part of Manlove’s broadly-drawn (and a bit vague) definition (“the impossible”). This exclusion results, probably once more, from the popular perception that regards science fiction as a self-contained category, somehow separate from the mainstream of non-mimetic fiction as well as

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from the unwillingness on the part of the critic to deal with SF texts.15 Once arriving at his definition of fantasy, Manlove suggests that its texts “may be assembled in as natural groupings as possible within it, which will then provide a means of talking coherently about various texts” (4). Subsequently, six types are suggested: secondary world, metaphysical, emotive, comic, subversive and children’s fantasy. Secondary world fantasy, “in which the writer invents an alternative world with its own rules”, seems to be almost an identical category as the high fantasy proposed by Tymn, Zahorski and Boyer. In metaphysical fantasy, as Manlove suggests, “we are often asked to take the supernatural presented as in some sense potentially real. The supernatural is subsumed in a larger pattern, Christian, religious, mythic, cosmic or temporal” (4). The author associates it with such writers as Arthur Machen, G. K. Chesterton and Charles Williams. Emotive fantasy, in turn, is described as “fantasy in which the evocation or portrayal of feeling is central … [It] includes fantasies of both desire and wonder, and of fear and horror; pastoral and elegiac fantasy; and animal fantasy” (5). Its authors, as Manlove suggests, “range from Kenneth Grahame to M. R. James and from Hugh Lofting to George Orwell” (5). The relatively simple category of comic fantasy “can involve parody, satire, nonsense or play” (5). It includes such diverse works as William Beckford’s Vathek, Robert Irwin’s Limits of Vision or Terry Pratchett’s “Discworld” novels. Subversive fantasy, in turn, “whether through dream, nightmare or postmodernist dislocation, seeks to remove our assurances concerning reason, morality, 15

Interestingly, it seems that the acceptance of non-mimetic texts both by the general reading public and the critics is gradable and largely based on their generic status. Generally speaking, science fiction seems to be most hermetic and requires the most reading competence (meant as the consciousness of the conventions of the genre, its traditions and modes, as well as of certain extra-literary contexts relating to, for example, the paradigms of modern science) both from the reader and the critic. In other words, a “mainstream” reader or critic is more likely to occasionally develop interest in a fantasy book than in hardcore SF. Then, again, within this broad fantasy field some texts (“low fantasy” or antimimetic works, apparently set in mimetic reality) are more readable to a wider, non-fan public than others (“high” fantasy or exomimetic SWF novels set in “another” world). On the whole, the more a non-mimetic text pretends to conceal its generic status, the more likely it is going to be accepted by the mainstream public. Two main factors seem to be responsible for this: 1. The traditional system of literary evaluation, according to which, “the more alike a fictional world of a novel is to our reality, the higher the novel is evaluated as a piece of art” (Zgorzelski, “Theoretical Preliminaries” 12); 2. The fact that non-mimetic literature usually requires additional reading competence in comparison to the most popular mimetic forms.

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or reality—or, more recently, all fixities of whatever kind, narrative, temporal, sexual or linguistic” (5-6). In the context of this type of fantasy Manlove mentions such diverse works as Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner and contemporary novels by John Fowles, Angela Carter and Peter Ackroyd. The last category, children’s fantasy, “is made up of fantasies from the other sub-groups … shaped to a different readership” (6). Once more, the classification is not coherent methodologically as it refers to rather heterogeneous factors while specifying particular types. Thus, in secondary world fantasy the setting is used as a categorydeterminant, whereas metaphysical fantasy is defined mostly by its underlying ideological structure. Emotive, comic and subversive fantasy, in turn, in their description rely mostly on the effect they make on the reader, as well as (in the case of the two latter types) on the application of certain genres and modes or the manner of distorting reality. Finally, children’s fantasy (which Manlove somehow sets apart from the remaining categories by recognising it as a “cross-boundary” type) is defined by its audience. Even a casual glance at the above classification reveals that—were it to be regarded as a full-fledged taxonomy—it brings more problems than it resolves; for example, the particular types do not seem to be mutually exclusive. Thus, The Lord of the Rings, classified here on the basis of its setting as secondary world fantasy, also perfectly fits Manlove’s initial description of metaphysical fantasy. Similarly, Pratchett’s Discworld novels, which are assigned to the comic fantasy category, unquestioningly construct a full-fledged secondary world. Manlove himself notices the issue by admittedly stating that “it would be unreasonable to pretend that a given fantasy text always belongs wholly to one rather than another” category (6). It is, nevertheless, difficult to agree that these six groups are truly distinct from a more synthetic or historical-literary perspective. In fact, they seem to be typical critical constructs which enable the researcher to effectively discuss the texts that seem to be of most interest to him or her at the moment. There is, obviously, again nothing wrong with such an approach. It is, nevertheless, again important to understand that the classification produced by it is bound to prove largely unsatisfactory from the genological point of view. In the present section I have tried to critically discuss the most popular thematic taxonomies that have been introduced so far. They are, in most cases, not scholarly or academic, but they cannot simply be ignored as they exert a significant impact on the contemporary discourse on nonmimetic literature in which, as has been said, popular, critical and theoretical notions continually intermingle, influence one another and,

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unfortunately, sometimes also get confused. While the list of particular proposals as discussed above is by no means complete, it is, hopefully, fairly representative and describes the most crucial concepts introduced by that sort of approach. It is not my intention to dismiss those proposals for what they truly are; they quite efficiently serve their real purposes which are, as was noted on many occasions, cultural rather than literary-theoretical. My point is rather to emphasise the fact that—due to the lack of more solid theoretical foundations and methodological consistency—they cannot be regarded as the best starting point for a more comprehensive taxonomical debate, although, undoubtedly, they include several useful intuitions that definitely deserve consideration and, perhaps, reworking in a proper genological discussion. Interestingly, they also frequently delimitate roughly similar or at least comparable classes of texts as more sophisticated methodologically taxonomies, thus proving that their commonsensical intuitiveness is, in fact, quite effective.

4. Literary-Critical and Theoretical Taxonomies of Non-Mimetic Literature In the present section the most important literary-critical proposals or discussions, relating more or less directly to the issue of the taxonomy of non-mimetic literature, will be summarised. However, before I start my survey, two important reservations have to be made. First, it is strictly the taxonomical issues, not the general theories of fantasy or the fantastic for their own sake, that are central to my interests. This is why I will cover only those discussions that—at least partially— have resulted in sketching out proposals pertaining to methodologically coherent classifications of non-mimetic literature (or at least fantasy in a wider or narrower meaning, as specified by a given researcher), and I will ignore those which—despite their critical or cognitive merit—have not resulted in similar proposals. In other words, I will discuss Todorov and Jackson, but not Rabkin; Mendlesohn but not Irwin or Attebery. This is not because I value some theories or debates over others, but simply because I find some arguments more relevant in the context of my present subject. Second, as has already been said, all those holistic theories will not be analysed for their own sake. The objective of most of the research up to date has been to discuss the vital but extremely confusing denominations of “fantasy” or “the fantastic”. Those denominations have been defined in various ways with the help of varied methodological apparatuses and have

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been approached from different angles. They have been analysed as a mode, a worldview, a cognitive strategy or a genre. On many occasions not only the literary-theoretical, but also wider cultural, anthropological, psychological or philosophical perspectives have been taken. The theories summarised here have proposed certain specific understandings of the terms in question and have introduced certain complex concepts. They also, in numerous cases, have provoked much polemical discussion, if not overt critique, thus proving to be at least as much controversial as insightful. I believe they all have—in varying degrees—contributed to a better understanding of this complex phenomenon which (although differently understood) “fantasy literature” is, and have provided us with useful insights about the role “the fantastic” mode plays in culture in general. It is, however, not my intent to evaluate them for their real merit or actual aspirations, but only to inspect the potential usefulness of particular taxonomical suggestions in the context of the genological approach I have adopted. Thus I will not discuss in depth or compare various (and usually conflicting) definitions of “fantasy” or “the fantastic” as introduced by particular researchers, as these are only marginal to my interests. Tzvetan Todorov’s The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, which appeared first in French in 1970 and then in English in 1976, can probably be viewed as first in a series of the most influential critical proposals on the subject. The notion of Todorov’s “fantastic”, which the researcher claims to be a genre (although many other critics elaborating on his theories or presenting comparable concepts rather denominate it as a mode) is primarily based on a hesitation on the part of both the character and the reader about the nature of fictional events. “[T]he text must oblige the reader to consider the world of the characters as a world of living persons and to hesitate between a natural and a supernatural explanation of the events described … this hesitation may also be experienced by a character” (33). By taking this concept of the fantastic as a starting point, Todorov evolves a classification of literature which includes, apart from “the fantastic”, categories of “the uncanny” and “the marvelous”: The fantastic … lasts only as long as a certain hesitation: a hesitation common to reader character, who must decide whether or not what they perceive derives from “reality” as it exists in common opinion. At the story’s end, the reader makes a decision even if the character does not; he opts for one solution over the other … If he decides that the laws of reality remain intact and permit an explanation of the phenomenon described, we say that the work belongs to another genre: the uncanny. If, on the

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contrary, he decides that new laws of nature must be entertained to account for the phenomena, we enter the genre of the marvelous. The fantastic … seems to be located on the frontier of two genres, the marvelous and the uncanny rather than be an autonomous genre. (41)

Subsequently, also two subgenres are introduced, the fantastic-uncanny and the fantastic marvelous, which “sustain the hesitation characteristic of the true fantastic for a long period, but that ultimately resolve into the marvelous or in the uncanny” (44). In this typology the true fantastic is a kind of ephemeral category occupying the frontier between the adjacent realms of the fantastic-marvelous and the fantastic-uncanny. The above classification is, obviously, mainly the result of approximating the elusive notion of specifically defined fantastic, which is in the centre of the researcher’s interests. It is notable that Todorov seems to dismiss out of hand the whole realm of contemporary popular literature. He mainly discusses the works of such classic writers as Franz Kafka, Jan Potocki, Théophile Gautier, Guy de Maupassant, E. T. A. Hoffman, Edgar Allan Poe or Nicolai Gogol. In the whole study no single author is cited that could be associated with contemporary science fiction or fantasy. Thus, Todorov’s original proposal is of rather marginal relevance for any discussion concerning more widely understood non-mimetic literature, although his categories undoubtedly present significant cognitive potential. Todorov’s theory has been subsequently developed or modified by other researchers who attempted, at least partially, to use his typology against a larger body of texts. Probably the most prominent of such attempts is that presented in Fantasy. The Literature of Subversion by Rosemary Jackson, which was mentioned briefly in the previous chapter. As I have already suggested, Jackson’s stance is more cultural than strictly literary-theoretical; it strongly relies on the psychoanalytical approach and involves a clear ideological agenda, but the researcher also arrives at some interesting observations that directly pertain to our subject. Jackson’s fantastic, while upholding Todorov’s major characteristics (that is the uncertainty of the reader/character about the status of the textual reality), is discussed in social, political and psychological contexts. It is understood primarily as the literature of subversion of dominant ideologies as well as of social and cultural structures. In contradistinction to Todorov, the fantastic is viewed here as a mode (rather than a genre) that “assumes different generic forms” (35) and is placed “between the opposite modes of the marvelous and the mimetic” (32). This distinction between a mode (a wider category, basically describing the sort of relationship between the empirical and textual realities) and a genre (a more specific, historically variable category), although rather marginal for

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Jackson’s own argument, seems to be essential to our present discussion. Of the two remaining modes delineated by Jackson, the mimetic mode includes narratives “which claim to imitate an external reality” and make “an implicit claim of equivalence between represented fictional world and the ‘real’ world outside the text” (33-34).16 The marvelous mode, in turn, is associated by Jackson with fairy story, romance, magic and supernaturalism (33). As the researcher states: Movement into a marvelous realm transports the reader … into an absolutely different, alternative world, a “secondary” universe … This secondary, duplicated cosmos, is relatively autonomous, relating to the “real” only through metaphorical reflection and never, or rarely, intruding into or interrogating it. This is the place of William Morris’ The Wood Beyond the World, Frank Baum’s Wonderful Wizard of Oz, C. S. Lewis’s Narnia, Fritz Leiber’s Newhon, Tolkien’s Middlearth in The Lord of the Rings, Frank Herbert’s Dune, the realms of fairy story and of much science fiction. (42-42)

It is remarkable that—despite the dominant notions in contemporary criticism—Jackson emphasises a special affinity between science fiction texts and those that have on numerous occasions been described as secondary world fantasy17, which is based on the creation of an autonomous “secondary” universe in the text. They are both juxtaposed with “true” fantasy texts, which are set in a world claiming to be empirical reality. The usefulness of the main part of Jackson’s argument (including her discussions of particular modes) for more synthetic taxonomical objectives is limited, as the author focuses primarily on her presentation of fantasy as a literature of social and cultural subversion. The choice of texts is restricted to those supporting or central for the author’s argument. What is, however, valid for some texts and justifiable in the case of ideological argumentation is not necessarily relevant when we attempt a more comprehensive description of a vast body of non-mimetic works. There is, for example, undoubtedly a large number of “marvelous” narratives that, by Jackson’s own standards, might be described as “subversive” and, on the other hand, many “fantastic” narratives that can hardly be regarded as such; there are also many non-mimetic texts which do not fit in either of the categories as Jackson delineates them. In other words, it is 16

It is notable that unlike many other critics, Jackson does not confuse between textual and empirical realities. See note 6 in this chapter. 17 See, especially, Tymn, Zahorski and Boyer, “The Secondary Worlds of High fantasy”; TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku 9-25.

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questionable whether the “subversive” qualities of literary texts are as much determined by the modes of creating fictional worlds as Jackson argues. Martin Horstkotte’s study, The Postmodern Fantastic in Contemporary British Fiction, devotes its initial chapters to several theoretical problems. While delimitating the category of the fantastic, it also indirectly deals with taxonomical issues. The fantastic (whose definition strongly relies on Todorov’s and Jackson’s theories) is juxtaposed both with realism and fantasy (and, additionally, with magic realism). The fantastic vs. fantasy distinction is mostly equivalent to Jackson’s the fantasy/fantastic vs. the marvelous opposition.18 However, whereas Jackson’s marvelous seems to encompass all texts involving the construction of a secondary world (including science fiction), Horstkotte’s fantasy is limited to the contemporary genre of secondary world fantasy. Thus the question of SF and its taxonomical relation towards both fantasy and the fantastic is ignored by the researcher. Horstkotte also points to the terminological confusion concerning the mutual relationship of the terms “the fantastic” and “fantasy”. By some researchers these notions are mostly (if a bit imprecisely) used as basically equivalent (Todorov, Jackson), whereas others juxtapose them as referring to different classes of texts (Ziolkowski, Horstkotte himself). The third type of non-mimetic form discussed by Horstkotte is magic realism. This term is used to refer not only to the historical and local category of Latin-American magic realism which is associated with such writers as Garcia Márquez or Alejo Carpentier, but also to denote a certain theoretical category. As Horstkotte explains, “[M]agic realism resembles the fantastic in its portrayal of two levels of reality. These two perspectives are initially conflicting but are reconciled in the narrative because the supernatural is integrated into the narrative everyday world” (40). Thus, finally, the three non-mimetic literary forms are compared and juxtaposed: The fantastic gives voice to a clash between two conflicting worlds or codes, that of the self of consensus reality and that of the fantastic order. The other subverts realism, induces doubt in the reader as to its reality status and is frequently seen as hostile by the self. Fantasy, on the other hand, is a non-confrontational non-mimetic form that shows the reader a secondary world which accepts the supernatural as real and which bears 18

This incompatibility well illustrates the terminological confusion that is present in contemporary literary criticism where similar or identical terms often refer to entirely different concepts, and the other way around.

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Chapter Two little resemblance to the world of the reader. Magic realism occupies a middle position between the two utmost, partaking of both to a certain extent. Magic realism is thus congruent with each of the two other nonmimetic literary forms: like the fantastic, it presents the reader with the two conflicting levels of reality, which do not clash, however, but combine in one harmonious reality. In this respect magic realism resembles fantasy which does not elicit any hesitancy or wonder in the reader either. (41)

It is worth noting that Horstkotte describes his three categories—the fantastic, fantasy and magic realism—in very similar terms to Andrzej Zgorzelski’s supragenological types of fantastic, exomimetic and antimimetic fiction, respectively. In the case of the fantastic, analogously to Zgorzelski’s fantastic literature, the confrontation between two world models is emphasised (see Chapter Six). Horstkotte’s fantasy, in turn, set in a secondary world in which the supernatural is accepted as real, is basically identical with the exomimetic genre of secondary world fantasy as approximated in this paper (see Chapter Four). Magic realism, which presents a world in which two apparently clashing levels of reality combine in one harmonious model, is more or less equivalent to antimimetic “fantasy” (further described in Chapter Five). All of the three discussions summarised above attempt—at varying degrees and in their own respective ways—to delimitate non-mimetic forms on the basis of the relationship between the textual reality and “the consensual” or the empirical one, and also define them in terms of the status of the world order/orders as presented in the text. None of them truly engages in the discussion of a larger body of non-mimetic texts at a strictly generic level, as the categories introduced here are clearly of a supragenological19 nature and, perhaps, could be best described as “modes”, i.e. using the term proposed by Jackson. Nevertheless, despite certain shortcomings, the discussions by Todorov, Jackson and Horstkotte also provide several extremely interesting insights when it comes to strictly taxonomical issues. Those suggestions are often considerably compatible with the approach that has been adopted in this paper. Another group of literary-critical discussions that I will consider in the present section is perhaps less concerned with a multifaceted approximation or defining of “the fantastic” in literature, but more openly reveals taxonomical interests per se. What is important is that this taxonomical interest is clearly directed at a wider and more diverse body 19

The term introduced by Zgorzelski to refer to categories that are more general than literary genres (understood as literary historical systems). See Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 31.

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of contemporary texts. William L. Godshalk tries to answer a very vital question which some other researchers ignore, namely, “how is science fiction related to fantasy?” (149). Godshalk assumes a “broader” definition of fantasy by arguing that science fiction is its subgenre (149). He also proposes four major subdivisions of fantasy: pure fantasy, philosophic fantasy, critical fantasy and realistic fantasy (science fiction). Pure fantasy is described as “fantasy for the sake of fantasy” (150). Godshalk argues that “here the fantasy has minimal or no ideological content, and we hunt in vain for mature ideas, critical awareness, or scientific extrapolation. The plot line means everything, and the author tries to engage our emotions without troubling our minds” (150). He mentions in this context the writings of Dunsany and Tolkien. Philosophic fantasy, in turn, “may be derived on the one hand from Plato, and on the other from the Bible. Here fantasy is used as a vehicle for imaginatively expounding ideas […] There is a neat union of form and matter” (150). This type of fantasy is exemplified by the works of E. R. Eddison, C. S. Lewis and Olaf Stapledon. Critical fantasy, as Godhalk argues, brings us closer […] to science fiction, for here the fantasy is used as a way of discussing the world of objective ‘reality.’ Usually under the guise of ‘sword and sorcery’, the author of critical fantasy discusses the world as he sees it […] What distinguishes this sub-division from philosophical fantasy is that the author is not merely expounding philosophy, he is offering a critique of his world. Here there is critical awareness. (150)

The researcher associates with critical fantasy such diverse writers as James Branch Cabell, Alfred Bester or Kurt Vonnegut. Finally, “realistic fantasy is science fiction. It is based on extrapolation, and the author attempts to project a future world”. As Godshalk summarises it, “the four sub-categories of fantasy underline the four basic functions of the genre: (1) to create a world which will never exist in reality; (2) to create a world of the intellect, a philosophy; (3) to criticize the world we live in; (4) to project a possible world of the future” (151). Godshalk’s taxonomy is, arguably, subject to controversy as it is rather one-dimensional, evaluative in nature, based on the researcher’s subjective criteria and his equally subjective assessment of the particular works/genres. Yet, the critic’s attempt to sketch out categories within all of non-mimetic literature (referred to as “fantasy”) as well as his emphasis on the need for a more precise, theoretical distinction between science

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fiction and other forms of fantasy/non-mimetic literature is noteworthy. The issue of the mutual relationship between SF and fantasy also lies at the core of a more sophisticated theoretical framework as proposed by Darko Suvin in his essay Science Fiction and the Genological Jungle. The researcher, who clearly declares his genological interest, proposes a certain system that is defined by two binary oppositions: “naturalistic” vs. “estranged” and “cognitive” vs. “non-cognitive”. Suvin’s naturalistic category, a bit poetically described as fiction “endeavoring to faithfully reproduce empirical textures and surfaces vouched for by human senses and common sense”, is equivalent to the traditional notion of “realistic” or mimetic literature. Similarly, estranged fiction, “creating a radically or significantly different formal framework— different space/time location or central figures for the fable” equals nonmimetic fiction (or fantasy, or fantastic fiction in the broadest sense). Naturalistic fiction “has thus a straightforward relationship to the ‘zero world’” (253). As Suvin argues, “in naturalistic fiction, as in the zero world, physics stands in no significant relation to ethics” and “it is the activity of the protagonists, interacting with other equally unprivileged figures, that determines the course of narration” (254). As the researcher concludes, “in such a model, relating ethics to physics (Hollywood happyend, say) signifies a descent into sentimentalism, into what is properly called sub-literature” (254). Thus, within naturalistic literature a distinction can be made between “realistic” literature (cognitive naturalistic literature in which, as has been said, physics stands in no significant relation to ethics) and the sub-literature of “realism” (non-cognitive naturalistic literature, in which the course of narration is often marked by a “predetermined outcome” or sentimental solutions, thus breaking the impression of verisimilitude). An analogous distinction can be made within “estranged” fiction. In estranged fiction too, as Suvin observes, “circumstances around the hero— according to the basic ‘literary contract’ making up a particular estranged genre—are or are not passive or neutral”. In some of it—myth or fantasy and fairy tale—the “world is oriented positively towards its protagonist”. Those genres “in which physics is in some magical or religious way determined by ethics instead of being neutral toward the hero or the total human population of the presented world—deny the autonomy of physics and can be properly called metaphysical” (255). In contradistinction to those metaphysical (estranged non-cognitive) genres, science fiction (and the pastoral) create worlds which “are not a priori intentionally oriented toward their protagonists either positively or negatively. The protagonists may succeed or fail in their objectives, but nothing in the physical laws of

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a pastoral or SF guarantees either” (255). Thus, SF can be described as “the literature of cognitive estrangement” (256). Suvin’s taxonomy is an interesting and sophisticated theoretical construct, and it undoubtedly helps perceive some of the differences between SF and other non-mimetic genres more clearly. However, when we try to apply it against a larger body of contemporary non-mimetic texts, it seems that while it adequately describes some of them, it fails to account for others. For example, it might be argued that in many texts traditionally (and quite reasonably) labelled as science fiction, the universe—using Suvin’s own terms—is somehow oriented towards the protagonist, and that the ethical dimension does affect the outcome of the narration. On the other hand, many recent secondary world fantasy works attempt to reflect the ethical indifference and contingency of the universe.20 This does not in any way question the usefulness of Suvin’s distinction, which interestingly delineates certain modes of constructing non-mimetic narrations. I would rather argue at this point that it is simply not, on its own, a sufficient tool for drawing out a more synthetic taxonomy, which needs to rely on a wider set of more varied factors. Moreover, Suvin’s description of the “metaphysical” estranged genres, such as fairy tale or fantasy, as “non-cognitive” might be viewed as too evaluative and controversial as well. As, for example, S. C. Fredericks observes, fantasy is ‘escapist’ in a technical sense since its fictive alternate worlds are portrayed as radically unlike the real world, but this cannot preclude an authentic cognitive dimension to Fantasy. Darko Suvin’s notion of ‘cognitive estrangement’ in SF may still be accurate as long as it does not consign Fantasy to some absolute non-cognitive area; that is, Fantasy and SF may involve different modes of cognition or sources of cognition. (42)

Taxonomical interests are also emphasised in Farah Mendlesohn’s recent study entitled Rhetorics of Fantasy. The author clearly perceives the need for a more comprehensive discussion of the subject. As we remember, Mendlesohn defines her objectives in the following way: Taxonomy, however needs to be understood as a tool, not as an end in itself, and it needs to be understood in the modern context that taxonomical practices are increasingly polysemic and multiplex, generated by acknowledged questions and capable of existence alongside other 20

See TrĊbicki, “Fantasy—ucieczka od cudownoĞci”; “In the Enslavement of the Formula? A Short Survey of Antagonists”; “Farewell to the Hero?—Structuring of the Protagonists in Recent SWF Texts”.

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configurations. It is not my intention to argue that there is only one possible taxonomic understanding of the genre. The purpose of this book is not to offer a classification per se but to consider the genre in ways that open up new questions. It is a tool kit, not a color cart. (xiv)

Mendlesohn’s approach is noteworthy as the author is clearly aware of the dynamic nature of genological literary phenomena. Thus it is compatible with the proposals of such researchers as, for example, Andrzej Zgorzelski, who also emphasises his taxonomical distinctions to be perceived “as an open referential pattern of tendencies instead of a closed system of classification” (“Fantastic Literature” 33). In contradistinction to many other treatments of the issue presented earlier in this chapter, Mendlesohn’s taxonomy is based on a very broad range of works, including, primarily, texts of contemporary popular nonmimetic literature, but also historical eighteenth- and nineteenth-century works, works somehow situated on the verge between popular nonmimetic literature and the mainstream (the “slip-stream” as it is sometimes denominated in contemporary American criticism) as well as those representing Latin-American magic realism. While the author’s wide selection of texts allows for a comprehensive taxonomical discussion, this debate is somehow handicapped by the fact that Mendlesohn does not initially define or, at least, delimitate the fantasy literature whose taxonomy she researches. Her unwillingness to provide yet another definition of fantasy (and engage in a complex and confusing dispute that has been going on for several decades), already stated in the first sentence of the introduction, is to a certain extent understandable. Nevertheless, this attitude raises certain methodological difficulties. First, the dissertation does not give a clear answer as to what sort of notion is exactly implied by “fantasy literature” and its subcategories. Is it a mode (as understood by Jackson or Attebery21), a literary genre (as described by several other scholars) or, simply, a certain cultural category (as Wolfe seems to suggest)? The author frequently uses the term “genre”, but never, in fact, reveals her understanding of this notion. Second, apart from the methodological issues, strictly practical problems arise when it comes to a description of the subject matter of the whole research or to the justification of the conducted selection of texts. Where are the borderlines between Mendlesohn’s fantasy and mimetic literature? Between fantasy and other genres or categories of non-mimetic literature such as science fiction which are frequently referred to in the discussion? It might be argued that the first can be sketched out more or 21

See Strategies of Fantasy 1-17.

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less intuitively, thus at least solving the practical part of the problem. But ignoring the question of the latter results in unavoidable confusion. At some point, for example, Mendlesohn claims that “any sufficiently immersive fantasy is undistinguishable from science fiction” (62). It is, then, justifiable to ask whether science fiction should, perhaps, have been more properly included as yet another category within fantasy literature, which has been drawn rather broadly in the study? As it has not, it would seem appropriate to specify more precisely the distinction between both categories. It appears that Mendlesohn simply relies here on a certain consensual, “popcultural”, civilisational and cultural rather than theoretical division of non-mimetic literature into vague science-fiction and fantasy fields. It is perhaps regrettable that an extremely insightful discussion of particular narrative forms has not been backgrounded against a theoretical framework referring to all of contemporary non-mimetic literature. While introducing her basic assumptions, Mendlesohn acknowledges that “the fantastic … is heavily dependent on the dialectic between author and reader for the construction of a sense of wonder, that is a fiction of consensual construction of belief. This expectation is subject to historical change” (xiii).22 Thus the most crucial factor becomes (quite analogously as in the proposals by Todorov, Jackson and Horstkotte), “the way in which a text becomes fantasy or, alternatively, the way the fantastic enters the text and the reader’s relationship to this” (xiv). Elaborating on this criterion, Mendlesohn proposes that there be “essentially four categories within the fantastic: the portal-quest, the immersive, the intrusive and the luminal” (xiv). Portal fantasy includes texts whose protagonist enters a “fantastical” world through a magical portal. In quest fantasy, in turn, although the protagonist belongs, from the very beginning, to a secondary world, in the course of action he/she leaves his/her mundane routine and sets on a journey which will take him/her into the distant, unknown and magical realms of his/her world. Mendlesohn provides The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis as a typical example of portal fantasy, and The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien as a seminal work of quest fantasy. Both types are grouped together in one portal-quest fantasy category because, as Mendlesohn suggests, the same basic narrative strategy is used here; namely, the fictional world is gradually described and explained from the point of view of the protagonist who is being initiated into it (and with him or her, simultaneously the reader). This narrative form also seems to impose a certain authoritative, exclusive interpretation of the 22

Compare Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 28-32.

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fictional reality and thus significantly limits the narrative possibilities. This immersive fantasy from the very beginning immerses us in the world seen from the position of the protagonist, who knows it perfectly well and belongs to it. Thus, “it presents the fantastic without comment as the norm both for the protagonist and the reader: we sit on the protagonist’s shoulder and while we have access to his eyes and ears, we are not provided with an explanatory narrative” (xx). As the characters are completely integrated with their world, they accept without a single hint of surprise and take for granted all of the “fantastical” elements in their surroundings. Consequently, “immersive fantasy consciously negates the sense of wonder in favor of the atmosphere of ennui” (xxi). The world of immersive fantasy is, in a way, self-contained and isolated. Often the narration is focused on a description of particular places, usually cities. In contradistinction to portal-quest narratives, inspired by the mythical patterns of world’s renewal, immersive fantasies are fantasies of “thinning”, describing the entropy of the world. Immersive fantasy relies on understatement, since the reader is limited only to the information directly accessible for the protagonist who, in turn, takes everything for granted, and as a rule does not bother to describe in much detail what seems to him or her to be pretty obvious. This protagonist—again in contradistinction to portal-quest fantasy—instead of fulfilling the mission that has been bestowed on him or her by the world’s need and higher forces, becomes an antagonist in relation to his/her own microcosm, both critical and evaluating. Immersive fantasy, according to Mendlesohn, can employ a much wider range of possible narrative strategies. In the context of this category such texts are discussed as Michael Swanwick’s The Iron Dragon’s Daughter, Tanith Lee’s Faces Under Water, K. J. Bishop’s The Etched City, John Brunner’s The Compleat Traveller in Black, Steph Swainston’s The Year of Our War, Martine Leavitt’s Dollmage, Diana Wynne Jones’ Black Maria, or Terry Pratchett’s Guards! Guards! The third category, intrusion fantasy, encompasses texts in which the fantastical element invades the “normal” or mimetic reality. As the latter constitutes, in a way, the basic level of the presented world, intrusion fantasies “maintain stylistic realism and rely heavily on explanation” (xxii). The readers “are engaged with the ignorance of the point of view character, usually the protagonist … Unlike the portal fantasy, which it otherwise strongly resembles, the protagonist and the reader are never expected to become accustomed to the fantastic” (xxii). The trajectory of the plot (using Mendlesohn’s own term) is relatively simple and, similarly as in portal-quest fantasy, the narrative possibilities are fairly limited. The

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presented world is, in a way, breached by the sudden appearance of the fantastical element—“the intrusion”—“which disrupts normality and has to be negotiated with or defeated, sent back whence it came or controlled” (115). As examples of intrusion fantasy Mendlesohn provides such works as Anne Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, H. P. Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu, Charles de Lint’s Jack the Giant Killer, Emma Bull’s War for the Oak, Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood, Elizabeth Hand’s Mortal Love, Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, Graham Joyce’s Tooth Fairy or Jonathan Carroll’s Marriage of the Sticks. The last category, liminal fantasy, seems to be relatively vague and difficult to define. In the reader it usually evokes a feeling of disorientation, the apparent singularity of events is contrasted with a complete, sometimes, lack of surprise on the part of the protagonist. As it “casualizes the fantastic within the experience of the protagonist, it estranges the reader” (xxiv). This category, according to Mendlesohn, is the rarest of all. The researcher discusses it on the basis of such texts as Joan Aiken’s Yes, but Today is Thursday, James Thurber’s The Unicorn in the Garden, Megan Lindholm’s Wizard of the Pigeons, John M. Harrison’s The Course of the Heart, William Mayne’s Tiger’s Railway, and John Crowley’s Little, Big. From a strictly taxonomical point of view the four categories, as proposed by Mendlesohn, may raise several controversies. For example, Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings has been qualified as portal-quest fantasy, whereas his Hobbit and Silmarillion are seen as immersive fantasies. Similarly, various Discworld novels by Terry Pratchett have also been assigned to different categories. The main problem with the proposed typology—if it is to be perceived as a tool of classification (which does not seem to be the researcher’s own intention)—is that it relies basically on a single element (the specifically understood dialectics between the author and the reader about evoking the sense of wonder), while largely ignoring many other factors. Probably the most reasonable approach is to perceive Mendlesohn’s four types of fantasy less as strictly taxonomical categories and more as particular narrative strategies surfacing in various ways and at varying degrees in a wide range of contemporary non-mimetic texts. Nevertheless, despite all the reservations made above, Mendlesohn’s study appears to be one of the most ambitious and well-researched discussions on the subject today. This summary of the literary-critical and theoretical discussions on the taxonomy of non-mimetic literature as presented in this section—although

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by no means exhaustive—hopefully sufficiently illustrates the most typical approaches towards the issue. Despite the unquestionable cognitive merit and sophistication of some of the theories or arguments, they also exhibit considerable shortcomings if their potential usefulness is to be analysed in the context of creating a more synthetic taxonomy. The most significant of these shortcomings (or, perhaps, rather incompatibilities) could be recapitulated in the following way: 1. Frequently the discussions are based on a relatively limited set of texts that reflects the researcher’s interest and approach but does not reflect the richness and diversity of contemporary non-mimetic literature (for example, Todorov or, to a lesser degree, Jackson, Godshalk and Suvin). 2. Many of the critical taxonomies unquestioningly take for granted the cultural (or popcultural) division of non-mimetic literature into fantasy and science fiction (or even ignore science fiction in their discussion) and, as a result, fail to specify the exact relationships between particular groups of texts (mainly fantasy vs. SF) within broadly understood non-mimetic literature (Horstkotte, Mendlesohn). 3. In several cases the taxonomical proposals are based on a single factor or a very limited set of factors (Todorov, Jackson, Suvin, Mendlesohn) or on criteria that are highly evaluative and whose application is bound to manifest the researcher’s own subjectivity or bias (Godshalk, Suvin). On the other hand, the presented discussions also include many insightful observations or contain useful suggestions that can be applied while elaborating a strictly genological taxonomy of non-mimetic literature. The most important conclusions can also be summarised at this point: 1. A comprehensive taxonomy of non-mimetic should take into account a sufficient set of genological factors. 2. It should also be based on the widest possible range of non-mimetic texts regardless of the researcher’s critical preferences. No significant class of texts should be ignored or excluded from such taxonomy. The distinction between science fiction and other genres/types of fantasy/fantastic literature should also be specified precisely in theoretical terms. 3. It is essential to devote special attention to the description of different modes of creating fictional worlds in terms of their exact relationship to the mimetic mode, or, in other words, to the “the dialectic between author and reader for the construction of a sense of wonder”, as proposed by

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Mendelssohn (Rhetorics xiii). There also seems to be a need for intermediate supragenological categories directly related to those modes that will find their realisations in various particular historical generic forms. 4. The final taxonomy should be understood not as a closed classification, but rather as an open referential pattern23 enabling one to discuss a broad range of non-mimetic texts in new, cognitively useful ways. As Mendelsohn suggests, the objective “is not to offer a classification per se but to consider the genre in ways that open up new questions” (Rhetorics xv).

23

See Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 33.

CHAPTER THREE TOWARDS A GENOLOGICAL TAXONOMY OF NON-MIMETIC LITERATURE: SUPRAGENOLOGICAL TYPES OF FICTION

Before I go on to a detailed description of Zgorzelski’s supragenological types of fiction, allow me to briefly summarise the researcher’s main assumptions concerning such fundamental theoretical issues as the definition of the fantastic, the nature of the literary modes of communication and the genre systems themselves, as these are essential in order to understand the researcher’s genological proposals.1 The proposals derive, especially, from Zgorzelski’s proprietary definition of “the fantastic”. The researcher elaborates this notion after a critical discussion of the most typical approaches that either seek to explain the phenomenon of “the fantastic” in terms of a direct comparison between fictional and empirical realities or rely on subjective perceptions of particular readers (see Chapter Two notes 6 and 8). As he summarises his discussion: when one speaks and observes literature, it seems really important to realize once more that—while studying it—we observe a different reality, a textual one, and that the common usage of an ethnical language is not the best tool to describe what we observe. Between the laws of the surrounding reality and the laws of a literary text there is always a relation of change (among others the change of accidental chaos of reality into the teleological order of the text), and because of that there is no use in 1

Most of Zgorzelski’s theoretical proposals, previously published in various essays and books (including the article “Is Science Fiction a Genre of Fantastic Literature?” that appeared in the United States in Science Fiction Studies in 1979) have been conveniently collected in the researcher’s latest work, Born of the Fantastic. Another important work by the researcher is Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction which is “a study of the way in which the fantastic evolved through utopian writing into the modern shape of science fiction” (188). Its review in English by Artur Blaim appeared in SF Studies 24, [July 1981].

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comparing them. (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 17)

Zgorzelski obviously echoes here seminal Robert Scholes’s statement (see the introduction, note 4). Thus the researcher renounces the traditionally understood notion of “realism” and, consequently, defining the fantastic in reference to realism. Instead he suggests that the determinants of the fantastic must be looked for in the autonomous structure of the fictional world—it is the text itself that can establish what is normal, usual, probable and real in the reality it speaks of; it is in the text itself that the laws of its own universe are established … the appearance of the fantastic in a literary text equals the breach of the initially assumed laws of the given fictional world in this text. (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 17)

At first this definition is reminiscent of both Rabkin’s (when he writes about the contradiction of the ground rules of the narrative world)2 and Todorov’s fantastic (insistence on “hesitation”).3 However, while Rabkin seems to have abandoned his initial definition in a subsequent discussion of historical material where, on numerous occasions, he directly compares the textual and “phenomenal” reality, and for Todorov the hesitation between a natural and a supernatural explanation of the events described must be experienced both by the reader and the character, Zgorzelski’s fantastic is a purely intra-textual phenomenon. Thus, consequently, it is only the characters’ reactions that are valid here and it is these reactions that authorise this breach of the initially assumed laws of fictional reality: It is only the reactions of the “inhabitants” of the fictional world themselves that may guide the observer—the reader, the scholar, the critic—in his recognition of the breach. It is only the characters and the narrator who know well the world in which they live and of which they tell stories. It is only them who can recognize the breach of normality, only them who can react to it with surprise, fright, astonishment, disbelief, disconcertment, shock, wonder, awe, or terror. Such reactions, then, are the most obvious textual determinants of the fantastic becoming operative in the given text. (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 20)

Further on, Zgorzelski differentiates between the literary operation of fantastic as specified above and the “feeling of the fantastical by the reader” (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 20). A contemporary reader, for example, 2 3

See Rabkin 4-41. See Todorov 24-40.

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may experience the fantastical quality of novels such as Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings or Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea but, in fact, the fantastic operates in neither of them, as the initially established laws of their respective fictional realities are, actually, never breached. Zgorzelski emphasises the necessity to distinguish between the two: One of them appears in the process of reception of a literary text, and it is simply the reader’s interpretation of the non-mimetic order of a fictional world as the fantastical one (and which, we should add, is both subjective and often non-verifiable since it depends strictly upon the reader’s knowledge and attitude about and towards his/her own reality). The other phenomenon exists as an intratextual bundle of elements and relations between them, the relationship which introduces the discrepancy between the world order at the beginning of the text and the order(s) developing in the same text in the course of action. In other words, one phenomenon exists as the reader’s impression, as the reader’s intrusion into the textual relations, the intrusion being an immediate effect of the process of semiosis, and the other phenomenon exists as a textual literary “device” or a technique rather. (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 21-22)

Consequently, only the phenomenon of the fantastic (and not the subjective and extratextual feeling of the fantastical) falls into the domain of the theory of literature and can be used as a genological concept. Zgorzelski also argues that “the fantastic” so understood is one of the most crucial factors in the evolution of non-mimetic genres, and that it is very much genological in its nature. In the historical-literary process it has frequently proved to be “a factor opposing the petrification of literary patterns, a device functioning contrary to automatising processes and to reproduction of textual structures”, in other words, it has been one of the major redynamising factors in the evolution of literary genres (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 23). Another key notion in Zgorzelski’s theoretical system is that of “the presupposition”. By introducing this concept he again stresses the basic differences between literary and non-literary modes of communication. He reminds us that in the case of non-literary texts the basic procedure “of communication involves a process of recognizing the previous known paradigm of natural language” (“Fantastic Literature”, 29). The dominant semantic tendency of the natural language is to achieve univocality (29). However, this procedure becomes diametrically different in the case of literary texts: The dominant semantic tendency here is not that of a natural language, although the language itself constitutes a sub-code of a literary utterance.

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As unique works of art, each literary text subordinates the linguistic material to its individual, superimposed organization; we have called that organization a supercode—a code individually ascribing additional information to the linguistic signs … Entering into new contrasts and appositions, a number of signs tend towards multivocality, as each of them enriches its meaning because of the change of its relationships within the whole systemic network of signs … In other words, each text builds an individual paradigm which—as it was suggested—is previously unknown to its readers. Hence, reading literature is not basically a recognition of the paradigm, but its reconstruction directly from the syntagmatic relationships of the given utterance—reading literature is an activity which is (or should be) akin to a deciphering of a cryptogram (“Fantastic Literature” 30).

From this summary Zgorzelski proceeds directly to explain his notion of the presupposition: the reader’s reconstruction of the paradigm is at the same time his entrance into a new reality, the cognition of an unknown universe, the discovery of a fictional world which is always a different world. In other words, the dissimilarity of the literary realities to the phenomenal reality is defined by their very fictionality, and not by their “fantastic” qualities. But, simultaneously with that entrance into a new reality, with that discovery of the fictional world, each literary work takes for granted both the reader’s linguistic competence and his knowledge of our phenomenal reality, and while doing so, presupposes a relationship between the given and the reconstructed, between what is known and what is cogitated, between competence and instruction, between the phenomenal and the fictional realities. Such a presupposition constitutes, practically speaking, a kind of unspoken “agreement” between the author and the reader concerning the “style of reading”. (“Fantastic Literature” 30)

It is worth noting that these observations are especially close to those of Robert Scholes (“Structural Fabulation” 45-46) and Farah Mendlesohn (Rhetorics xiii; see my discussion of Mendlesohn’s ideas in Chapter Two). As Zgorzelski further observes, a variety of such presuppositions or “agreements” could also suggest more varied supragenological distinctions of fiction than the traditional division of literature into “realistic” and “fantastic” had proposed. In other words, there are more kinds or types of fiction defined by such presuppositions, than the critics could distinguish up till now. (“Fantastic Literature” 31)

At the same time he feels it necessary to emphasise that

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Zgorzelski altogether proposes six supragenological types of fiction which are distinguished according to the six possible decoding presuppositions. These are: 1. Mimetic literature (ML), which, while taking for granted the reader’s linguistic competence determining his or her knowledge of the phenomenal reality, presupposes only the recognition of its order in the fictional universe. The individual literary supercode is imposed here upon the ethnical language unobtrusively, and this type of literature pretends that the fictional universe is a copy of the phenomenal one.4 2. Paramimetic literature (PL), which, while taking for granted the reader’s linguistic competence and his or her knowledge of the phenomenal reality, presupposes the allegorical or metaphorical translation of the fictional order into the terms of the phenomenal one, despite the possible differences between them. Hence, the fictional universe is created as an allegorical or metaphorical model of some empirical relationships. 3. Antimimetic literature (AL), which, while taking for granted the reader’s linguistic competence and his knowledge of phenomenal reality, presupposes the correction of his presumably faulty vision of the universe, endowing the fictional world with magical or supernatural dimensions and creating a different model of reality, which is presupposed to be a true vision of the universe. 4. Fantastic literature (FL), which, while taking for granted the reader’s linguistic competence determining his knowledge of the phenomenal reality, presupposes the confrontation of its order with a different one, signalling the presupposition by the presentation of both or more orders within the text. It presents all the orders as models, stressing the strangeness of those it confronts with the known order of the phenomenal reality. 5. Exomimetic literature (EL), which, while taking for granted the reader’s linguistic competence determining his knowledge of the phenomenal 4 This definition, as already noted in Chapter Two, is very similar to Jackson’s description of the mimetic mode.

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reality, presupposes the speculation about other possible models of reality either by way of a dreamlike design or by means of rational extrapolation and analogy, presenting these models without any direct textual confrontation between them and the empirical model of the universe. 6. Meta-conventional literature (MC), which, while taking for granted not only the reader’s knowledge of the phenomenal reality and his linguistic competence, but also his competence in traditional literary systems, presupposes a commentary upon the conventional ways of communicating. (“Fantastic Literature” 32-33)

The researcher finally states that it would be a mistake … to envisage these types of fiction as stable and non-evolutionary. Each of them forms a number of genres which, historically changeable, generate successive genre conventions in their development, thus offering a general view of a supremely complicated diachronic network of features, influences, and oppositions both within each distinguished type and in between all six of them. The historical changeability of each type, as well as their tendency to proliferate in hybrid forms, make the proposed distinctions an open referential pattern of tendencies instead of a closed system of classification. (“Fantastic Literature” 33)

As can be clearly perceived, whereas the first of the types described above (mimetic) corresponds to the traditional notion of “realistic” fiction, and the last one (metaconventional) would include various texts that might be labelled as “postmodern”, “metafictional”, “intertextual”, “experimental”, “parodist” or “grotesque”, the four middle categories (which are also jointly referred to in this paper as “non-mimetic” literature) encompass virtually all texts that lie in the range of our present interest, and are usually described in the common speech as “fantastic fiction” or “fantasy literature” (in the broadest meaning of this word, which is inclusive of SF). These four supragenological categories—paramimetic, fantastic, antimimetic and exomimetic literature—appear to provide a convenient referential pattern for further discussion. Zgorzelski’s system focuses primarily on specifying the relationship between the text and the mimetic treatment of reality or, in other words, the exact mode of the construction of the presented world in reference to the assumed cultural empirical baseline. This, I believe, becomes especially crucial when it comes to the description of non-mimetic (that is “fantastic” or “non-realistic”) genres and to describing the crucial differences and relevant borderlines between them. Moreover, although the four basic strategies of non-mimetic world-making as perceived by

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Zgorzelski, i.e. translation, correction, confrontation and speculation, are primarily certain strictly textual operations, they also, at the same time, testify to certain distinct cognitive strategies of artistic dealing with reality which find their realisations in those particular literary modes. Thus the notion of the supragenological types might also prove an interesting starting point for a more cultural or ideological discussion on non-mimetic literature. Obviously, each of the supragenological types will include various genres, both contemporary and historical. Thus Zgorzelski proposes a twolevel genological system. The upper, “supragenological” level is determined primarily by the mode of the presented world’s construction and its relationship to mimetic reality. At the lower, “genological” level, particular genres within a given supragenological type are distinguished on the basis of a whole set of structural or narrative features of particular texts, such as their subject, shaping of the narrator(s), structuring of the spatiotemporal setting, relationships of characters and action, their language as well as the literary conventions they draw upon, predominant motifs, suggested axiology, etc. So approximated genres are again to be understood as certain generalised tendencies, both diachronically evolving and synchronically variable, rather than stiff labels used for the purposes of classification. This two-level model is different from Mendlesohn’s one-level proposal but, in turn, quite analogous to Jackson’s suggestions, who also distinguishes between a mode (a wider category basically describing the sort of relationship between the empirical and textual realities) and a genre (a more specific, historically variable category) (Jackson 32-35). Let us now have a preliminary look at the particular categories. The paramimetic type, according to Zgorzelski, belongs to the oldest ones. It is obviously closely related to allegory. Traditional paramimetic genres include the animal fable, the allegorical romance or the neoclassical pastoral (34). It seems that in modern literature it has surfaced rather sporadically, but it is well visible in such works as, for example, to mention only the most prominent and famous ones, the strongly allegorical Animal Farm (1945) by George Orwell and The Chronicles of Narnia (1950-1956) by C. S. Lewis.5 It seems, however, that the most numerous 5

The Chronicles of Narnia, usually classified as fantasy reveal, in fact, more affinity to classical allegory. There are very significant differences between the ways the world model is created in Lewis’s cycle and, for example, in J. R. R. Tolkien’s famous The Lord of the Rings, although critics traditionally look for analogies between those two works (and their authors), which are often labelled as “Christian”. See my discussion in Chapter Seven.

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group of contemporary paramimetic texts is connected with various “animal” stories. The traditional animal fable was revived in a completely new variation in such books as Watership Down (1972) by Richard Adams or the Duncton (1980-1993) and Wolves of Time (1995-1997) cycles by William Horwood. In the context of the history of antimimetic literature, Zgorzelski mentions such genres as the magical fairy tale and the occult novel (“Fantastic Literature” 34). This category would include all texts in which the fictional world is endowed with magical or supernatural dimensions, and thus a different, “completed” model of reality is created which is presupposed to be the true vision of the universe. There is a clear distinction between antimimetic and secondary world fantasy novels— even if a protagonist enters a secondary world here, this secondary world is not presented as autonomous and separate from the mimetic reality, but it is rather understood as its annex or complement. Thus, in Stalking the Unicorn (1987) by Mike Resnick, a private detective from New York, Mallory, is hired by Elf Mürgenstrüm to find a lost unicorn and travels to a parallel Manhattan, which is ruled by the laws of magic and inhabited by various magical creatures. This other Manhattan is at the same time an implement and antithesis of the first one, and both remain in a state of peculiar symbiosis (TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja Gatunku 122). A very similar operation can be seen in Neverwhere (1996) by Neil Gaiman, whose protagonist leaves the ordinary “London Above” and experiences his adventures in the magical and dangerous “London Below”. In other novels by this author, such as American Gods (2001) and Anansi Boys (2005), legendary gods, eclectically representing all of the world’s mythologies as well as several magical and demonic creatures, walk among mostly unaware humans in what initially appears to be a perfectly mimetic reality. In the famous Harry Potter series (1998-2007) by J. K. Rowling the worlds of Muggles (ordinary people) and wizards exist side by side, and there is regular communication between both, which most Muggles are unaware of. All those texts seem to suggest that, beside the mimetic reality there exist additional dimensions of the world which are secret and hidden for most people, but which are accessible to chosen and initiated ones (TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku 122). Most of the contemporary antimimetic texts are popularly labelled as “fantasy” and put in the same category as the exomimetic texts of SWF by Tolkien, Le Guin, Norton, McKillip or similar authors.6 This is probably 6

Several critics, however, do seem to realise the distinction between both groups of texts and try to somehow subcategorise works that are referred to here as “antimimetic”; for example, The Encyclopedia of Fantasy, probably the most

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because both groups of texts share several elements, the most crucial of which is the presence of magic in the narration. Obviously—as it often happens with the genres of non-mimetic literature—they have been evolving, in a way parallelly, and influencing each other, and there are many mutual relationships between them (in fact, they are often written by the same authors). On the other hand, however, there also seem to be many differences, apart from the mode of modelling the presented world, regarding the shaping of the narration, protagonists, language and spatiotemporal parameters, the most frequent motifs and the use of magic and mythic elements. Fantastic fiction is a supragenological category which probably poses the most theoretical problems. It is, nevertheless, essential to distinguish at the very beginning between the textual operation of the fantastic, which is marked by a breach of the pre-determined laws of the presented world, and the specific supragenological category of fantastic fiction. The operation of the fantastic, as has already been suggested, is a crucial genological factor occurring constantly at all stages of the evolution of non-mimetic literature. It also appears in texts which are mostly exomimetic (the case of “translation” fantasy in which protagonists from the mimetic reality are transferred to a secondary world that is shaped by the laws of the fantasy convention)7 or antimimetic. In the latter case, the operation of the fantastic seems to be inherently inscribed in the antimimetic model. Obviously, most antimimetic novels begin in an identical way as the fantastic ones—from a mimetic introduction. Only at some point of the narration are the mimetic laws breached due to some apparently “unnatural” incident—the protagonists’ vision of the world model is subsequently corrected and the model is revealed as antimimetic. A question, however, arises: where exactly does the demarcation line lie between the antimimetic and the fantastic, the correction of the initial mimetic model, and the confrontation of different models? The answer may not always be that simple. There seems to be, nevertheless, a clearly perceptible distinction between such texts as the already mentioned Drinking Midnight Wine complete and up-to-date publication of this type, proposes the label “contemporary fantasy”, which is described in a way that is, at several points at least, compatible with the assumptions presented in this paper (225). Secondary world fantasy, or “imaginary world fantasy”, has also been acknowledged as a separate category by such critics as Carter, Tymn, Zahorski and Boyer or Manlove. See my discussion in Chapter Two. 7 I have discussed “translation fantasy” at greater length in Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku, Chapter Four, section 2.

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(2001) by Simon R. Green, The Art of Arrow Cutting (1997) by Stephen Dedman, War for the Oaks (2001) by Emma Bull, on the one hand, and Bones of the Moon (1987) by Jonathan Carroll, Replay (1986) by Ken Grimwood or several texts by the world-famous Japanese mainstream writer Haruki Murakami (including The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, 1999; Dance Dance Dance, 1994 or Kafka on the Shore, 2003), on the other hand. The element of the fantastic is applied very differently in both groups of texts, which has a profound influence not only on the world model itself, but also on the conventions applied, the language used as well as the books’ messages. In the antimimetic fiction, after the initial breach, a correction of the protagonists’ faulty vision of the universe follows and the world model is, in a way, re-united. The element of the fantastic disappears from the narration and, instead, efforts to describe the new model in a relatively coherent and detailed way (although usually less emphasised than in exomimetic fiction) are well visible. In fantastic fiction, in turn, the unified vision of the fictional universe, once breached, is never regained or re-integrated. The mood of strangeness and uncertainty on the characters’ part about the real nature of their universe prevails until the very end of the narration. A good example may be provided by Murakami’s novel Dance, Dance, Dance, where the exact relationship between all the strange incidents in the novel, the protagonist’s dreams and the events that take place on the mimetic plane is never logically established. Similarly, in Carroll’s Bones of the Moon, the mimetic reality and the dreamworld of Rondua seem to affect each other, yet the precise connection between them is never explored openly or explained, as would be in an antimimetic text. Exomimetic fiction was the last of the supragenological types to evolve. At the same time, however, this category appears to be both most popular nowadays and relatively well recognised and described. Probably the two most clearly discernible genres of modern exomimetic literature are science fiction and secondary world fantasy (abbreviated here as “SF” and “SWF”, respectively). Although the common opinion traditionally views these two genres as dichotomous and somewhat antithetical, the texts of SF and SWF share (in contradistinction to texts representing other supragenological types) major characteristics, i.e. they both focus on the creation of a different model of reality—a secondary universe. At the same time—in their mature forms—they tend to avoid a direct textual confrontation of their respective models with the empirical model of the universe.8 The history of both genres exhibits 8

Obviously, even today various elements of the mimetic reality are still common

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analogous evolutional processes, i.e. first justifying the existence of the secondary world by, for example, introducing a mimetic reality in the initial parts of the text, or a narrator coming from it, and then gradually reducing and eliminating those elements from the narration. This ultimately results in the creation of a unified world order which, in turn, is described in greater and greater detail and with growing care to present it as relatively complete and coherent. The secondary worlds of SF and SWF are characterised by their own causality, concrete spatial and temporal parameters as well as their own social and, sometimes, ontological orders. It is also in the context of exomimetic literature that such categories as cyberpunk or contemporary dystopia should be discussed. Exomimetic literature is, probably, the most dynamically evolving category of contemporary non-mimetic fiction and, undoubtedly, there are many more interesting literary phenomena within it that are waiting to be explored. The second part of this study includes a preliminary discussion of the particular supragenological types of fiction. The first four chapters will be devoted, unsurprisingly, to exomimetic, antimimetic, fantastic and paramimetic fiction. The order of Zgorzelski’s original classification has slightly been reversed here in order to better suit the logic of my discussion as well as to reflect the condition of contemporary non-mimetic literature. Thus I will start from the exomimetic fiction which appears to be the most popular nowadays and whose two main genres (SF and SFW) seem to be relatively well recognised and described. Then I will go on to the antimimetic fiction, which probably today comes second as far as popularity and number are concerned. Moreover, as there seems to be a special interrelation between the exomimetic genre of SFW and many antimimetic texts, both categories need a comparative analysis at this stage. The next type to be discussed will be fantastic fiction which, as has been noted, poses special theoretical problems and, in turn, must be delineated in reference to the previous category. Paramimetic fiction will come last in my survey as it is, apparently, the least prominent in the contemporary literary landscape. The last chapter will be devoted to a special category that I have initially described as “non-mimetic metaconventional literature”. Obviously, metaconventional literature (or metafiction) as such does not fall into the domain of even very broadly understood non-mimetic popular in SF texts, whereas in SWF there exists a very popular genre variation of translation fantasy in which the protagonists from the mimetic reality are transferred to the secondary world (see TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku 119135). However, the dominant mode is that of speculation and not of confrontation between the two world models.

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fiction (although a special affinity between metafiction and some nonmimetic genres has been pointed out by several researchers).9 Nevertheless, there seems to exist a certain category of works that balance on the verge between both categories and, I feel, it needs to be included in the present study. Each of the types will be analysed at length against some representative texts, and the discussion will, hopefully, descend also to a strictly generic level, thus enabling the approximation of particular genres of non-mimetic fiction within each of the supragenological categories. It is, however, not my ambition at this stage to describe at length, both synchronically and diachronically, all of the possible genres of non-mimetic fiction. I will merely try to demonstrate briefly how particular supragenological types find their particular generic (and textual) realisations in a sufficient but by no means exhaustive range of specific examples. The discussion does not aim at proposing a certain finished and complete taxonomy (although in the future, obviously, this study may be completed with more comprehensive historical research devoted to the particular genres of nonmimetic literature); its objective is rather to look at a vast range of nonmimetic texts from a new angle and to consider certain theoretical implications of “fantastic” world-making. As my undertaking at this stage is synthetic rather than analytical, I will not go into a more detailed discussion of particular texts unless I deem it absolutely necessary, especially that many of them have been analysed very thoroughly on several occasions elsewhere. I also assume that the canons of both contemporary non-mimetic fiction and its criticism are known to my readers. I will, nevertheless, whenever possible, refer in some detail to adequate texts or dissertations. This study has been written in English and is aimed at an Englishspeaking reader. It also acknowledges the obvious fact that nowadays both the market of non-mimetic literature and the critical discourse devoted to it are dominated by the English-speaking world. Therefore, the great majority of the literary texts mentioned or discussed here have originally been published in the USA, the United Kingdom or in other Englishspeaking countries. I may, nevertheless, occasionally refer to texts which have not been written in (or even not translated into) English if I assume that they constitute especially interesting examples.

9

See, especially, McHale and Horstkotte.

PART TWO

CHAPTER FOUR CONTEMPORARY EXOMIMETIC FICTION

1. The Exomimetic Mode Exomimetic literature, as we remember, “presupposes the speculation about other possible models of reality … presenting these models without any direct textual confrontation between them and the empirical model of the universe” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 33). This definition emphasises the key element of the mode, which is speculation about other models of reality and subsequent construction of diverse, in the reader’s reception more or less fantastical, but at the same time relatively coherent and complete fictional worlds. As has been noted in the previous chapter, exomimetic fiction evolved rather late, i.e. only in the twentieth century. As a mode it came into being in opposition to mimetic fiction, but also to the genres of earlier supragenological non-mimetic modes which strongly rely on the operation of the fantastic (the fantastic and antimimetic types), such as the fantastic novel of adventure, the occult novel, scientific romance or the utopia. As Zgorzelski argues, exomimetic texts “no longer present the confrontation of fictional realities in order to fascinate the reader with the Unknown or achieve a didactic aim … but, instead, try to interest the reader in speculation about non-mimetic world orders” (“Fantastic Literature” 37). Thus, efforts to evoke a sense of wonder in the reader, to emphasise the strangeness of fictional events, to confront the mimetic reality with the Unknown, have been replaced by the strategy aimed at the creation of a secondary world model with its own precisely described spatial and temporal parameters, its own social and ontological order and, finally, its own causality, which is unusual from the point of view of the empirical reality but perfectly coherent and logical within the presented fictional universe (TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku 20). The second part of the definition, obviously, applies to exomimetic fiction in its fully mature form. In proto-exomimetic texts, when the mode had not been established yet, a secondary world could not be presented directly, straight away. Its presentation required a certain justification such

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as, for example, starting the text from a pre-textual mimetic introduction or, at least, using an equivalent1 of mimetic reality. In both cases the aim was to somehow “rationalise” and explain the existence of a secondary world. A perfect example of such a strategy could be an early proto-SWF novel by E. R. Eddison entitled The Worm Ouroboros (1922). The novel features a pre-textual contemporary protagonist, an Englishman named Lessingham, “who ventures to planet Mercury in a dream and who observes there, in a state of invisibility, the flow and sequence of actions that form the story of the novel” (Carter, Imaginary Worlds 33). Both Lessingham and the name “Mercury” (which functions as an equivalent of the mimetic reality which enables to relate the fictional world to it) disappear completely from the narration already in the second chapter of the novel. Such operations are typical for many early SF and SWF novels, but also for several more contemporary ones.2 Although the operation of 1

Tynianov’s concept of a systemic equivalent (Tynianov passim) has been adopted by Zgorzelski to describe some genological phenomena in the evolution of nonmimetic fiction. Generally speaking, Zgorzelski’s equivalent is a fragmentary representation of a literary system that is otherwise absent in a given text. It might be interpreted as “a systemic signal that recalls a potential pattern no longer dominant in the text’s construction” (Zgorzelski, “The Systemic Equivalent” 44). For example, traditional utopias were split into two distinct parts—the introductory mimetic world and the presentation of a new utopian/dystopian reality. As the utopia evolved, the mimetic part started to gradually decrease. Finally, with works such as Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and George Orwell’s Nineteen EightyFour, similarly to SF and SWF, modern utopia/dystopia became an exomimetic genre that was completely devoid of the mimetic part. However, in the case of Orwell’s book the mimetic reality is retained in the form of an equivalent by the very title of the book—“Nineteen Eighty-Four”. This date obviously refers to the chronological system of the authorial reality. Thus the title constitutes “a reference to a mimetic system of reality that, although non-existent in the text, is still conjured up by the date” (46). 2 We can probably speak about the variation of “translation fantasy” in which the main character or characters are, in some initially mysterious but ultimately explainable way, “translated” (transferred) to a secondary world, where they subsequently experience their adventures. They are usually appointed an important mission by some transcendental force, and after accomplishing it they return to the primary world. The texts are usually divided into two distinct parts—the mimetic introduction and the text proper. Among the most notable examples of this genre variation such works as The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever by Stephen Donaldson or The Summer Tree by Guy Gavriel Kay can be mentioned. See my discussion in Fantasy. Ewolucja 119-130. We will also return to the issue of translation fantasy in the discussion of multi-universes, Chapter Five, section 3.

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the fantastic still seems to be at least fragmentarily present here, the emphasis—if the whole structure of the book is to be taken into account— is clearly put on the speculation about another model of reality and not on the confrontation between the two models. Thus it is reasonable to discuss this text (as well as similar ones) as predominantly exomimetic. In most cases, however, in contemporary SF and SWF novels the operation of the fantastic is completely absent. The fictional world—no matter how strange it might appear to its readers—is fully united and its laws are never breached, although it may take some time to fully discover and describe them. It is perhaps paradoxical that the mode which appears as the most “fantastical” in the readers’ reception is, at the same time, the least fantastic. This discrepancy between the “fantastical” quality of the world itself and the lack of tension resulting from the confrontation of world models, so typical for non-mimetic genres throughout the history of their evolution, gives a particular dynamics to exomimetic genres. The exomimetic mode is also the most radical of all supragenological types in the way that it overtly rejects the pretence of describing the empirical reality (with the obvious exception of strongly autotelic and intertextual metaconventional mode/metafiction).3 It presents certain “alternative” models of reality, thus provoking the reader to a more active search for the meanings of the fictional universe and, ultimately, his/her own universe (Zgorzelski, Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction 186). Moreover, the reader of exomimetic literature is probably—in comparison with the readers of other types of fiction—more aware of its assumptions and, usually, receives and interprets a particular text in the context of her/his prior reading experience with other secondary worlds.4 The two most discernible and, at the same time, most popular genres of exomimetic fiction are, as has already been noted, science fiction and secondary world fantasy. Although the common opinion traditionally views those two genres as dichotomous and antithetical, in fact, when we 3

Mendlesohn comes to nearly identical conclusions while describing her category of immersive fantasy, which seems to largely overlap with the exomimetic type of fiction (see note 5 further in this chapter): “The immersive fantasy is both the mirror of mimetic literature and its inner soul. It reveals what is frequently hidden: that all literature builds worlds, but some genres are more honest about it than others” (Rhetorics 59). 4 By making a sociological rather than literary-theoretical comment we might also risk the statement that exomimetic fiction also attracts the most distinct readership. An open rejection of the pretence of describing the empirical reality probably discourages many readers, who are culturally inclined to profess the traditional notion of imitative functions of literature. See also Chapter Two, note 15.

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try to look beyond superficial thematic oppositions (science vs. magic), the texts of SF and SWF share (in contradistinction to texts representing other supragenological types) major characteristics—they both focus on the creation of a different model of reality, i.e. a secondary universe. This has been noticed, apart from Zgorzelski, also by such critics as Rosemary Jackson (see the discussion in Chapter Two, section 4) or Philip Martin (25). SF and SWF, in their mature forms, tend to avoid a direct textual confrontation of their respective models with the empirical model of the universe. Also, the history of both genres exhibits analogous evolutional processes, i.e. first justifying the existence of a secondary world by, for example, introducing the mimetic reality in the initial parts of the text, or a narrator coming from it (see the case of E. R. Eddison’s novel as mentioned above), and then gradually reducing and eliminating those elements from the narration. This ultimately results in the creation of a unified world order which, in turn, is described in greater and greater detail and with growing care to present it as relatively complete, coherent and autonomous.5 This is, not to say, that the differences between both genres are to be overlooked. The world models of SF and SWF, despite their common exomimetic tendency, differ considerably, and rather diverse modes of speculation are applied. These differences become even more evident when we regard the traditions that both genres have drawn upon, the typical conventions and motifs they make use of, the ways they structure their spatiotemporal settings, the ways they shape their language, etc. The common exomimetic tendency of both genres is, nevertheless, unquestionable, and the special affinity of SF and SWF manifests itself clearly in the literary hybrid phenomena known as “science fantasy”, which will be discussed in one of the subsequent sections. The third more or less discernible exomimetic genre is, according to Zgorzelski, dystopia or anti-utopia (“Fantastic Literature” 34). Its evolution is well documented and follows already described patterns of the gradual reduction of the fantastic mode (understood as a breach of the laws 5

Compare Mendlesohn’s description of immersive fantasy: “The immersive fantasy is a fantasy set in a world built so that it functions on all levels as a complete world” (Strategies 59). Despite this analogy (and several others), it must be observed that Mendlesohn’s classification is based on altogether different promises; the actual class of texts included here in the category of exomimetic literature roughly “translates” into both immersive and portal quest fantasy as defined by Mendlesohn, which is additionally supplemented with science fiction and dystopia.

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of the presented world resulting in the confrontation of two or more models of reality) and the abandonment of the introductory mimetic fragments.6 Typical examples of exomimetic dystopias are provided by such classical works as George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) or Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange (1962). The present condition of this genre needs, however, to be subjected to scrutiny. My further discussion in this chapter will be divided into three sections. In section SF vs. SWF the basic strategies of world-making in the two “sister” exomimetic genres will be analysed and compared, and their historical as well as more recent tendencies will be briefly analysed. In the subsequent section the phenomenon of science fantasy will be looked into, and certain implications of the evolution of exomimetic literature will be considered. The final section will briefly discuss the present status of dystopia and will also deal with cyberpunk, alternative world history and other possible classes within exomimetic fiction which are, occasionally, bestowed with an independent genre status.

2. Science Fiction vs. Secondary World Fantasy: Sister Exomimetic Genres Unlike secondary world fantasy, whose identity (especially in contradistinction to other genres of “fantasy”) is acknowledged only by some researchers7 and seldom perceived clearly or verbalised by the general reading public, the status of science fiction as a literary genre is solidly rooted in the contemporary literary consciousness. At first sight, at least, SF seems to be—to some extent—a self-explanatory and selfcontained category. However, when we look more closely at the particular definitions and critical approaches it turns out that there hardly exists a theoretical consensus regarding this genre. It is, naturally, not my objective here to summarise the historical evolution of both genres and all the theoretical (and practical) issues related to them, especially that they 6 Zgorzelski even conducts a calculation to document the process: “The percentage computation (admittedly based on approximate calculations) of the number of pages featuring the mimetic model in selected utopias, which indicates its gradual disappearance from these texts is as follows: Thomas More, Utopia—35%; Francis Bacon, New Atlantis—5%; Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (part IV)—18%; William Morris, News from Nowhere—2%; Herbert George Wells, Men Like Gods—8%; Aldous Huxley, Brave New World—0%; George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four—0%” (“The Systemic Equivalent” 45-46). 7 See, for example, Carter, Tymn, Boyer, and Zahorski or Manlove, as discussed in Chapter Two.

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have quite exhaustively been discussed elsewhere.8 For the sake of our present discussion I need, nevertheless, to delimitate, at least briefly, both categories in question, i.e. to specify exactly which classes of texts are meant here as the exomimetic genres of science fiction and secondary world fantasy, respectively. Even a short review of existing SF criticism reveals confusion, in fact, which is comparable to that shrouding “fantasy” (see my discussion in Chapter Two). As Gary Wolfe remarks, “science fiction has been defined so frequently that there is little critical consensus as to which works might be included or excluded. Most definitions include the elements of scientific content (which may include concepts associated with scientific extrapolation, and some cognitive or non-metaphorical link to the ‘real world’)” (Critical Terms 108). He also observes that “science fiction gained its identity as a commercial term for category fiction in magazines and books long before literary scholarship and genre theory began attempting to define it; as a result, most definitions have proved unsatisfactory for some readers” (Critical Terms 108). Similarly, then, as in the case of the so-called “fantasy”, we are dealing with a cultural label which usually covers a collection of texts that is much wider than the actual genre in a strictly genological sense. It seems that most of the current definitions of science fiction “stress the scientific, prophetic, and didactic elements of the genre” (Wolfe, Critical Terms 108). Let us quote, by way of example, some characteristic ones in chronological order.9 Hugo Gernsback (1926) announces that “scientifiction” is “a charming romance intermingled with scientific fact and prophetic vision” (quoted by Wolfe, Critical Terms 109). J. O. Bailey (1947) states that science fiction is “a narrative of an imaginary invention 8

One of the most adequate bibliographies regarding SF criticism is probably offered by Wolfe in his Critical Terms. Such studies as Understanding American Science Fiction by Thomas D. Clareson, Anatomy of Wonder. A Critical Guide to Science Fiction by Neil Barron, Science Fiction. A Critical Guide edited by Patrick Parrinder, Metamorphoses of Science Fiction: On the Poetics and History of a Literary Genre by Darko Suvin, seem to be especially worth a mention here. Consult also an entry on “Critical and Historical Works about SF” in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction (277-281). For bibliographies on fantasy criticism, also consult Wolfe (Critical Terms). See also the popular, critical and academic works mentioned in Chapters One and Two. 9 The most comprehensive survey of definitions of SF is probably offered by Wolfe (Critical Terms 108-111). See also the critical discussion of different approaches towards defining SF by Zgorzelski (Fantastyka, Utopia, Science Fiction 102-110). My own summary above is based on these two discussions.

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or discovery in the natural sciences and consequent adventures and experiences” (19). John W. Campbell (1953) views SF as “the literature of speculation as to what changes may come, and which changes will be improvements, which destructive and which merely pointless” (quoted by Wolfe, Critical Terms 109). Reginald Bretnor (1953) suggests that SF encompasses works that “reveal the author’s awareness of the importance of scientific method as a human function and of the human potentialities inherent in this exercise” (35). Similarly, for Robert Heinlein (1957), SF is a “realistic speculation about possible future events, based solidly on adequate knowledge of the real world … and based on a thorough understanding of the nature and significance of the scientific method” (quoted by Wolfe, Critical Terms 109). Robin Scott Wilson (1970) argues that SF is “a fiction in which science, or some credible extrapolation of science, is integrally combined with an honest consideration of the human condition” (205). Thomas D. Clareson (1971) suggests that SF “results from and reflects, often topically, the impact of scientific theory and speculation upon the literary imagination—and, therefore, the effect of science upon people” (The Other Side of Realism 118). For Brian Aldiss (1973), SF primarily means “the search for a definition of man and his status in the universe” (1). Robert H. Canary (1974) states that SF is “a fictive history laid outside what we accept as historical reality but operating by the same essential rules as that reality” (46). Eric Rabkin (1976) suggests that a work can be considered as science fiction “if its narrative world is at least somewhat different of our own, and if that difference is apparent against the background of an organized body of knowledge” (156). For Paul A. Carter (1977), science fiction is “an imaginative extrapolation from the known into the unknown” (48). Darko Suvin (1979) states that science fiction is “a literary genre whose necessary and sufficient conditions are the presence and interaction of estrangement and cognition, and whose main formal device is an imaginative framework alternative to the author’s empirical environment” (Metamorphoses of Science Fiction 186). Finally, Northrop Fry, Sheridan Baker and George Perkins (1985) suggest that SF encompasses “fiction in which new and futuristic scientific developments propel the plot” (93). These are only some of the multitude of existing definitions of SF, but they are representative of the whole discourse. In the context of our discussion two things draw special attention. First, many of those descriptions are, in fact, of a normative or prescriptive nature. While they quite accurately describe some of the outstanding SF works and some of the predominant cognitive strategies that can be found in SF fiction, they at the same time exclude a great number of other texts which are

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universally also regarded as SF. An example would be seriously treated “scientific” content meant either as a solid reflection on the impact of science on humanity, imaginative extrapolations of possible future advancements or modern scientific theory which characterises the works of such classic writers as Arthur Clarke, Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein, or more contemporary ones such as Brian Aldiss, Ian Watson or Jack McDevitt, to mention only a few. It is, however, hardly present in the works of such authors as, again to quote only a few, Jack Vance (e.g. The Space Pirate, 1953), C. C. MacApp (e.g. Recall not Earth, 1970), Lois McMaster Bujold (the whole Miles Vorkosigan series; 1986—present) or David Webber’s “Honor Harrington” cycle (1993—present), which are traditionally labelled as “space opera”. They constitute, again, a very diverse collection of texts, but “scientific extrapolations” definitely do not constitute a dominant here. Even if the works in question (in contradistinction to the purely ludic classic space operas from the pulp magazines of the 1920s-1950s)10 offer some undeniable “cognitive value”, it is not primarily connected with science. Similarly, the science fictional texts of Ursula K. Le Guin (the Hain cycle) or most of the British “New Wave” works in which a futuristic setting and scientific or pseudo-scientific content serve only as a pretext for the exploration of the psychological, social and anthropological intricacies of human nature might also be excluded from SF if many of the definitions quoted above were to be rigorously applied. Second, what is especially striking is that nearly all of the existing definitions of SF describe this genre in cultural rather than literarytheoretical terms, i.e. they attempt to summarise the ideology of SF, to specify its cognitive objectives or ambitions, or they simply put emphasis on the extrapolations of contemporary science and technology. At any rate, they rarely ever go beyond the description of the thematic content. There are surprisingly few attempts to research specific structural or narrative features of science fiction. Of all the definitions quoted above, elements of a more literary theoretical approach surface perhaps only in the descriptions by Canary, Rabkin and Suvin. Canary and Rabkin try, at least partially, to take into account the mode of construction of the presented world (although comparing directly fictional and empirical realities—see Chapter Two, note 6). Suvin, in turn, focuses on certain formal aspects (the “imaginative framework alternative to the author’s empirical environment”) as well as crucial elements of the narration’s structure (“the presence and interaction of estrangement and cognition”). His definition 10

See Zgorzelski, Fantastyka Utopia. Science Fiction, 102-147.

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may be, however, perceived as slightly imprecise and too broad, as both of the elements mentioned above may apply to other exomimetic or “secondary universe” genres as well (including SWF), unless we accept Suvin’s controversial assessment of “fantasy” as a “non-cognitive” genre (see the discussion in Chapter Two, section 4). A possible attempt to delimitate or describe the genre of SF from genological positions should also take into consideration the fact that any literary genre is a dynamic, ever-changing phenomenon whose conventions become petrified and breached again continuously, and whose variants from periods distant from each other can differ considerably (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 35-36). Thus, even relatively generalised structures of a genre often elude the static definitions that are visible in the many approaches as summarised above. In his historical study largely devoted to the evolution of SF, Zgorzelski undertakes to describe the first genre variant of SF which emerged, as the researcher suggests, in the years 1938-1943. This genre variant is characterised, primarily, by “the unification of the fictional world … which is characterized by one set of laws” (Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction 191). This helps distinguish science fiction from a whole range of genres still representing mostly the fantastic (or antimimetic) supragenological type which directly preceded the emergence of “true” exomimetic SF. These genres pre-textually used various “scientific” motifs, but were rather different from modern SF in several structural features, including the construction of plot and protagonists, axiology, language, etc... The genres in question, such as the fantastic novel of adventure, the Gothic and the occult tale enhanced with pseudo-science, or the scientific romance, were extremely popular in the first half of the twentieth century.11 They basically relied on conventions that were typical of traditional fantastic literature or the other popular types of “pulp” fiction of that time, such as the literary western and, at closer scrutiny, have in many respects more in common with them than with modern SF. Another class of works that will be excluded here from the genre of exomimetic SF are more contemporary texts which include some fantastical scientific or technological motifs (sometimes treated as seriously as in SF proper), but are set in a mimetic reality (by way of example we might mention The Jonah Kit, 1975, by Ian Watson or The Hollow Man, 1992 by Dan Simmons). These more properly belong to antimimetic literature and will be discussed in the next chapter. 11 See Zgorzelski, “From the Short Story” 62-72; Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction 191; 102-147.

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Apart from the presentation of a unified world model, different from and not modelled directly on the empirical reality, the first genre variant of SF, according to Zgorzelski, is further characterised by the following features: Science fiction presents a model of reality which is usually an effect of various devices of extrapolation and analogy. The model is structured as a technically more advanced civilization of the future, as a world which is also spatially broader than the authorial reality. The stress that falls here on the presentation of the cosmic space, on the development of civilization and technique… (“Fantastic Literature” 37).

Now, let us try to provide an analogous, generalised description of SWF. The main determinant of this genre is, similarly to SF, the presentation of a unified world model that is different from the mimetic reality. SWF texts focus on making this world model relatively concrete and complete, thus achieving this aim by a detailed description of a spatiotemporal setting and the social and ontological order of the presented model as well as by conferring on it a certain specific causality which is unusual from the point of view of the empirical reality but logical and coherent within the created world. As a rule, the reader is initiated into the world gradually, together with the protagonist (who, in some peculiar cases, may come from “our” or “primary” world). The most important features of SWF are, furthermore: 1. the presence and common functioning of magic in the presented world 2. placing the plot in a quasi-medieval or quasi-ancient reality at a relatively low technological level 3. shaping the plot with the motifs of “sword & sorcery”, the motif of quest, the main character’s initiation and spiritual transformation as well as the struggle between good and evil on a transcendental scale, in which the protagonist is engaged and frequently plays a vital role (TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku 20-21). The descriptions presented above put an emphasis on the central affinity of both genres—their focus on the creation of full-fledged coherent secondary universes which in the eyes of their protagonists appear as ordinary rather than wondrous.12 Obviously, the exact ways of 12

This feature of exomimetic fiction is, again, quite analogous to Mendlesohn’s understanding of “immersive” fantasy (see Chapter Two). “[T]he point of view of characters of an immersive fantasy must take for granted the fantastic elements

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world-making differ considerably in both cases, which has been emphasised by several researchers. Karolina Lewicka, for example, states that “the basic trait [of fantasy]13 is the autonomy of the presented world, which renounces any relationship with reality, purposely rejecting any possibility of existence” (65).14 Fantasy, according to Lewicka, “is not from this world, and can be placed neither in the future nor in the past” (65). Thus, fantasy can be contrasted with SF which, supposedly, can, at least commonsensically, be placed in “our” future and preserves some fragmentary links with our space and time. Philip Martin, in a largely similar tone, announces that “the worlds of SF are based on an extrapolated aspect of real-life natural laws… [T]hose imaginary worlds are connected by a line of reasoning, however tenuous, back to ours. Science-fiction authors strive to explain why these worlds exist and how they work … In fantasy, there is a rational disconnect between our world and the fantasy world” (25-26). Unfortunately, both of the above descriptions again directly compare fictional and empirical realities and thus are slightly imprecise terminologically. But, instead of rejecting them out of hand, let us try to define in more theoretical terms what they all intuitively and commonsensically point to. It seems that most SF texts still preserve some equivalents of the mimetic reality (see note 1 in this chapter). These are mostly equivalents in space and structuring of time—the texts somehow refer either to the chronology of the empirical reality (for example, by placing the action in its supposed “future”) or operate with spatial parameters that are known to the reader (for example, by using names of star systems that are known from astronomy). Those devices “provoke the feeling of spatial [or chronological] continuity between our world and the fictional reality” (Zgorzelski, “The Systemic Equivalent” 54). On the opposite, fantasy does not take any special care to signal the spatial continuity between its world and the reality known to the reader. Usually it is an with which they are surrounded; they must exist as integrated with the magical (or fantastic)” (Rhetorics xxi). 13 Lewicka and most other researchers cited in this chapter, including Zgorzelski, do not refer specifically to “secondary world fantasy” or “imaginary world fantasy” (instead they simply use the term “fantasy”), but from the context it might be inferred that they actually mean fantasy texts set in a secondary world. 14 This and all subsequent translations from the Polish language are mine, unless stated otherwise.

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autonomous world closed within precisely determined space boundaries, although often internally diversified into many civilizational, ecological, ethnological and cultural strata. The narration is focused above all on a precise and detailed description of the fictional reality and its systemic laws. (Zgorzelski, “The Systemic Equivalent” 55)

This opposition results largely from the different treatment of spatial and temporal parameters in both genres (see points 3 and 5 of the subsequent comparison). Despite, however, the slightly different ways that secondary universes are created and their relationship to the empirical reality, both SF and SWF focus (in contradistinction to fantastic genres) on the detailed construction of other than mimetic world models. The key mode here is that of speculation. Unlike in the case of SF (which is sometimes even referred to as “speculative fiction” rather than simply “science fiction”), the speculative potential of SWF is not always acknowledged. On the one hand it is, for example, overtly commented on by Philip Martin: “Fantasy is ‘speculative fiction’. Fantasy creates a world imaginative to the highest degree, populated with creatures, rules of magic, and places remarkably different from the real world we see around us” (25). On the other hand, critics such as Darko Suvin or Stanisáaw Lem emphasise the cognitive inferiority of fantasy (see the discussion of Suvin’s proposals and their subsequent critique by S. C. Fredericks in Chapter Two, section 4).15 Obviously, this speculative potential is executed at extremely varying degrees (if at all), but it, undoubtedly, does exist. The most famous and spectacular example of such cognitive world-making is, arguably, Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Earthsea Cycle, which has been noted and appreciated even by critics who are otherwise rather reluctant towards fantasy.16 The 15 In another article, Suvin proposes an analogy in which he compares SF and fantasy to two “thermometers with mercury. One thermometer can go from zero to 100 degrees, the other, made for human bodies, only from 30 to 43 degrees centigrade. The bigger one is to me SF, the smaller one Fantasy” (“‘Second Earthsea Trilogy’ and its cognitions”; no pages given). 16 See Suvin (“‘Second Earthsea Trilogy’ and its Cognitions”) and Lem. Especially the latter gives justice to the quality of Le Guin’s speculativeness: “Do I want to say that Ursula Le Guin’s fairy tale is more realistic [Lem’s use of the word “realistic” is slightly unfortunate here; it could be, perhaps, replaced by “cognitive”] than her science fiction? Yes, exactly. There occur in literature such paradoxes as this one—that the function of magic in one book proves more realistic than the function of a scientific invention in another book. But this paradox is only apparent. The thing is that the text creates a world ruled by its own laws as an autonomous whole, and it is this overall coherence and not its particular

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main dominant of these texts appears to be an original and inspiring creation of the presented world. The same can be said about Tolkien’s writings.17 Again, one of the main dominants is constructing a certain world model, logical and coherent, which is capable of transferring the author’s messages most effectively.18 Of the more recent works is perhaps Steven Erikson’s The Malazan Book of the Fallen (1999—present), which is worth mentioning for its complex, anthropologically-motivated world model. It may be perhaps reasonable to conclude, elaborating on S. C. Fredericks’s observation quoted in Chapter Two, that SWF often employs other modes of speculation than SF, thus conducting its extrapolations in the spheres of archetypes, myth, ontological systems and broadly understood metaphysics rather than in the domain of scientifically and rationalistically understood nature of the universe or the issues of technological development and its effects on humanity. On the other hand, it would also be difficult to oppose the argument that the “world-making” most SWF books deliver is strictly pre-textual and superficial, as the genre in its statistic shape is endlessly exploiting certain formulas that are approved by the publishing market (probably considerably more so than in the case of modern SF which, at least at the present stage, seems to be relatively immune to such civilisational processes).19 Nevertheless, even in texts in which the creation of a fragments, for example terms borrowed from some scientific dictionary, that determines whether the text is realistic” (196). It is, however, quite remarkable that both critics seem to approve of Le Guin’s SWF novels because of the features that make these texts similar to science fiction. 17 There exists a great abundance of valuable critical works on Tolkien so at this point only those that seem to be most interesting or representative (and also help perceive diverse aspects of Tolkien’s work) will be mentioned: T. A. Shippey (J. R. R. Tolkien, Author of the Century and The Road to Middle-Earth), Christopher Garbowski (Recovery and Transcendence), Jakub A. LichaĔski (Opowiadania o… krawĊdzi epok i czasów Johna Ronalda Reuela Tolkiena) and Andrzej Zgorzelski (John Ronald Reuel Tolkien „The Lord of the Rings”). 18 Obviously, Le Guin’s and Tolkien’s models are very different ones, the former essentially based on a creative adaptation of Taoist principles, the latter on Christian good-evil dualism. However, the function of world-making and its significance for the books’ structures and messages is comparable. 19 The perceived statistic “cognitiveness” and “speculativeness” of contemporary SF appears to be on a higher level than its sister exomimetic convention. One must, however, remember that in the earlier stages of the development of SF or in the fantastic genres that preceded it directly (such as the scientific romance), marketing/civilisational processes definitely dominated over the artistic ones (see Zgorzelski, “From the Short Story” 62-76). It seems that SF has gradually become

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coherent world model does not constitute one of the dominants, it still remains a significant feature. Having discussed the modes of world-making in both genres and their speculative aspects, let us now compare the basic structural differences of SF and SWF. These could probably be summarised as follows: 1. Scientific/technological motifs in SF are parallelled by magic motifs in SWF. This is a very interesting analogy. In both cases the motifs in question seem to be an indispensable determinant of the respective genres. After all, it is as difficult to imagine a SF text devoid of some scientific/technological motifs as it is to imagine a secondary world fantasy in which magic is completely absent. On the other hand, the actual function of those motifs can differ quite considerably. Within the broad range of exomimetic SF, works can be found in which (in accordance with the traditional definitions of SF, such as those proposed by Bailey, Campbell or Clareson) scientific/technological motifs are central for the books’ structure and their meanings, and can properly be viewed as a semantic and structural dominant in those texts. This can be said about numerous texts from all stages of SF’s evolution, starting with works by such “classic” writers as Arthur Clarke, Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein and ending with novels by contemporary authors such as Dan Simmons, Jack McDevitt or Greg Egan. At the same time, also at all stages of SF’s evolution there exist equally numerous texts in which technological motifs function merely as a background against which either complex psychological, social or anthropological issues are elaborated or adventurous plots are acted out. Analogously, magic can function in many diverse ways in SWF works. There are texts in which it is simply “unreflectively described witchcraft, borrowed from older popular literature” (OlszaĔski 66) and usually presented pejoratively (especially in early heroic fantasy in the vein of Robert Howard and his imitators). In other texts (for example, in Tolkien’s works) it may be treated either as “an element belonging to the sphere of sacrum” (OlszaĔski 66), or (as in The Earthsea Cycle by Ursula K. Le Guin) it may function as a complex metaphor of human capacities to affect the world (Lem 195-196). In newer SWF (see, for example, several texts or cycles by Barbara Hambly or Glen Cook) magic becomes, in a way, more and more rationalised, its functioning can be explained in strictly nobilitated artistically, and in the cultural function of purely ludic and entertaining fiction it has been replaced by SWF and other popular non-mimetic genres.

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logical or “technical” terms and, thus, it becomes an equivalent of advanced technology or science in science fiction novels (TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku 149). Although there undoubtedly exists a wide buffer zone between both genres (see the next section) and their parallel evolution has resulted in a multitude of hybrid forms, there seems to be a simple factor helping delimitate between SF/SWF worlds. In SF worlds the laws of physics are usually intentionally meant to be the same as in the empirical reality (although they may be obviously extrapolated or extended), whereas SWF universes usually openly present an alternative set of laws (thus enabling the functioning of magic).20 2. Science fiction universes usually take the shape of a “technically more advanced civilization of the future”, whereas SWF presents societies at a low technological level. The quasi-medieval or quasi-ancient worlds of SWF have been inherited directly from the conventions and traditions that most influenced its development: the fairy tale, the heroic epic, the chivalric romance and myths. This is another element which, similarly as the presence of magic, can be regarded as a universal determinant of the SWF convention. At the same time it very substantially restricts the world-making potential of SWF. SF can shape its societies in a much more creative way, thus making it open to interesting extrapolations. It must be noted, however, that there are some considerable exceptions to this rule. Numerous SF works, especially those that deal with postcatastrophic realities or describe isolated (and for some reason regressed) civilisations, also present the world at a low technological level (for example, Where Late the Sweet Bird Sung, 1976, by Kate Wilhelm or The Cloud Walker, 1973, by Edmund Cooper). On the SWF side there exists a number of experimental, hybrid works such as, for example, Michael Swanwick’s The Iron Dragon’s Daughter, in which magic mixes freely with technology (I will write more about this in the next section). Generalising, it might be, perhaps, more accurate to emphasise the dynamic potential of SF universes which are worlds in progress, capable of both technological advancement and civilisational regression. Change and evolution are strongly inscribed in the poetics of the genre. On the contrary, the worlds of SWF appear as if frozen in time and immersed in evolutional inertia. Both the structure of society and the 20

There still may be, of course, some hybrid cases where magic is explained in terms of the extended laws of the mimetic reality (see the discussion of C. S. Friedman’s Cold Fire Trilogy in the next section).

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technological level are static, there is almost no technological and social progress.21 This, again, has been pre-determined by the conventions of myth, the fairy tale and the heroic epic upon which SWF draws. Similarly as in those traditions (and in contradistinction to SF), time in SWF is perceived as cosmic, circular time rather than linear historical time.22 The absence of the idea of civilisational progress does not necessarily mean that the 21

This is ridiculed by Jacek Dukaj: “Astonishing is the stasis of fantasy worlds, forced by the Tolkienesque tradition. It is not explained, not accounted for—and sometimes even not noticed! The chronologies of fantasy worlds count thousands of years, and the only changes that can be observed there refer to wars, dynastic successions, the births and falls of subsequent empires. Does anyone know a fantasy book with a chronological table in which the dates of invention of print, gun-powder, telescope or of the discovery of laws of mechanics and calculus have been enclosed? My opponent might say that, perhaps, they have not achieved it yet. After thousands of years? They fell into the Middle Ages—and they are to stay there forever? Which force, which rule obstructs technological progress there?” (66). 22 Katarzyna Pisarska, in her article “Remaking Time—Unmaking History. The Principle of Renewal in Ursula K. Le Guin’s Rocannon’s World”, writes on the interplay between cosmic and linear time in Le Guin’s work by elaborating on the theories of Boris Uspensky, Yuri Lotman and Mircea Eliade. Her discussion can also be related to the concepts of time in SF and SWF in general. Pisarska states, for example, “My understanding of ‘time’ and ‘history’ is related to Boris Uspensky’s theory on temporal perception (Uspensky 1998). Uspensky discusses two types of consciousness: historical and cosmological, and the way they function in culture and shape its perception of the past, the present and the future. Uspensky argues that historical consciousness, or historia rerum gestarum (as opposed to res gestae, which denotes the chronological development of events from the past to the present), involves: the valuation of the present from the future perspective, the cause-and-effect pattern with foreseeable future corollaries, and subjectively modified expectations about the future, which is not given. In contrast, cosmological consciousness sees present events as important only if they are linked with the past as the latter’s manifestations. Therefore, the status of the present is only as much the one of a consequence as it is determined by the events of the beginning time. In this way the present and the future are linked by means of this primordial state, or myth, continually repeating itself in subsequent events, as the present reflects the past and foreshadows the future (1998:36). This type of consciousness finds its realization in the notion of the renewal, which is discussed by Yuri M. Lotman in “Cultural Memory, History and Semiotics (1990:237-241)”, to which I am referring extensively in my paper, as well as in Mircea Eliade’s study of the suspension of ‘History’ and renewing a “history” in archaic cultures through the repetition of exemplary models—events that occurred at the beginning of time” (94).

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worlds of SWF are inferior or less complex than the worlds of SF; worldmaking in both genres simply serves diverse narrative purposes and is closely related to the suggested axiology. Simply, in SWF the history (at least the traditional western concept of linear history) seems to be partly suspended (or transcended) and the characters participate in the timeless reality of myth and archetype while acting out a renewal of the microcosm.23 3. As far as axiology is concerned, Zgorzelski suggests that the values in the first historical variant of SF are connected with man as a centre of the universe … Man is seen here as a measure of all; the economic, rationalistic, consumptive values get foregrounded; the drive towards technical and civilisational progress motivates the course of action; many texts presents difficult and complicated manouevres undertaken in order to subordinate the universe to the human race. (“Fantastic Literature” 38)

In SWF, in turn, axiology foregrounds the primary order of the universe (it may be observed most clearly in the most representative texts of the genre, in the works of Ursula K. Le Guin or J. R. R. Tolkien). In some novels, for instance in the texts of Andre Norton, this order is recognised through the cultural tradition of the Indian tribe, which makes man responsible for both the realisation of this order and the subordination to it. It is he who is charged here to combat any power that might attempt to disturb that order, or even to annihilate the universe. Usually the rules of this order equal the laws of nature. (“Fantastic Literature” 38)

Consequently, an axiology so outlined determines the role of the protagonist: The convention of science fiction structures its protagonist predominantly as an agent who, cognizing a new and unknown world, attempts to conquer, modify and transform it according to his own needs and despite 23 Obviously, whereas the use of cosmic time is clearly visible (and coherent) in the myth- or archetype-oriented novels by Tolkien, Le Guin or Donaldson, in many other, purely imitative texts the lack of technological progress seems to be just a matter of (often unreflective) following the conventions accepted by the market. This lack of technological progress in connection with no perceptible mythinspired structures creates a discrepancy which affects the perceived coherence of a given fictional world.

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difficulties he can meet … Fantasy, in turn, views man as a factor confirming or negating cosmic order, usually previously established moral order, which governs nature and society. Life in agreement with this order allows the protagonist to introduce definite values into his world and often restore the order to it, if its laws had been disturbed before. (“Fantastic Literature” 38)

Although Zgorzelski’s observations accurately grasp the tendencies that dominated in both genres at the relatively early stages of their development (roughly the 1940s to 1960s regarding SF and the 1950s to 1980s regarding SWF), they need to be supplemented by several amendments if we take into consideration the more recent evolutionary trends surfacing in both genres. The axiological “rationalistic” optimism of early SF has been replaced by more pessimistic or even overtly nihilistic messages that are visible especially well in the so-called cyberpunk or SF texts influenced by the dystopian tradition (the relationship between contemporary SF and dystopia as well as about the genological status of cyberpunk and other thematic variants of SF will be discussed in section 4). In SWF, in turn, the ordered, ethically marked universes of the epic fantasy in the vein of J. R. R. Tolkien and his imitators, based on dualistic mythic archetypes, have also given way to fragmented, axiologically chaotic worlds in many recent texts (we might mention, again, Steven Erikson’s The Malazan Book of the Fallen or Richard Morgan’s The Steel Remains, 2008). 4. The world of SF is usually more open in spatial and temporal parameters than the world of SWF: Science fiction is characterized by the broadening and “opening” of the space vistas, and the stress falls upon the multitude and variety of the worlds awaiting the protagonist in his universe. Fantasy, on the other hand, focuses the reader’s attention on the distinctive features and characteristics of particular places, and it favours the closing of the space within the limits of one planet, one continent or even one country. Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea trilogy serves as a good example of such tendencies. Also it would be difficult to ascribe the cosmic perspectives (in the full sense of the term) to Tolkien’s world in The Lord of the Rings, notwithstanding its internal diversity and variation. The restriction of space range in such texts—best recognized when compared with space expansion in SF— naturally leads to the foregrounding of the detailed presentation of the given world and to the buildup of mood connected with particular loci in the presented space … (Zgorzelski, “The Systemic Equivalent” 55)

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This rule is not as universal as the remaining ones and is subject to more or less visible changes in the evolution of both genres. There are, undoubtedly, SF texts in which spatial and temporal parameters are relatively closed (for example, Brian Aldiss’s Non-Stop, 1958). On the other hand, some recent SWF works (for example, The Malazan Book of the Fallen) present very wide vistas of time and space (although the latter never opens up to cosmic space). We might, nevertheless, tentatively formulate an assumption at this stage that in SF cosmic space has to be, if not directly “opened”, then at least somehow hinted at or suggested, whereas SWF microcosms remain completely closed throughout all of the narration. 5. As far as the use of language is concerned, one of the most characteristic features of the initial SF convention is a polarisation of both the narrator’s and the characters’ language into a colloquial register of style and phraseology typical of the authorial reality, and a pseudo-scientific and technical jargon, in which a special role is reserved for neologisms … In fantasy the most characteristic use of language is concerned with the suggestive creation of mood, often varied in connection with particular loci in space or with the given situations in which the protagonists find themselves. There appear frequent tendency to a poetical structuring of description and a predilection to use archaisms or to model the characters’ language as a “primitive” one. (“Fantastic Literature” 38)

This, again, seems to be rather susceptible to change, especially in the more recent texts of SWF. Although the “tendency to a poetical structuring of description” is very strongly emphasised in the classical texts by J. R. R. Tolkien, Ursula K. Le Guin or, especially, Patricia McKillip, in more recent works by such writers as Barbara Hambly, Glen Cook or Richard Morgan we can observe language operations that are quite analogous to those characterising SF, including the polarisation that is mentioned by Zgorzelski.24 Even this short comparison enables us to draw certain interesting conclusions. First, there exists considerable variety within SF and SWF no matter whether we look at both genres in a synchronic or diachronic way. 24

In this respect especially Morgan’s novels, e.g. Steel Remains and its sequel Cold Commands (2011), are exemplary. The language of both books, with its constant expositions of pragmatic and often vulgar underworld slang, quite closely mimics the language of cyberpunk.

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These particular genre variants often reveal substantial differences.25 25 In my study, Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku, I describe at some length the four distinct variants or “subgenres” of SWF. Let me mention them briefly at this point: I. Heroic Fantasy is the earliest historical variant which stabilised in the works of Robert Howard and his imitators, such as John Jakes, Fritz Leiber or Lin Carter (already in the 1930s-1940s), and in its original shape is characterised primarily by: 1. focusing on the adventures of a barbarian warrior/hero who fights with other warriors, monsters and sorcerers. 2. taking the basic structure of a short story/novella 3. subsequent creation of a loose superstructure of a novelistic cycle which is linked mainly by the protagonist. II. Epic Fantasy—whose formula was invented by J. R. R. Tolkien and imitated by his numerous followers (including Stephen Donaldson, David Eddings, Terry Goodkind, Guy Gavriel Kay or Tad Williams); it was especially popular in its original version from the 1970s to 1990s. Its main features are: 1. shaping the narration with the motifs of quest and war between good and evil fought on a transcendental/cosmic scale (the dual motif of quest and war) 2. the dualistic vision of the presented world with a clear division between light/good and dark/evil 3. taking the structure of a multi-volume and multi-plot novel of a closed narrative structure. III. Fantasy of Initiation and Spiritual Transformation—as an independent subgenre it functioned mainly from the 1960s to 1980s, although its elements were subsequently adopted by other variants of SWF. In its classical shape it focused on the central motif of the protagonist initiation and spiritual transformation, employed various psychological motifs (with less emphasised motifs of war and good/evil dualism than in epic fantasy) and took the structure of a one-volume and single-plot novel. Typical examples here would be Volkhavaar (1977) by Tanith Lee or Year of the Unicorn (1965) by Andre Norton. IV. Historical Epic Roman-Fleuve Fantasy, which evolved in the 1990s from classic epic fantasy. It may be characterised by: 1. taking the shape of a multivolume and multi-plot novel, more complex and expanded than epic fantasy and with a much more open narrative structure; 2. the presentation of a wide historical panorama (wars, political intrigues, social upheavals) of the presented world and focusing on the issues of philosophy of history; 3. abandonment of the dualistic vision of the universe and replacement of the motif of the fight between good and evil with the presentation of a complex array of forces struggling for power; 4. a gradual reduction of elements connected with the tradition of myths, the fairy tale or the heroic epic; and the appearance of elements typical for a contemporary mimetic novel (especially the historical or war novel). This genre variation is probably best exemplified by Erikson’s The Malazan Book of the Fallen. Obviously, these are only certain generalised descriptions; it must be understood that all of those genre variants evolve and constantly interact with one another. It is, nevertheless, worth emphasising that the above variants have been described not only in terms of varying thematic content, but also in relation to more or less perceptible elements of their structure. It would be extremely interesting to analyse, in a similar way, the structural

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Those differences are especially well visible in a broader historical perspective; for example, Zgorzelski’s observations on SWF (and presumably also on SF), while adequately describing the genre at an earlier stage of their evolution, become largely outdated when it comes to an analysis of more recent texts.26 It might be, therefore, useful to distinguish between generic features which remain diachronically relatively stable and unchangeable, and thus may be regarded as the core or defining ones (we might call them, for example, “primary” generic features), and those that are subjected to very profound changes (we might call them, in turn, “secondary” generic features). In the case of SWF, specifying the set of primary features seems to be relatively simple. It is, primarily, setting the plot in a secondary exomimetic quasi-medieval world of relatively closed spatial and temporal parameters at a low level of technological development but with magic openly present and functioning within the presented model of the universe. Specifying the primary features of SF will be more difficult due to the apparent lack of historical studies which seriously undertake the question of structural and narrative changes that have taken place within this genre in the last 60 years, but these features would probably encompass, in the first place, the presentation of diverse technological/scientific motifs set in a world that preserves at least fragmentary spatial or chronological changes that must have taken place over the last 60 years within SF. Unfortunately, most of the historical studies devoted to SF restrict themselves to descriptions of the thematic content or the books’ messages. 26 A very significant recent phenomenon in the evolution of SWF is the tendency that I have called in a different publication the “mimetisation” of fantasy. It is well visible in texts by such writers as George R. R. Martin, Steve Erikson or Richard Morgan, and is characterised by a gradual reduction of elements connected with the tradition of myths, the heroic epic or the fairy tale that may provoke the feeling of wonder in the reader, and their replacement by more contemporary, pragmatic motifs that make the fictional worlds appear strangely and familiarly mundane despite their superficial “exotic”, fantastical qualities. In all of these texts myth is replaced by history, circular time by linear time, and the metaphorical play with archetypes altogether disappears from the narration. Instead, interest in broadly understood psychological, sociological and history-philosophical issues becomes central. See TrĊbicki, “Fantasy. Ucieczka od CudownoĞci”; “In the Enslavement of the Formula?”; “Mythic Elements” and “Farewell to the Hero”. A striking case is posed by Le Guin’s famous “Earthsea” series, where the discussed changes take place within a single cycle, thus effectively transforming its deep structure. See the introduction, note 7; TrĊbicki, “The Second Life of Earthsea”, compare Suvin’s “Second Earthsea Trilogy”.

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equivalents of the mimetic reality. Also, the set of physical laws that governs this world is intentionally suggested to be the direct extension or extrapolation of the laws of physics of the empirical reality. Finally, the dimension of cosmic space, if not openly presented, has to be, at least, somehow hinted at or suggested. Almost all of the remaining elements of both genres—the use of particular conventions in shaping the plot, the characters and language, the texts’ axiology, the ontology of a fictional universe, the appearance of various literary and cultural motifs—all these traits belong to the sphere of secondary features and are subject to very significant transformations over the years along with with the evolution of consecutive genre variations (TrĊbicki, “Farewell to the Hero”; no pages given). Second, at closer scrutiny the borders between SF and SFW— contrarily to what might be expected—appear to be relatively fluid and can easily be trespassed. This is especially visible at the later stages of the development of both genres, when elements connected with the traditions in which they were initially rooted become less and less visible and the common exomimetic tendency is more and more pronounced. This weakening of borders results in the creation of an interesting hybrid form of “science fantasy”, but it may also signal an altogether new stage in the development of exomimetic fiction. These issues will be discussed in the next section.

3. Science Fantasy – Towards New Forms of Exomimetic Literature Similarly as with the denominations of “science fiction” and “fantasy”, also their presumed hybrid form—science fantasy—raises strong controversies. Critics and scholars are by no means unanimous as to what this term means exactly and which class of texts it actually covers. S. C. Fredericks, for example, states that, in a popular understanding, science fantasy is “a kind of fantasy fiction which exploits typical SF genres and themes, playing up their strictly imaginative dimensions as opposed to their cognitive/scientific ones” (42). Tymn, Boyer and Zahorski, in turn, suggest that Science fantasy is a type of high fantasy that offers scientific explanation for the existence of the secondary world and, usually, for the portal by which one can pass from the primary to the secondary world. Once in this secondary world, which is the principal setting of the work, magical causality takes the spotlight, and this remains nonrational, unexplained by the science. In science fantasy the major focus is the secondary world; in

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Hans Joachim Alpers observes that the transitions between fantasy and science fantasy are rather fluid and that the main feature of the latter is, simply, joining the typical SF motifs, “spaceships, modern instruments and weapons”, with various adventures set on planets in which magic is involved (23). Finally, for Brian Attebery, science fantasy is “a partial rationalization of magical motifs through the vocabulary and conventions of science fiction” (The Fantasy Tradition 161). In this place, however, science fantasy will be basically researched as a certain “borderline” between the exomimetic genres of SF and SWF as described in the previous section. We will look more closely into the exact ways of how the elements connected with both conventions function in particular texts, and perhaps also formulate some conclusions of a genological nature. Elaborating on my discussion of science fantasy that was conducted in another publication,27 it seems that there are three basic ways the SF and SWF conventions interact with each other, and that those modes can be roughly delimitated diachronically. Thus we can speak, in a way, of three historical variants of the phenomenon: 1. At the earliest stage of the development of both genres, when they had not been stabilised (and recognised) yet, the elements of proto-SF and proto-SWF mixed rather freely and accidentally. By way of example, such works as the “John Carter Cycle” by Edgar Rice Burroughs (the first book in the cycle, A Princess of Mars, was published in 1912), or several short stories by Clarke Ashton Smith from the 1930s (such as, for example, The Flower Women or The Maze of Maal Dweeb) might be mentioned. Especially The Maze of Maal Dweeb is exemplary in this respect. The story starts in a way that is quite characteristic of early SF: “By the light of four small waning moons of Xiccarph” (no page given), but then the motifs that are typical of early heroic fantasy become predominant. The protagonist, Maal Dweeb, the cruel ruler of the planet Xiccarph, is an “all potent magician” conducting all kinds of “thaumaturgy”. The story features a very Howardian barbarian/hero Tiglari who sets out on a dangerous quest to save a girl that has been kidnapped by the sorcerer. 27

My research on science fantasy that is based on a wider range of representative texts has been included in Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku, Chapter Four, section 3. The present section elaborates on or quotes large parts of the argumentation conducted therein.

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In all such cases of “science fantasy” (Alpers’s description is probably most suitable regarding those texts; see Alpers 23), there is definitely no conscious play with the mixing of conventions on the part of the authors; these works simply testify to the convergent evolution of both genres on the market of popular non-mimetic prose in the first half of the twentieth century in the USA. 2. Another variant of science fantasy starts to appear in the 1960s, when both genres had already become established and recognised. Texts such as The Witch World (1963) by Andre Norton or Semley’s Necklace (1964; the short story was subsequently incorporated into Rocannon’s World, 1966— the first volume in the original Hain trilogy) by Ursula K. Le Guin are good examples of a conscious play with the conventions of both genres. In the first text the typical medieval and magical fantasy world of Escarp is invaded by aliens from another dimension who use advanced technology against Escarp’s “natural” magic. In Semley’s Necklace, in turn, we encounter a very interesting compositional operation. The story consists of two alternating parts. The external framework is set in a museum in South Georgia, one of the planets of the Ecumen, where the alien ethnographer Rocannon and curator Ketho meet Semley, and is constructed according to the rules of SF. The internal—narrating the story of Semley’s quest in search of the lost necklace—is in conformity with the conventions of SWF. Both parts, which is especially interesting, also retain the use of language characteristic for their respective genres—the pseudo-scientific, technical jargon of the external framework can be contrasted with the poetic shaping of language in the internal story of Semley’s quest. In both (as well as in many other subsequent) cases the juxtaposition of motifs belonging to SF and SWF evidently helps to breach petrified conventions and to redynamise the texts. It is also worth remarking that elements of both conventions are clearly distinguishable—the dominant mode is that of confrontation (direct, as in the case of Norton’s novel when one world invades another, or somewhat indirect as in Le Guin’s story, where it is the reader who “confronts” alternating passages). Thus this variant of science fantasy is predominantly (but not in all cases) characterised by the operation of the fantastic—the clash of two world models represented by the respective conventions of SF and SWF.28 28 Obviously, operation of the fantastic is not only restricted to texts that initially present mimetic reality. The element of the fantastic may also appear within an exomimetic world, thus breaching its unified order. It may even come, paradoxically, from the mimetic reality. An interesting example helping to understand the textual and relative nature of the phenomenon is given by

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3. At the third stage of the interaction between both genres new phenomena can be observed. First, SWF as a whole becomes more and more “rationalised” and its strategies, in many respects (for example, the use of language) become quite close to those of SF. This is especially visible in the treatment of magic, which is more and more often described in similar ways as technology in science fiction (see point 1 of the comparison in the previous section). At the same time there also appear texts whose construction is not based on the contrast between the two genre conventions/world orders, but they rather attempt to create their own specific world model by using chosen elements of both SF and SWF and fusing them seamlessly. A good example here is “The Cold Fire Trilogy” (1991-1995) by C. S. Friedman. The plot is set on the planet Erna which was colonised by people a long time ago. The theme of colonisation of an alien planet and the adaptation of a human population to different and often hostile life conditions belongs, naturally, to the classic SF repertoire. What makes this case different is the common presence of magic which has replaced advanced technology. This magic is explained as a natural force—it is the effect of Fae, the power that permeates the whole ecosphere. Its most important characteristics are the ability to react to the deepest and strongest human feelings and impulses, and to subsequently materialise them in the physical world. Predictably, soon the irrational and dark parts of human nature start to dominate. As a consequence, in the world of Erna monsters and demons exist, which have been made, in fact, by human Zgorzelski, who observes that in Kenneth Bulmer’s short novel Earth’s Long Shadow, “the normal world is a cluster of planets in a Horakah system, where the inhabitants get ready for an imperialistic interplanetary war. For each of the characters this world is a normal, everyday-like reality. The fantastic element appears only when five hundred thousand alien starships surround the Horakah system. And it is not the might of this armada that awes the governments of Horakah, but the fact that the ships come from Earth. Because Earth was in their world only a forgotten legend, a fairy tale told for children before they went to bed; in other words, it was the Earth’s existence that had no place in the order of the universe assumed initially by the text” (“Theoretical Preliminaries” 21). Interestingly, Mendlesohn’s concept of intrusion fantasy (see Chapter Two, section 4) is described in quite similar terms. This constitutes yet another analogy between the two theoretical systems. Mendlesohn also suggests that “intrusion fantasy, although usually associated with ‘real world’ fantasy, can be set within the immersive. If such is the case, the same rules apply: there is a clear line between the constructed ‘normality’ and the intrusion. Protagonists know what is normal even if we do not and express this clearly and forcefully; the intrusion must be defeated, and the actors remain acted upon” (Rhetorics xxii).

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fears and imagination but, nevertheless, are real and dangerous. There are also special, “magical” ways of dealing with them. The series includes many motifs that are typical of SWF, such as the quest of the protagonists and their struggle with evil forces which, unlike in traditional SWF, is not of a transcendental nature, but has been created by the power of negative human emotions enhanced by the planet’s properties. The quest, however, results not in the recovery of natural order but (more typically for SF) in the creation of a new, better one that is negotiated by the protagonists. The world model presented by Friedman undoubtedly belongs to the most interesting and coherent ones in all of exomimetic literature. We can definitely speak about science fantasy of a new type here. If more similar texts were to follow, perhaps science fantasy could be regarded as an independent genre built upon both the SWF and SF conventions, but, at the same time, transcending them. In the above list the three stages of SF and SWF mutual interaction have been briefly characterised. We started from texts that “unconsciously” mix elements of both genres at the earliest stage of their development, then we proceeded to those which more purposely juxtaposed them by relying on the operation of the fantastic, and we ended with texts which seamlessly fused the conventions of SF and SWF to create a new, unified world order. It seems that within this last group a new interesting trend has surfaced in recent years. It is signalled by books such as Michael Swanwick’s The Iron Dragon’s Daughter (1994). This novel, although analogously as “The Cold Fire Trilogy” it fuses elements of SF and SWF in the construction of its world, can at the same time be juxtaposed with it because its strategies seem to be even more radical. Already the first paragraphs of the novel signal a dramatic shift in the use of typical SF and SWF conventions: The Changeling’s decision to steal a dragon and escape was born, though she did not know it then, the night the children met to plot the death of their supervisor. She had lived in the steam dragon plant for as long as she could remember. Each dawn she was marched with the other indentured minors from their dormitory in Building 5 to the cafeteria ... Usually she was then sent to the cylinder machine shop for polishing labour ... (1)

Swanwick presents a strange and unconventional yet perfectly coherent world in which traditional constituents of SWF (dwarves, elves, dragons, princes, magic) function in an industrial, semi-technological society which

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is partly reminiscent of the Victorian époque, and partly anti-utopian, based on a specific technology and slave labour. What is especially interesting is the construction of the plot and the narration. The first is rather untypical of SWF, but also of more traditional SF, slow-paced, relatively unfocused, meandering. It brings up associations with the plots of Victorian bildungsromans or modern psychological coming-of-age novels rather than with the plots of popular non-mimetic texts. In this respect Swanwick’s novel can be contrasted with Friedman’s trilogy which, despite its unconventional and imaginative world construction, follows the quest or “scientific expedition” patterns and presents a focused, relatively straightforward plot that is tightly packed with adventures and dramatic events. Swanwick’s novel can in many respects be regarded, as John Clute has put it, as “anti-fantasy” (The Encyclopedia of Fantasy 913-914). In contradistinction to “The Cold Fire Trilogy”, the novel also presents a narrative strategy which has been described by Mendlesohn as immersive. As we remember, immersive fantasy from the very beginning of the narration “immerses us” in a world seen from the position of the protagonist, who knows it perfectly well and belongs to it. The characters are completely integrated with their world, they accept without a single hint of surprise and take for granted all of the “fantastical” elements in their surroundings. One of the main techniques here is “the construction of the world from pieced-together hints and gradual explanation, the understanding of a world by the context of what is told” (Mendlesohn, Rhetorics 75). Although, as I have already observed, it is not possible to simply put an equal sign between Zgorzelski’s notion of exomimetic fiction and Mendlesohn’s immersive fantasy (see note 5 earlier in this chapter), both categories have quite a lot in common. Interestingly, many relatively recent texts which Mendlesohn discusses at length in her chapter on immersive fantasy seem to perfectly illustrate this new trend in the evolution of exomimetic literature. Perhaps not incidentally most of the works included there have been published in the last 20 years, thus suggesting that the “immersive” narrative strategy is a relatively new development and can be directly linked with the phenomenon that has been approached in the few previous paragraphs as the last stage of the mutual interaction between SF and SWF. This is further supported by Mendlesohn’s statement that “any sufficiently immersive fantasy is indistinguishable from science fiction” (Rhetorics 62), which shows that the researcher perceives some interrelationship between both genres in this respect (it is perhaps a pity

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that Mendlesohn does not elaborate further on this corollary). However, the above observation needs to be commented on in the context of how SF and SWF have been delimitated earlier in this chapter. First, the analogy seems to be adequate only when we refer to relatively recent SF texts—in older ones (for example, representing the first genre variant as described by Zgorzelski—the classic, “golden age” works by Heinlein, Asimov or Clarke) the narrative strategies that are often employed seem to have more in common with those covered by Mendlesohn in her chapter on portal-quest fantasy. Additionally, even if we look at more recent SF we will be able to find some texts in which the “immersive” mode is definitely in operation (for example, Finch, 2009, by Jeff Vandermeer or The Troika, 1997, by Stepan Chapman), but also those in which it is hardly present (for example Endymion, 1996, by Dan Simmons, or any book in the Miles Vorkosigan series by Lois McMaster Bujold). Therefore, it might be more reasonable to simply state that the immersive narrative strategy becomes visibly pronounced in some recent exomimetic texts. Second, the similar use of the immersive narrative strategy is, arguably, not a sufficient factor to determine the genological identity of the two sets of texts. SF texts, for example, despite employing parallel narrative techniques, will still include the primary generic features that were specified in the previous section and which are absent in the texts discussed by Mendlesohn (for example, opening the dimension of cosmic space or compatibility between physical laws of the empirical reality and those operating in the fictional world). Thus, again, it seems more adequate to speak about exomimetic texts that reveal features of both SF and SWF but that cannot be simply qualified as belonging to either of those genre conventions. Among the texts discussed by Mendlesohn which might be of special interest in the context of our present discussion are: China Miéville’s Perdido Street Station (2001) and The Iron Council (2004), Steph Swainston’s The Year of Our War (2004), K. J. Bishop’s The Etched City (2003) or Martine Leavitt’s Dollmage (2001). This list could be supplemented by such works as already mentioned Swanwick’s The Iron Dragon’s Daughter, Sean Stewart’s Clouds End (1996) or Felicity Savage’s Humility Garden (1995) and Delta City (1996). The above texts are extremely diverse (this diversity being, paradoxically, the result of their shared predominant feature, i.e. the breaking of typical SF/SWF conventions), but at closer scrutiny they reveal certain common tendencies (obviously not all of them surface in each of the texts mentioned) that can be approximated in the following

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way: 1. In many recent exomimetic texts the motifs of technology and magic are both present; they are integrated rather than conflicting in the presented world’s order. 2. The technological and social stasis of SWF universes is breached. However, similarly as in SWF, the world is relatively closed in its spatial and temporal parameters. There are usually no spatial or chronological equivalents linking the presented world with the empirical reality. The physical laws of the presented world are not meant to be regarded as an extension or extrapolation of the physical laws of the mimetic reality, but rather as an alternative set of laws. 3. Most of the texts in question abandon conventions that are typical of SWF regarding the shaping of plot and characters, the predominant motifs and axiology that characterised most of the contemporary SWF in all its subsequent genre variations (heroic fantasy, epic fantasy, fantasy of initiation and maturation or historical epic roman-fleuve fantasy). The typical motifs of quest and war, or explorations of either myth or history, become less and less pronounced. Instead, interest in psychological or sociological issues is more visible. The plot becomes more slow-paced than in traditional, popular non-mimetic literature, less driven by adventure and quest patterns and, at the same time, more complex and unpredictable. The same applies to characters, who are given more autonomy and are less subjected to other textual dominants (in most SF and SWF texts they have been subordinated, for example, to the presentation of the world order; in other cases they could be regarded primarily as the enactors of the plot development, which has already been pre-determined by certain narrative patterns, or they basically function as signs in a certain larger, semantic system29). Generally speaking, with respect to the construction of the plot and the characters, many of the recent exomimetic texts have more in common with contemporary mimetic psychological prose than with typical popular non-mimetic fiction. 4. The “immersive” narrative strategy becomes dominant. It is perhaps worth remarking at this point that the emergence of the 29 See, for example, my discussion of the “Earthsea” cycle in The Second Life of Earthsea. I argue there that in the “first Earthsea trilogy” the protagonists functioned primarily as signs in a certain symbolic, myth-related system; in “the second trilogy” they become freed of the conventions that have bound them and acquire a more autonomous status.

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immersive narrative strategy itself—especially in its more radical forms— constitutes an interesting new stage in the evolution of all of exomimetic fiction. The traditional objective of exomimetic fiction—in opposition to the fantastic literature whose conventions it had breached—was not to emphasise the strangeness of fictional worlds in relation to the mimetic reality, but rather to create complete and coherent, full-fledged secondary universes. The reader (and often the protagonist) became familiarised with this world gradually, but at the end its whole functioning was revealed or discovered and explained with great detail. Moreover, the protagonist, equipped with this knowledge, also frequently became capable of effectively changing the world (SF) or re-establishing the original order of the universe (SWF). The reader of the exomimetic fiction, no matter whether reading Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Earthsea Cycle or Dan Simmons’s Hyperion Cantos, could reasonably expect that all of the crucial aspects of the fictional world’s functioning (as well as the intricacies of the plot) would carefully be explained by the end of the book. This changes in some of the more recent texts. Sometimes the technique of explaining the world only through the context, of withholding information, “of building the sense of story and world behind what we actually see” (Mendlesohn, Rhetorics 83) goes to extremes, as texts appear in which the essential elements of both the presented story and the fictional world’s functioning are never completely revealed (Mendlesohn, Rhetorics 83). This refusal to explain the world can be perceived as another breach in the already petrified conventions of exomimetic literature, and yet another way of redynamising it. This is the way literary genres evolve—new conventions come into being as a result of a breach in the existing ones, then with time they get petrified themselves and are subsequently breached again. It seems that, contrarily to some opinions emphasising the repetitiveness of SF and fantasy conventions, exomimetic literature still remains one of the most dynamically evolving types of contemporary non-mimetic fiction which is capable of producing innovative, artistic texts and inventing still newer ways of creative worldmaking.

4. Dystopia, Cyberpunk and Beyond The third exomimetic genre that is recognised by Zgorzelski is dystopia. This may sound at first quite surprising to the contemporary reader, as dystopia, in contradistinction to SF and SWF (or “fantasy”), does not seem to possess a strong market identity nowadays. Nevertheless, its diachronic evolution can be perceived even more clearly than in the

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case of the two other exomimetic genres. All of Chapter Three in Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction is devoted to the historical evolution of utopia, one of the oldest genres that belongs to the fantastic type of fiction. Zgorzelski traces the changes in the patterns of the genre from Thomas More’s Utopia (1516) to Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1931). These are relatively straightforward and exemplary to illustrate the function of Zgorzelski’s concept of the fantastic in historical-literary processes (see Chapter Three of this study). The transformation from the historical-fantastic genre of utopia into the contemporary exomimetic genre of dystopia (anti-utopia) can be summarised in the following way: 1. The classical utopia consisted of two parts—the mimetic introduction and the second, proper part in which a vision of an ideal society was presented. The world depicted in this second part was constructed in a non-literary way—the fantastic elements functioned only “in strengthening the signals of literariness and fictionality in the text” (Zgorzelski, Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction 190). With time the first mimetic part becomes shorter and shorter, until it virtually disappears from the narration and is retained only in the form of various equivalents (see note 1 this chapter). Thus the fantastic, meant as a confrontation of the two world orders, also disappears from the texts and gives way to a unified world model. 2. At the same time the genre strives “to free itself from its traditional roots in non-literary writings”, such as pamphlet-writings or travel memoirs (Zgorzelski, Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction 190). Finally, “utopian writing in the later periods attains the status of a full-fledged novel (Zgorzelski, Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction 190). 3. The vision of an ideal society becomes replaced by its exact opposition. This contemporary, twentieth-century exomimetic genre of dystopia that has come into being as the result of the evolutionary processes mentioned above can clearly be distinguished from both SF and SWF. Let us look at the main features of dystopia in the context of the comparison conducted in section 2: 30 30

In contemporary criticism, dystopia (or anti-utopia), similarly as SF (see section 2), is usually described only in reference to its thematic content. Thus, The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction defines it as a “class of hypothetical societies worse than our own” (360). Wolfe, in turn, describes anti-utopia as “a satirical or ironic treatment of utopian themes, sometimes contrasted with dystopia (Gr., ‘the bad place’), which is taken to mean narratives of undesirable societies that are not

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1. Dystopia “is interested in constructing a whole new system of dangerous and threatening social mechanisms, in showing the net of relationships between possible ‘class’ divisions in society, economic conditions and state power” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 37). 2. In contradistinction to the active protagonists of SF and SWF who fulfil the values that are predominant in these genres, the protagonist of dystopia “is a passive character, experiencing rather than really acting, subject to impersonal, authoritarian and oppressive socio-political mechanisms, exposed to hopelessness and inactivity” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 38). 3. In contradistinction to what is characteristic for SF’s operation of polarisation and typical of SWF’s tendency towards poetic structuring (see section 2 this chapter), dystopia uses more conventional literary language which limits neologisms to proper names, especially those of social and political institutions. Sometimes a new lexicon is introduced there which suggests changes of awareness that have come together with the new social reality (“newspeak” in George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four; new principles of word formation in Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange). (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 38)

4. Regarding axiology, dystopia usually “negates all values, social or individual; no value can emerge there, develop or become realized, each of them is immediately nullified by socio-political laws and mechanisms. Moreover, these laws subordinate not only men, but also nature” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 38). 5. The spatial parameters are usually more restricted than in SF, but also more than in SWF. In both of these genres the notion of moving through space, either done as an interplanetary voyage or a travel on horseback through different lands that have been previously unknown to the protagonist during his/her quest, is so universal that it can be regarded as another of the genre’s determinants. This ability to transcend one’s initial spatial parameters (which can be relatively “closed” at the beginning of the narration) is strictly connected with the active role of the protagonist in both genres. In dystopia, in turn, there is a pervading feeling of isolation— the fictional world is not only closed, but also restricted, and the inability to breach one’s spatial restrictions is emphasised. 6. The worlds of both SF and SWF are usually drawn more fully, they are more complete in the presentation of their diverse aspects, more focused especially satirical of assumptions in utopian fiction” (Critical Terms 9).

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on the re-creation of the impression of verisimilitude.31 The worlds of dystopia are usually centred on the extrapolation of only some chosen aspects of social life, whose amplification is often conducted at the cost of the feeling of overall coherence and verisimilitude of the fictional universe. The mode of the grotesque and satire (historically very characteristic of the genre of utopia, from which dystopia evolved) is clearly operational here. This is, again, a generalised description of the dystopian genre convention, whose particular traits may be carried out in different ways and proportions in particular texts. However, those tendencies manifest themselves strongly in such classical twentieth-century works as Brave New World (1932) by Aldous Huxley, Fahrenheit 451 (1953) by Ray Bradbury, A Clockwork Orange (1962) by Anthony Burgess, and the most typical example probably being George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949). In later years the features of a dystopia so described are still well visible in such texts as The Handmaid’s Tale (1985) by Margaret Atwood, The Giver (1993) by Lois Lowry, the Uglies trilogy (2005-2006) by Scott Westerfeld or Unwind (2007) by Neal Shusterman. At the same time it must be remarked that the borderline between contemporary dystopia and SF appears to be even more vague than the ones between each of those genres and SWF. Modern dystopias are usually set—similarly as science fiction—in “a world of the future”, often preserving both spatial and temporal equivalents of the mimetic reality. The dystopian world orders are also more and more often based on the application of certain technological advancements (especially in the sphere of bio-engineering). The social impacts of such advancements are also traditionally mentioned among the core motifs of SF (see, for example, Campbell’s and Clareson’s definitions of SF in section 2). On the other 31 This specific impression of the verisimilitude or completeness of the fictional reality largely results from the relatively balanced treatment of its particular components. Thus, for example, the characters, regardless of their primary function in the narration, may be presented as complex individuals of diverse personal agendas and intricate interrelations. Instead of focusing on one central theme, the narration may also touch upon several other issues relating to different spheres of life. It seems that no matter how radical the changes and advancements a text actually introduces, they do not have to breach the impression of verisimilitude understood in that manner if the narrative structure is adequately balanced, thus transferring a pretence of completeness. On the other hand, even a slight slip into an overt grotesque or satire apparently disturbs the perceived multi-dimensionality of a fictional universe.

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hand, modern SF seems to be invading traditional dystopian territory, with its interest visibly shifting from “hard” to “soft” sciences and social issues. All of this makes the borders between SF and dystopia even more blurred. Still, I will argue that there exists a notable distinction between both genre conventions which more or less clearly manifests itself in the chosen texts. This is not to dismiss the obvious fact that SF and dystopia continually interact and borrow from each other, thus creating a vast and immensely inspiring borderline. Nevertheless, it is still possible to distinguish between works largely driven by traditional dystopian structures and those in which dystopian motifs become only one of the many elements that are creatively used by predominantly science-fictional conventions. To illustrate this tentative division I will shortly discuss a few examples. The Handmaid’s Tale is fairly representative of the first group. The book focuses on the presentation of a militant, ultra-Christian, ultraconservatist and misogynist society of the Republic of Gilead, which has come into being as a result of the collapse of the United States in the near future. The story is narrated by a woman called Offred, who is the “handmaid” (a formal concubine used for procreative purposes) to Fred, an important state commander. The story investigates the rules that govern this totalitarian society of the Republic through the eyes of the oppressed Offred (who still remembers her gender status in a democratic system). Although Offred expresses her discontent, the actions she actually takes are either pragmatic (she engages, for example, in a sexual relationship with Fred’s driver, arranged by Fred’s wife, partly because she wants to increase her chances of getting pregnant and thus to avoid the much worse fate of being sent to the Colonies) or tentative (she occasionally tries to find some information about her lost husband and daughter). She is basically shown as a (nearly) helpless victim of the misogynist theocracy. Her existence is primarily defined by confinement (her inability to live the way she would like and behave in conformity with her convictions and desires is, characteristically for a dystopia, parallelled by her inability to move freely in space). The plot is relatively slow paced, even monotonous, devoid of any dramatic turns of events that are so characteristic of SF and SWF, thus emphasising the feeling of inertia, oppression and hopelessness. It might also be argued that the world presented in the novel—typically for the dystopian tradition—has been constructed to emphasise its chosen aspects (in this case the misogynist oppression of women) at the cost of the apparent lack of multi-dimensionality.

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Confinement similarly defines Janusz Zajdel’s Paradyzja.32 The plot is set in the future on an artificial planet, Paradyzja, which revolves around the planet Tartar. The inhabitants of Paradyzja are the descendants of Earth’s colonists who created a supposedly ideal society that has been closed to the outside after it presumably turned out that Tartar is geologically unstable. The protagonist, a journalist from Earth, Rinah Devi, is granted exceptional permission to visit Paradyzja. At the same time he has a secret mission—he is to investigate the fate of another Earthman, the sociologist Lars Benig who, according to Paradyzja’s authorities, was killed in an accident. Devi’s position is, quite intentionally, allusive of the situation of a foreign correspondent in Poland under martial law (or in any other totalitarian country). He is subjected to strong surveillance and government propaganda and has to conduct his research very carefully in order not to provoke any type of repression aimed at him or his interlocutors when trying to breach the surface of appearances. With time he starts to understand the real nature of the system, and finally he discovers the most shocking truth of all—that Paradyzja does not, in fact, revolve around Tartar but that it sits comfortably on its peaceful surface. The whole idea allows the ruling caste to effectively control and exploit its inhabitants. The narration focuses on an investigation of the technical and social intricacies of a totalitarian system of control and the means used to circumvent it that have been invented by the oppressed society. The development of plot, structuring of the protagonists and the language are all subordinated to this task. It is the creation of this system, its minor details and peculiarities that can be regarded as the text’s dominant. The protagonist functions only as an outsider whose role is to investigate things for the reader; he is not in the position to act. At the end of the book he simply returns to the democratic world equipped with his sour knowledge, thus leaving Paradyzja as it was (although some hope for the future is tentatively suggested). Once more the text presents a certain detailed and coherent model of a totalitarian system’s functioning but—in comparison to some SF and SWF 32

I have decided to include in my discussion a book that has not been translated into English because it testifies to certain interesting new tendencies while basically retaining the traditional dystopian structure. The book is also a very good example of the whole dystopian trend which thrived in Polish SF literature in the 1980s, i.e. after the introduction of martial law in Poland. The scale of this literary phenomenon, obviously inspired by the current political situation, but definitely transcending it in its artistic achievements is, probably, unprecedented in the history of dystopia’s evolution.

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texts—obviously lacks multi-dimensionality in several other aspects (such as, for example, the psychological motivations of the characters beyond their relationship to the system, or different metaphysical or philosophical issues). The two books mentioned above do not only present visions of a dystopian society, but also shape their structures generally in conformity with the conventions described earlier in this section. Thus their affiliation to the exomimetic genre of dystopia is based not only on the presence of certain themes or motifs, but on a wider set of structural features. Let us now, for comparison, look at two other texts which undeniably also present visions of a dystopian society but are structured differently in virtually every respect. In Dan Simmons’s Endymion (1996), the human universe is governed by a new, totalitarian incarnation of the Catholic Church (which is later revealed to be a mere puppet of the devious and sinister artificial intelligences of the TechnoCore). All of mankind is oppressed by an omnipotent and inhumane system based on supreme technological advancements and multi-layer deceptions. The vision of the universe in Richard Morgan’s Takeshi Kovacs Trilogy (2002-2005) is similarly dystopian. All of the planets that were once settled by humans are now ruled ruthlessly by either totalitarian or oligarchic governments and supervised by the despotic UN Protectorate. The supreme technological advancements here (such as, especially, digitalisation of the human mind or needle-cast travel) help to magnify different threats that a contemporary reader may perceive as already existing in his/her own post-capitalist, fragmented world. The order Morgan draws is a corporate and oligarchic one at its worst—the trilogy offers one of the most accurately and logically explained visions of an economically-motivated dystopian society in all of non-mimetic literature.33 Despite this presentation of coherent and inspiring dystopian world orders, the narration, the protagonists, and the axiology presented are shaped with the use of entirely different conventions than those that were discussed earlier in this section. The protagonists in both works are primarily acting ones. Takeshi Kovacs is on several occasions able to pragmatically defy the system, or at least to negotiate the outcome of the events. Even more radically, one of the two leading protagonists of Endymion and The Rise of Endymion (1997), Raul Endymion, is to destroy Pax (the Church’s armed forces) as well as to discover and thwart 33

See my discussion of the Takeshi Kovacs Trilogy in TrĊbicki, Human Identity.

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TechnoCore’s designs; whereas the other protagonist, Aenea, turns out to be a sort of messiah that is able to change the order of the whole universe. In both cases the protagonists effectively escape from various forms of confinement that threaten them, thus moving relatively freely thorough space (or cyberspace). In terms of axiology, Simmons’s work marks a surprisingly convincing and well-motivated return to early SF’s faith in human capabilities; whereas Morgan’s trilogy, while mostly cynical, leaves some hints of optimism. The conventions shaping the plot are relatively well identifiable in both cases. The plots in Endymion and Endymion Rising are primarily driven by space-opera and hard SF conventions, whereas in the Takeshi Kovacs trilogy the influence of cyberpunk and noir detective story are especially manifest. Both works also offer the impression of the multi-dimensionality, completeness and verisimilitude that most dystopias lack.34 The aim of the above comparison is, obviously, not to argue that the first two novels should somehow be “classified” as dystopias whereas the two consecutive ones as SF with dystopian elements, or to create artificial borders dismissing contemporary literature’s heterogeneity—it is rather to demonstrate that two distinct generic tendencies are clearly operational here. The denomination of cyberpunk, evoked in one of the preceding paragraphs, brings us to the subject of the various subgenres or thematic variants of SF. Among the most frequently mentioned are, especially, cyberpunk, alternative world history, space opera or soft SF. In popular opinion those denominations are often bestowed with an independent genre status; for example, the popular internet source Wikipedia (which will be cited here as a sort of proxy vox populi) lists as many as 44 “science fiction genres”, including, apart from the already mentioned universally recognised denominations, such niche or exotic categories as, for example, “afrofuturism”, “space goth” or “steampunk”. In their individual entries some of those categories are clearly defined as “genres of science fiction” (cyberpunk) or, in the case of alternate history, simply, “genres of fiction”. More scholarly resources are generally more restrained in this respect and often describe the phenomena in question matter-of-factly, at times even without categorising them. Wolfe, for example, defines cyberpunk as “a group of young science fiction writers … with narratives characterized by a combination of advanced scientific concepts (especially relating to 34

This is especially visible in the case of the Hyperion Cantos cycle which very ambitiously explores scientific, religious, philosophical, ethical and psychological issues, thus making them all integral parts of the narration.

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cybernetics), New Wave narrative techniques, and the fast-paced plotting characteristic of more traditional science-fiction” (Critical Terms 23-24). Alternate history, in turn, is identified as “a narrative premise claimed equally by science fiction and fantasy” (6), and space operas simply as “fast-paced intergalactic adventures on a grand scale” (120). The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction describes cyberpunk as “a school of sf writing” and the alternate world as a “hypothetical exercise – an account of Earth as it might have become in consequence of some hypothetical alteration in history” (23). Obviously, it would be rather inadequate to forcefully invent new (and largely unnecessary) generic categories or to engage in a genological dispute over relatively minor thematic variations. On the other hand, however, it is also reasonable to assume that within the extremely vast and heterogeneous category of texts that is today labelled SF, there might have come into being particular groups that exhibit visible structural similarities while, at the same time, breaching or opposing the traditional conventions of SF. This, of course, requires specific, thorough and wide-ranging research conducted on a representative collection of contemporary, presumably “science-fictional” texts. Its scope would considerably exceed the limits of my present discussion. At this point, simply to illustrate the nature of the issue, let us briefly consider the status of two popular denominations mentioned above, namely, cyberpunk and alternative (or alternate) world history. Of the many co-existing definitions of cyberpunk, perhaps the most adequate is David Ketterer’s concise characteristics which emphasize the combination of “high tech” with “low life” (Canadian Science Fiction 141). If we look at a wide enough collection of volumes commonly labelled as cyberpunk, such as numerous texts by the “archetypal” cyberpunk writer William Gibson (the seminal Neuromancer, 1984; Count Zero, 1986; Mona Lisa Overdrive, 1988; Virtual Light, 1993; Idoru, 1996), Bruce Sterling’s Schismatrix, 1985; Neal Stephenson’s Snowcrash, 1992 or Richard Morgan’s Takeshi Kovacs trilogy, it is actually difficult to resist having the impression that this is, in fact, their only common characteristics that at the same time distinguishes them from other SF works. In other words, this loose collection of texts is linked primarily by the motif of advancements (relating mainly to cybernetics or information technologies) backgrounded against descriptions of a picturesque underworld and fast-paced, hard-boiled plots that often employ the conventions of a noir detective story. The language of cyberpunk is also characterised by the frequent use of “technical” and “criminal” slang. The

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shaping of the protagonist, particular narrative strategies, the range of issues involved, the axiology suggested, exact spatial and temporal parameters, etc… can differ quite considerably in the particular texts. By way of example, we might contrast the relatively simple, subcultural protagonist of Neuromancer, Case, with the sophisticated protagonist of Morgan’s trilogy, Takeshi Kovacs, or juxtapose the picturesque but, again, rather fragmentary visions of social life in Gibson’s novels with the complex sociological and economic models drawn by Stephenson or Morgan. It seems that while we can definitely speak about a certain class of texts labelled “cyberpunk”, this class is not defined by a sufficient set of structural features. This observation is further confirmed by the fact that the works in question do not breach or visibly alter any of the defining features of the SF genre convention as approximated in section 2. All of the primary generic features (and in some cases also many of the secondary ones) have been retained there. Consequently, it is perhaps more adequate to discuss cyberpunk merely as a certain trend within SF. The case of the alternative world history is more complex. It is sometimes viewed as a more or less independent and variously specified category of texts, and sometimes as a sort of literary operation (see Wolfe’s description earlier in this section) that is present in different literary genres. Quoting Wikipedia again, (which, arguably, can give us some insight as to how the alternate world history is perceived by the reading public) it may be regarded as “a sub-genre of literary fiction, science fiction, and historical fiction”. It appears, nevertheless, that, at least partly, alternate world history, or uchronia, as it is sometimes referred to, has publically been recognised as a literary genre that is distinct from other genres in the genological pattern.35 This latter denomination, uchronia, suggests a special relationship with the utopian literary tradition. Most of the alternative history texts—by way of example we might mention here Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle (1962), Vladimir Nabokov’s Ada or Ardor: the Family Chronicle (1969), Kingsley Amis’s Alteration (1976) or Robert Harris’s Fatherland (1992)—are based on the same constructional principle that is concisely described as “what if?”. In other words, they try to extrapolate how our history (and consequently the world order) could have altered if the outcome of some vital historical event had been different than it actually 35

See note 3, Chapter One. Public recognition of the uchronia/alternate world history genre is confirmed by the existence of such literary-social phenomena as, for example, the Internet database Uchronia, which currently lists over 3100 novels, stories, essays and other printed material related to this genre.

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was (the most classical and popular of such assumptions probably being “what if Hitler had won the war?”). Notably, apart from their initial assumption, uchronias often include very little or virtually no elements that might appear to the reader as fantastical. Despite the apparent (and intended) similarity of the fictional worlds to the empirical reality, the exomimetic mode is clearly recognisable here: the texts construct a certain creative, coherent world model based on rational extrapolation. These world models are fully unified—the operation of the fantastic is usually absent—and, at the same time, clearly distinct from the mimetic reality. It is especially interesting to compare this possible uchronia genre with SWF. Both genres are exomimetic, and in this sense they are not fantastic. At the same time, while SWF texts offer world models that are probably the most fantastical in the reader’s reception, uchronia’s realities often belong to the least fantastical ones. If we look at the set of primary features, uchronias appear to be distinct from both SF and SWF. In contradistinction to SF, technological advancements often play no significant part in alternate world histories (and even if they do surface in some texts, they definitely cannot be viewed as a genre determinant), but the set of physical laws most frequently mimics that of the empirical reality. The dimension of cosmic space is, similarly as in SWF, insignificant, but (again, in most cases) magic is not present either. Perhaps with its interest in sociological and history-philosophical issues frequently determining the whole narrative structure, uchronia is, in fact, closest to dystopia. The utopian roots of alternate world history are often emphasised (they are even reflected in the very name “uchronia”). Darko Suvin, for example, as Wolfe observes, “relates the alternative history to utopian or satirical fiction” (Critical Terms 6), thus remarking that in this literary form “the material and causal verisimilitude of the writer’s world is used to articulate different possible solutions of societal problems, those problems being of sufficient importance to require an alteration in the overall history of the narrated world” (quoted by Wolfe, Critical Terms 6). Thus, uchronia might be viewed as an exomimetic genre which relatively directly (and in a parallel way to modern dystopia) descends from utopia. Obviously, a thorough diachronic research study would be necessary to verify this point. The issues become more complex because, apart from the “mainstream” of uchronia (as represented by the texts mentioned above and initially described in the preceding paragraphs), there also exist works which, while still relying on the initial “what if?” premise, employ more

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visibly strategies and motifs that are typical of SF and SWF. Thus, for example, Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle includes prominent technological motifs, and Orson Scott Card’s The Tales of Alvin the Maker (1987—present), in turn, magical or quest motifs, thus making these texts in many respects very similar to SF and SWF books, respectively. Due to this constant interaction between different non-mimetic genre conventions, approximating even a very generalised set of primary and secondary generic features proves extremely difficult here. Nevertheless, it seems that researching alternate world history/uchronia as an autonomous genological category is fully justified. In this section, as well as in the whole chapter, I tried to investigate, at some length, the most typical ways the exomimetic mode operates in contemporary literature. I also initially discussed the possible genological categories of this supragenological type. Arguably, this type of nonmimetic literature has been most prominent since the 1940s. Its popularity can be measured both by the number of volumes published each year and the amount of critical attention it has attracted. It is probably within this type of fiction that the most inspiring and artistic attempts at non-mimetic world-making can be found. It is also exomimetic fiction that deals with the most serious subject matter and is most engaging intellectually. Of all the supragenological types it most deservedly can be described as “speculative fiction”. While hopefully approximating at least some of the key genological issues, this short chapter is by no means exhaustive or conclusive as far as research on exomimetic fiction is concerned. Without a doubt a whole multitude of fascinating literary phenomena awaits more thorough investigation here.

CHAPTER FIVE CONTEMPORARY ANTIMIMETIC FICTION

1. The Antimimetic Mode The antimimetic mode “presupposes the correction of [a reader’s] presumably faulty vision of the universe, endowing the fictional world with magical or supernatural dimensions and creating a different model of reality, which is presupposed to be a true vision of the universe” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 33). It is, aside from the paramimetic and mimetic ones, the oldest of the supragenological types. One of the earliest antimimetic genres is, in turn, according to Zgorzelski, the magic fairy tale (“Fantastic Literature” 34). The late nineteenth and early twentieth century witnessed a rapid development of popular antimimetic literature which was represented by various occult or “lost race” novels. Nowadays antimimetic literature encompasses a vast range of texts which are probably second in popularity only to the exomimetic literature. The characteristic feature common to all antimimetic texts is that they actually start as mimetic ones. Only at some point of the narration does a breach occur of the initially established laws of the presented world (in this case of the mimetic model) and the element of “the unusual” intrudes, but it is quickly accepted and explained (this rationalisation of “the unusual” is very crucial here since it distinguishes antimimetic texts from fantastic ones where, usually, no exhaustive explanation is given).1 Ultimately, the vision of the universe is corrected and modified, and thus, in a way, the unity and coherence of textual reality is regained. The mimetic causality is replaced by a new one which, strange and unusual as it might initially appear, is at the same time internally coherent and its actual mechanisms are logically describable and apprehensible for the 1 Farah Mendlesohn in apparently similar terms describes her category of intrusive fantasy (see section 4 of Chapter Two). She does not, however, put emphasis on the subsequent rationalisation of the unusual (or the lack of it) and, consequently, does not distinguish between what is described here as the antimimetic and fantastic models of the fictional universe.

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characters. The mimetic reality remains, nevertheless, a part of this new model, constituting, as if to say, its basic level. The fictional world is enriched with magical or supernatural dimensions and thus a different, “completed” model of reality is created. Even if a protagonist enters a secondary world here, this secondary world is presented not as autonomous and separate from the mimetic reality, but is rather understood as its annex or complement. Thus, for example, in Stalking the Unicorn (1987) by Mike Resnick, a private detective from New York, Mallory, is hired by Elf Mürgenstrüm to find a lost unicorn and travels to a parallel Manhattan which is ruled by the laws of magic and inhabited by various magical creatures. This other Manhattan is at the same time an implement and antithesis of the original one, and both remain in a state of peculiar symbiosis. An almost identical operation is applied in Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere (1996), where the protagonist leaves the ordinary London Above and experiences his adventures in the magical and dangerous London Below. In Simon R. Green’s Drinking Midnight Wine (2001), Bradford-On-Avon initially appears to be an ordinary English town, until it is revealed that it, too, possesses two sides: Veritie where ordinary humans live and Mysterie, which is inhabited by gods and fantastic beings. In The Art of Arrow Cutting (1997) by Stephen Dedman, the protagonist, a contemporary American, realises that his reality has been secretly invaded by magic and monsters of traditional Japanese demonology. In Swim the Moon (2001) by Paul Brandon, a Scottish fiddler returning to his home country is seduced by a mysterious young woman who turns out to be a selkie. In the famous Harry Potter series (1998-2007) by J. K. Rowling, the worlds of Muggles (ordinary people) and wizards exist side by side, and there is regular communication between both, which, however, most Muggles are unaware of. In the Twilight Saga (2005-2008) by Stephenie Meyer, the protagonist, high school student Bella, suddenly realises that her surroundings are inhabited by such legendary creatures as vampires and werewolves. What all these texts suggest is that beside the mimetic reality there exist additional dimensions of the world that are secret and hidden for most people, but accessible to the chosen and initiated ones (TrĊbicki, Fantasy. Ewolucja 122). Most contemporary antimimetic texts (especially those that will be described in section 2 as “contemporary magical novels”) are popularly labelled as “fantasy” and put into the same category as the exomimetic texts of SWF by Tolkien, Le Guin, Norton, McKillip or similar authors.2 2

Several critics, however, do seem to realise the distinction between both groups

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This is probably because both groups share several elements, of which most crucial is the presence of magic in the narration. Obviously—as it often happens with the genres of non-mimetic literature—they have been evolving, in a parallel way, and influencing one another. And there are many mutual relationships between them (in fact, they are often written by the same authors). On the other hand, there are also considerable differences, apart from the mode of modelling the presented world, regarding the shaping of narration, the protagonists, language and spatiotemporal parameters, the most frequent motifs, and the use of magic and mythic elements. It must be, however, noted that the presence of magic is not inherent to the antimimetic mode as such. Although “magical” texts by far constitute the most prominent group within the antimimetic type nowadays, there are also antimimetic texts which, in fact, exhibit more affinity with science fiction. The core assumptions of the antimimetic supragenological type allow for as much diversity as in the case of exomimetic fiction. At the same time it appears that several groups of texts can be distinguished within contemporary antimimetic literature whose affinity allows for a debate of possible genres, although, obviously, any conclusive assumptions would require thorough diachronic research. Some of such groups, which are relatively well represented and describable, by way of example, will be approximated in section 2. Another interesting phenomenon that is connected directly with the antimimetic mode is the model of multi-universes, which is more and more frequent in contemporary non-mimetic fiction. The textual reality introduces several different (and to some extent autonomous) world models through which the characters travel and which constitute one overall multiuniverse model. The texts in question often combine, at varying degrees, features of antimimetic, fantastic and exomimetic literature. This issue will of texts and try to somehow subcategorise the works that are here referred to as “antimimetic”; for example, The Encyclopedia of Fantasy proposes the label “contemporary fantasy”, which is described in a way that is, at several points, at least compatible with the concept of antimimetic fiction as presented in this paper (225). Similarly, Tymn, Boyer and Zahorski distinguish between “low” and “high” fantasy (see section 3 of Chapter Two). In Mendlesohn’s taxonomy, in turn, as was already remarked, most antimimetic texts fall into the category of intrusive fantasy (although this category also encompasses texts that will be qualified here as predominantly fantastic). Interestingly, Mendlesohn also notices significant narrative similarities between portal-quest and intrusive fantasy categories, which will be parallelled here by certain analogies between the exomimetic genre of secondary world fantasy and the antimimetic genre of the contemporary magical novel (see section 2 of this chapter).

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be discussed at some length in section 3.

2. The Contemporary Magical Novel and Beyond As has been signalled in the previous section, it seems that within the extremely vast and diverse range of contemporary antimimetic works, particular sets of texts can be delimitated which exhibit significant structural affinities concerning the shaping of the plot and the protagonists, the axiology, language, etc., thus allowing for a debate of particular generic categories. Probably the most prominent and, at the same time, relatively clearly perceptible of these groups is represented by such “magical” antimimetic texts as Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, American Gods (2001) or Anansi Boys (2005), Stephen Dedman’s The Art of Arrow Cutting and Shadows Bite (2001), Paul Brandon’s Swim the Moon and The Wild Reel (2004), Simon R. Green’s Drinking Midnight Wine, Emma Bull’s War for the Oaks (2001), China Miéville’s King Rat (1998) or Charles de Lint’s The Little Country (2001), Moonheart (1984) and Forests of the Heart (2000). All of these works, as noted in section 1, are usually labelled as “fantasy” by common (and frequently critical) opinion and put into the same category as the exomimetic SWF novels of J. R. R. Tolkien, Ursula K. Le Guin, Stephen R. Donaldson, Patricia McKillip, Tad Williams or Robert Jordan. Despite certain unquestionable similarities between the two sets, there are also significant differences apart from their affinity to separate supragenological types. A comparative discussion is bound to be especially interesting here also because it may help us see how both modes –anti- and exomimetic, respectively, influence the construction of otherwise very similar (and also similarly perceived by readers and critics) texts. Therefore, it seems adequate to approximate this potential antimimetic genre of the “contemporary magical novel” (or simply “contemporary fantasy”), represented by the first group, and to juxtapose it with SWF. All the novels mentioned start, which is typical of the mode, with a mimetic introduction. On their initial pages they present apparently ordinary, mundane protagonists who are backgrounded against their equally mundane environment. Thus, by way of example, the protagonist of Drinking Midnight Wine, Toby, is portrayed as a 30-year-old shop assistant employed at Gandalf’s bookshop in Bradford-On-Avon, who is leading a rather boring and meaningless life. Mage, the protagonist of The Art of Arrow Cutting, is also shown as a man without focus who is content with his life as a vagabond freelance photographer travelling through the

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US from one casual assignment to another. In Swim the Moon, Richard Brennan returns to his Scottish homeland to try to recover from his life’s misfortunes. The young heroines of War for the Oak and The Wild Reel, both artists, split with their aggressive boyfriends and try to reconfigure their lives. In all such cases the protagonists and their environments are presented with a relative complexity, and emphasis is put on the creation of the impression of verisimilitude. The initial parts generally follow the conventions of contemporary social and psychological mimetic novels, although strong influences of such more popular mimetic genres as the detective story or love story are also visible. At some point of the narration, usually sooner than later, there occurs a breach in the laws of mimetic reality or “an intrusion”, as Mendlesohn describes it. This intrusion may take the shape of a sudden, completely unexpected event or it may escalate more gradually. In most cases it is somehow signalled by the text before the action takes its proper course, thus preparing the reader in advance for the eminent breach. The typical strategy here is the introduction of short passages in which either the omniscient narrator suggests some fantastical happenings (Drinking Midnight Wine), or a quick glimpse of the more fantastical characters from “the other side” of reality is introduced (The War for the Oak, The Wild Reel). This initial preparation of the reader for the appearance of fantastical elements also distinguishes antimimetic texts from fantastic ones, where the reader is usually supposed to remain disoriented and relatively unprepared. The breach may in some cases be purely accidental (The Art of Arrow Cutting, Neverwhere), provoked by the protagonists (Drinking Midnight Wine) or by the fantastical characters from the other side of reality (The Wild Reel, War for the Oak), or it may be the consequence of circumstances that are initially unknown to the protagonist, but often concern him or her (for example, in Anansi Boys and King Rat the protagonists, to their utmost surprise, find that they have been fathered by fantastical beings and, therefore, partially belong to this “second”, intruding world). The source of the breach is an additional facet of the fictional reality, which most ordinary people are unaware of, but it is, nevertheless, available to the initiated ones and is passable from both sides. It is never presented as an autonomous secondary world, but rather as an unknown aspect of the mimetic reality. Sometimes it takes the place of some sort of annex or additional dimension (The Seelie and Unseelie Courts in The Wild Reel and War for the Oak, the second London in Neverwhere, the

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second Bradford-On-Avon in Drinking Midnight Wine or the second New York in Stalking the Unicorn), but sometimes it is only marked by, for example, the existence of some fantastical creatures (traditional Japanese demons in the Art of Arrow Cutting or vampires in Shadows Bite, various deities in American Gods, the selkie in Swim the Moon, etc.) or, simply, the implementation of some sort of magic into the fictional world (The Art of Arrow Cutting). The plots of these novels exhibit considerable variation, but in most cases they involve a conflict with a powerful fantastical antagonist or antagonists (the kuromaku and magician Tamenaga in The Art of Arrow Cutting, various representatives of the Seelie or Unseelie court in The War for the Oak and The Wild Reel, the Pied Piper of Hamelin in King Rat, the angel Islington and his horrible servants Croup and Vandemar in Neverwhere, etc...), whom the protagonists have to confront with more or less significant assistance of other, often also fantastical characters. The ensuing conflict is of a more local, in a manner of speaking, “private” nature than the cosmic struggles between good and evil in SWF. In the course of the narration, after the initial shock or surprise, the protagonists quickly become accustomed to the fantastical elements and more or less successfully adopt to the new situation. Following the initial breach, the fictional reality is enriched and reconfigured, but it soon becomes unified and coherent again. The intrusion is rationalised, explained and incorporated into the new order. Emphasis is put not on upholding the feeling of wonder or the strangeness of the events, but rather on explaining the new order and familiarisation with the rules that operate in it (in which the contemporary magical novel shows affinity to exomimetic SWF but differs considerably from the texts that will be described in the next chapter as fantastic).3 In many cases it is suggested that the breach is more the case of the protagonists’ consciousness than the actual happenings or changes that take place in the fictional reality—that things have always been like this but the characters were simply not aware of it up until now. Finally, after the conflict has been resolved, the protagonist may return to a relatively mundane position (but usually a much more desirable one than at the beginning of the novel) or he/she permanently achieves a new, fantastical status (for example, Mage from The Art of Arrow Cutting becomes, quite literally, a mage, and Saul from King Rat reluctantly accepts his heritage). On relatively rare occasions does the conventional happy ending give way to a more tragic (but at the 3

At this point the depiction of the antimimetic mode diverges with Mendlesohn’s characterisation of intrusive fantasy, in which “the protagonist and the reader are never expected to become accustomed to the fantastic” (Rhetorics xxii).

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same time also more original) resolution (Swim the Moon). When we juxtapose the contemporary magical novel with SWF, the most obvious distinction is connected with the mode of how the fictional world is contructed. As we remember, the essential characteristic of secondary world fantasy is its speculative aspect—the creation of a fullfledged, coherent secondary universe with all its structural and narrative consequences. In the case of the contemporary magical novel, this extrapolative aspect of world-making and the potential it offers is missing. Consequently, presenting a certain cognitive model rarely becomes a dominant in those texts. Even in the more interesting and ambitious works, emphasis is put more on the plot and the characters themselves, on evoking certain moods, and on certain language operations, in other words, on an artistic telling of the story for the story’s sake. The “world-making” feature of SWF texts and its relative absence in contemporary magical novels indirectly influences the treatment of two important elements that are universally associated with “fantasy” literature, i.e. mythic content and magic. Various “mythic” motifs are an indispensable element of contemporary “fantasy” literature.4 It is, however, often overlooked that they function rather differently in various texts. In SWF the mythic dimension is usually an integrated and inseparable component of world-making. Since exomimetic literature speculates “about other possible models of reality” (Zgorzelski, 30), a natural outcome is “an urge to create a specific ontological order which authorizes the described model of reality and frequently constitutes the core element of the presented world’s structure” 4

See, especially, Oziewicz and Trocha. Oziewicz undertakes an extremely ambitious attempt to provide a possibly multifaceted description of the phenomenon of contemporary mythopoeic fantasy and the revival of mythic motifs in contemporary culture in general. His comprehensive discussion is backgrounded against various literary-critical, psychological, anthropological and sociological contexts. The leitmotif of the whole study “is that the works of contemporary mythopoeic fantasy can be seen as a part of the complex cultural process of the creation of ‘the new story’—a sort of modern mythology that unifies the human race” (TrĊbicki, “Fantasy Literature and the Twentieth-Century Mythological Revival” 124). This idea is discussed on the basis of works by Ursula K. Le Guin, Lloyd Alexander, Madelaine, L’Engle and Orson Scott Card. See my review of Oziewicz’s study (TrĊbicki, “Fantasy Literature and the Twentieth-Century Mythological Revival”). Trocha, in turn, proposes probably the first systematic attempt to discuss the problem by adopting the methodology of the phenomenology of religion. His study meticulously documents the presence of diverse mythic motifs in an extremely broad range of “fantasy” texts.

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(TrĊbicki, Mythic Elements 30). In the case of SWF this urge is additionally amplified by the a-technological as well as archetype- and past-oriented character of the genre. Thus, in SWF texts we usually deal with what I have described in a different paper as “structural mythopoeia”, i.e. all mythic and ontological motifs constitute the core of both the presented world and the plot’s construction, thus frequently becoming the main dominant of the text (TrĊbicki, Mythic Elements 33). Once again, The Lord of the Rings and The Earthsea Cycle constitute exemplary cases, but the phenomenon seems to be inherent in the whole genre.5 In the contemporary magical novel the mythic element is, indisputably, also present. In American Gods, legendary deities, eclectically representing all of the world’s mythologies, constitute most of the book’s secondary characters. A similar situation takes place in Drinking Midnight Wine, where one of the protagonists is the incarnation of Mother Earth—Gaia herself. Mythic creatures are regularly encountered by the protagonists of The Art of Arrow Cutting, Forests of the Heart and many other novels. Yet, it seems that in all of these books we are dealing with what I call “episodic mythopoeia”—that is, mythic elements appear in a way that is somewhat fragmented and isolated (in terms of the overall structure of the text), often becoming purely an element of scenography whose main function seems to be to evoke a sense of wonder in the reader or, simply, to inform about the plot (TrĊbicki, “Mythic Elements” 32). Contemporary magical novels rarely offer complete ontological systems of their own, and when they implement or adopt existing ones,6 they also do so in a fragmentary way, relying on the superficial attractiveness of various mythic elements rather than trying to convey their deeper significance and original meanings. It is also worth remarking at this point that direct references to existing mythological or folk traditions, rather than modifying them in an almost unrecognisable way so that they could suit the exomimetic model of reality, is another trait which clearly distinguishes the antimimetic contemporary magical novel from exomimetic SWF. The contemporary magical novel (and the antimimetic mode in general) is particularly suited to be the most folkloric of all classes of non-mimetic 5

For exemplary discussions of the function of mythic motifs in particular “fantasy” works see, especially, Walker, Archell-Thompson, Bianga and Stawicki. 6 These texts usually recall motifs from local/national mythologies and fairy tales. Borrowing motifs from Irish mythology is especially popular (Brandon’s novels, War for the Oaks and most of De Lint’s books, just to mention some examples), although occasionally elements of other mythologies are also used as, for instance, African mythology in Anansi Boys or Japanese demonology in The Art of Arrow Cutting.

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fiction. Magic is another element whose presence, as it is universally regarded, defines fantasy and, yet again, its actual function in particular texts can vary significantly, even within a single genre (see the discussion of magic in SFW section 2, Chapter Four). It seems, nevertheless, that there exists a tendency within the genre of SWF (especially well visible at the later stages of its evolution) to “rationalise” magic. Thus, magic is depicted as a natural, logical phenomenon (within the confines of the presented world) that is subject to natural laws and its own limitations. It can be systematically explored and precisely described. Such is, as we remember, the vision of magic in The Earthsea Cycle—to mention once more this exemplary series. In the more recent works of SWF, magic is described and explained more often as advanced technology in science-fiction novels. Also, the language exhibits less and less poetic quality (still prevailing in Tolkien, Le Guin, Donaldson or, especially, Patricia McKillip), and starts to resemble the pseudo-scientific jargon of SF, which is abundant in characteristic neologisms (see, for instance, the descriptions of magic in Barbara Hambly’s Darwath Cycle or Glenn Cook’s Black Company Chronicles). The contemporary magical novel, in turn, has preserved much of the original wonder implied by the use of magic in a text. Although magic is here sometimes also, at least partly, explained, it is hardly ever completely rationalised or “technologised” (e.g. most of de Lint’s prose, such as The Wild Reel or The War for the Oak). It often remains irrational, unpredictable, mysterious, unrepeatable and somewhat elusive (most of Gaiman’s prose). Modern “fantasy” is often perceived as “a fiction evoking wonder and containing a substantial and irreducible element of the supernatural” (Manlove, Modern Fantasy 1). Such statements are, again, much more adequate in reference to the contemporary magical novel, which to a large extent follows the tradition of the early antimimetic or fantastic genres, such as occult fiction or the fantastic novel of adventure. Elements which in the contemporary magical novel are shown to be supernatural, are thoroughly described in exomimetic SWF as part of the secondary world’s natural order. In the latter case we are dealing with a literary phenomenon that could be, perhaps, best described as “rationalisation” and “logical extrapolation” of wonder. Another field where SWF and the contemporary magical novel exhibit considerable differences is the structuring of protagonists. SWF texts tend to depict their protagonists as types (or roles) rather than relatively rounder, psychologically complex characters that can be found, for

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example, in modern mimetic fiction.7 This is directly connected with the dominance of the mythic content—at best, protagonists are seen as realisations of particular archetypes—such as the hero (or hero in statu nascendi), the wizard, or the king (this does not mean that they are not equipped with a set of individual features to make them more attractive to the reader). At worst, rather than archetypes they simply fulfil certain repetitive fabular schemes and formulas that are prevailing in the market (as was already noted in Chapter Four, SWF is a genre that is especially prone to circulating such formulas). In both cases they are subjected to other dominants of texts8 or particular market formulas.9 Generally speaking, the contemporary magical novel takes much more freedom—both in constructing its protagonists and in shaping its plots, as the protagonists are subjected mainly to the plot itself, and the plot, in turn, is not subservient to other functions or dominants such as the creation of a certain world model or the realisation of particular archetypes and formulas. A typical protagonist, as has been suggested at the beginning of this section, is portrayed as an ordinary, mundane person (albeit sometimes possessing special skills that make him/her more sensitive to the supernatural). His/her personal life is rather unsatisfactory and his/her daily routines are presented quite typically for a contemporary mimetic novel until, usually accidentally, the hidden dimension of reality intrudes into his/her life. The narration is usually fast-paced and full of adventurous exploits. It also includes a significant love subplot, often involving a partner from “the other side” (for example, in Drinking Midnight Wine the protagonist accidentally falls in love with a beautiful, mysterious woman, 7

There are, of course, notable exceptions, such as the protagonists of The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever. It is worth remarking, however, that even here the more complex figures of Thomas Covenant and Linden Avery are surrounded by a very formulaic gallery of secondary characters (see Mendlesohn, Rhetorics 41-43). 8 Again, the first Earthsea trilogy might serve as a perfect example—the characters here basically function “as signs in a symbolic, myth-related system” (TrĊbicki, The Second Life of Earthsea 286). 9 This also changes as the genre evolves and produces new conventions. In more recent SWF, which is often less dominated by mythic content and traditional formulas, the protagonists are generally depicted with greater freedom. Richard Morgan’s Steel Remains (which interestingly combines traditional formulas of SWF with those characteristic of cyberpunk, including a rather nihilistic ideology of this genre) might serve as a good example. Also, the “Second Earthsea Trilogy” exhibits a sudden shift in conventions as far as portraying the protagonists is concerned (see TrĊbicki, The Second Life of Earthsea 287-289).

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Gail, who turns out to be none other than the incarnation of Gaia), which may even motivate all of the action (by comparison, in SWF the love plots tend to be rather of secondary importance). What is interesting is that the narration is usually marked with humour, which stands in yet another contrast with the relatively solemn moods of SWF. The plots of the contemporary magical novel, although they also apply adopted fairy-tale or mythic formulas are, as a rule, less predictable than SWF plots. All in all, contemporary magical novels tend to present personal stories that are centred around the main protagonists rather than the multi-plot mythic operas in which the fate of whole worlds is at stake.10 They also rather indiscriminately take the shape of a single-volume novel with a closed narrative structure that leaves relatively little room for possible sequels (of all the works mentioned above, only The Art of Arrow Cutting has found a loose continuation in Shadows Bite). The plot is condensed and encompasses a relatively short span of time, focusing on the intrusion/breach and its immediate consequences in the characters’ lives. Generalising, the contemporary magical novel, with its emphasis on romance, adventure and wonder, in many respects appears to be the most direct descendant of such genres as the chivalric and picaresque romance, the occult novel or the fantastic novel of adventure. In the construction of the fictional universe it is less innovative and sophisticated than the various exomimetic genres. Its subject matter is also less serious than that of SWF, SF, dystopia or uchronia, in which the innovative and inspiring world models help elaborate on various ontological, metaphysical, philosophical, social, scientific or ethical issues. The term “speculative” does not truly apply here, at least not to the extent that it does in the case of exomimetic fiction. The dominance of purely ludic and entertaining functions seems to be inherent to this genre. This is not to say that the contemporary magical novel is incapable of producing more artistic texts. In fact, the perceived artistic quality or the “literariness” of the novels mentioned in this section may appear considerably higher than that of an average SWF text. This is largely due to the fact that the plots in contemporary magical novels appear to be relatively more unpredictable and that traditionally understood verisimilitude in the presentation of the mimetic environment appeals to many readers. At the same time, a statistical SWF novel in the contemporary market is often marked by narrative repetitiveness and an unrefined use of language. It seems, however, that the artistic qualities of the modern magical novel are less 10

Even if the fate of the world is, in a way, at stake in a contemporary magical novel (Drinking Midnight Wine, American Gods), a private and non-cosmic perspective is taken.

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connected with the presentation of alternative models of reality that would provoke the reader to search more actively for various meanings and messages encoded there, but rather with a more sophisticated, poetic use of language and a careful creation of moods. It is important to remark that while the genre of the contemporary magical novel described above is arguably the most prominent category within contemporary antimimetic fiction, it by no means encompasses all works in which the antimimetic mode is predominant—even not all of those in which magic plays a significant role. By way of example we might consider here the famous Harry Potter series. The order presented there is, beyond doubt, antimimetic, and magic constitutes an essential motif. However, when we take a closer look the differences become more and more apparent. Unlike all the works discussed so far, the series includes 7 volumes. The plot consequently encompasses several years, and although the narrative unity of the whole is preserved, the initial instalments are largely episodic. The plot is relatively uncondensed and, at times, meandering. The language is simple, straightforward, exhibits little poetic quality and the creation of more elaborate moods is not a dominant here. The mimetic conventions the series draws on are also different from those manifested in the contemporary magical novel. It may be, especially, reminiscent of a Dickensian bildungsroman or a contemporary school novel for teenagers. On the other hand, with its presentation of the struggle between the forces of good and evil on a large scale, in which the protagonist—“the chosen one”—plays a vital role, and which is resolved in the final epic battle, the series also shows considerable affinity to epic SWF. The relative distinctiveness of the set of texts mentioned in the first part of this section becomes even more apparent when we juxtapose them with antimimetic texts in which magic as such is virtually absent. Here, by way of example, the famous Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer can be mentioned. The plot is set in a small town in the state of Washington, and the story is told mostly from the point of view of a teenage schoolgirl. The book initially starts as a contemporary mimetic novel for teenagers with emphasis put on school life and romantic love motifs, and those conventions also prevail after the introduction of fantastical elements. The breach in the mimetic order is caused by the existence of vampires and werewolves, and is largely limited to it. Magic as such does not exist in the corrected world order—the supernatural capabilities of the fantastical characters are rather explained pseudo-scientifically. The plot is informed primarily by romantic motifs. The conflicts that additionally propel it are of a more individual, personal nature than in the case of the contemporary

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magical novel (and, obviously, even more so in comparison with SWF). The psychological motifs that are predominant in the narration—jealousy, love, altruism, egoism, greed for power, overcoming one’s primitive instincts for the benefit of others—are again developed and resolved in a way that is typical of contemporary mimetic tradition. Motifs characteristic of exomimetic SWF or the contemporary magical novel (a quest, struggle between good and evil, adventurous exploits, discovering unknown spheres of reality) are less pronounced. In many respects, apart from the appearance of certain fantastical elements and the core principles of the construction of the presented world, the Twilight series resembles more modern mimetic novels for teenagers than the texts of a contemporary magical novel. With the Twilight Saga we come to the issue of various vampire stories that are so immensely popular in contemporary antimimetic literature. This thematic trend, tracing back to Bram Stoker’s Dracula and reinvented more recently by the seminal Interview with the Vampire (1976) by Anna Rice, seems to encompass a very diverse range of texts. It would definitely be interesting to research whether the common thematic motifs are also accompanied by significant narrative and structural similarities. Another category of antimimetic and at the same time non-magical texts may be represented by works which more or less directly follow the tradition of the scientific romance or various texts from the beginnings of the previous century which elaborate on the motif of “the wonderful invention”.11 Here I mean stories set in the mimetic reality in which the breach in mimetic laws is caused by a scientific discovery or, otherwise, an unusual event explained in scientific (or pseudo-scientific) terms. A good example is The Jonah Kit (1975) by Ian Watson which, in a manner that perfectly suits many of the SF definitions quoted in the previous chapter, speculates on the nature of the universe and the effects of a certain unexpected discovery on humanity. Most such texts (by way of example Dan Simmons’s The Hollow Man, 1992; or Robert J. Sawyer’s The Terminal Experiment, 1995 might be also mentioned here) when it comes to construction of their plot, protagonists and dominant motifs, join the conventions of modern mimetic social or psychological prose with those of science fiction. They are universally classified as SF due to the prominence of scientific/speculative motifs and its serious treatment (often more genuine than in some purely exomimetic space operas). This is, as in many analogous cases, perfectly understandable from a commonsensical 11

On the motif of the wonderful invention and its significance for the literary tradition directly preceding the advent of SF, see Zgorzelski, Fantastyka.Utopia passim.

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or literary-critical point of view, however, the genological perspective, as adopted in this study, emphasises the affinity of both groups of texts to different supragenological modes, i.e. to the antimimetic and exomimetic types, respectively. It is by no means my intention at this point to dismiss the obvious analogies between exomimetic SF proper and this possible genre of antimimetic fiction (perhaps the term “contemporary speculative novel” would be adequate), but, nevertheless, I will argue that different modes of creating the fictional universe result in considerable structural and narrative differences (for example, the contemporary speculative novel is quite naturally prone to show more affinity to modern mimetic conventions, and its speculativeness is less radical than in the case of SF since it does not encompass the whole world model). A more accurate description of this hypothetical antimimetic genre as well as its precise relationship with modern SF is yet another subject worth a separate and more thorough research study. The last class to be covered in this section includes texts whose plots are set in a “pseudo-historical” reality. They pretend to recreate (analogously as in the mimetic historical novel) particular historical settings that are precisely specified both spatially and temporarily (for example, “ancient Greece”, “Britain of the Dark Ages” or “Japan of the Heian period”). The “historical” or “pseudo-historical” mimetic model is, however, soon extended by an additional magical or supernatural dimension.12 In a way, the relationship between the traditional historical 12 The works of antimimetic historical fantasy should not be confused with various exomimetic SWF texts that either focus on issues of philosophy of history (as most of the works of recent historical epic roman-fleuve fantasy in the vein of Erikson’s The Malazan Book of the Fallen or Martin’s The Song of Ice and Fire) or loosely model their secondary universes on some (usually more or less exotic) pseudohistorical settings. Several novels by Guy Gavriel Kay are representative of this latter strategy. Thus, Tigana (1990) is highly reminiscent of Renaissance Italy, Lions of Al-Rassan—of eleventh-century Spain, and Sailing to Sarantium—of the early history of the Byzantine Empire. All of these texts, however, do not pretend to recreate actual historical settings. These are full-fledged secondary universes— their geographies, histories and proper names only allude to specific empirical settings, but do not imitate them directly. Consequently, the impression of similarity to particular epochs and locations is not overtly imposed by the texts themselves, but is rather evoked in the process of the readers’ reception (naturally, if their cultural and historical competence allows them to perceive the numerous allusions and references). See also my discussion in Fantasy. Ewolucja 112-114. The application of the exomimetic (instead of the mimetic or the antimimetic) mode is frequently a conscious strategy on the part of the writer. Guy Gavriel Kay, for example, states that “[t]he fact that a given novel is set in a particular place and

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novel and this potential genre of “historical magical novel” (or simply “historical fantasy”) is analogous to that between various contemporary mimetic genres and the contemporary magical novel. Similarly to the contemporary magical novel, historical fantasy is influenced by both mimetic conventions (in this case, as has been said, mainly those of the mimetic historical novel) and those borrowed from other popular, contemporary non-mimetic genres (such as SWF). In the creation of its additional magical dimension it also strongly relies on various folkloric elements and legends. Historical fantasy encompasses a surprisingly diverse range of texts (it includes, among others, the whole class of Arthurian fantasy, which is very popular nowadays)—by way of example we could mention here such works as Mists of Avalon (1982) by Marion Zimmer Bradley, the Pendragon cycle (1987-1997) by Stephen Lawhead, Latro in the Mist (1986) and Soldier of Arete (1989) by Gene Wolfe, or The Fox Woman (2000) by Kij Jonson. All of the antimimetic texts discussed in this section appear to be relatively conservative regarding the creation of their models of fictional reality, especially in comparison with the various exomimetic works discussed in the previous chapter. They also more visibly rely on either the conventions of contemporary and traditional mimetic prose or on those of the older, historical non-mimetic genres—leaving them relatively unaltered. There seems, however, to be a form that is directly connected with the antimimetic mode which is characterised by more innovative world-making. We will look into it more thoroughly in the next section.

time alters its reception—if I wrote a book, say, about sixteenth-century Spain, people would assume that they are reading a tale that relates only to this specific reality, this place; a story of people who lived in the old days. But if I write a fantasy simply based on the motifs borrowed from the Spanish Baroque, the book will become more universal, just like a fairy tale or myth which takes place always and everywhere, and simultaneously ‘once upon a time’—in the dimension of the imagination” (Materska, Interview 68). And, reversely, the writer’s selecting the structure of the antimimetic historical fantasy probably testifies to largely opposite artistic impulses (and, obviously, makes the work more acceptable for conservative “mainstream” readers who profess to the notion of imitative functions of literature).

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3. Multi-universes13 The models of multi-universes14 that are appearing more and more frequently in contemporary non-mimetic fiction are an immensely interesting literary phenomenon that often breaches predominant conventions and defies typical classifications and prevailing perceptions. The texts in question also easily trespass genological borders. They exhibit, in varying proportions, traits of not only different genres, but also of different supragenological types. For matters of convenience I have decided to include my discussion on multi-universes in the chapter on antimimetic literature, but they are, in fact, at least as closely related to the exomimetic mode, since their development probably had to be preceded by the appearance of fullfledged secondary worlds. The texts in question constitute a rather heterogeneous group, nevertheless several basic tendencies can be perceived here. It seems that the beginnings of multi-universes are primarily connected with “translation fantasy” as mentioned briefly in the previous chapter. As has been suggested, in proto-SWF texts (apart from Worm Ouroboros, The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath by H. P. Lovecraft or several short stories by Lord Dunsany) the authors still feel a need to rationalise the existence of their secondary worlds by providing some link with the empirical reality.15 The most common operation is to borrow a narrator or a protagonist from the mimetic reality. This operation was still in use even 13 The discussion conducted in this section draws on my treatment of the subject in Fantasy. Ewolucja, Chapter Four, section 2, by quoting and developing some arguments that have already been presented therein. 14 The model of a multi-universe in a literary work is understood here as a particular literary operation which introduces, on the pages of a given text (or a cycle/series of texts), several world models that are shaped by various genre conventions, between which the protagonists can move on a more or less regular basis. Emphasis here is put on juxtaposing within a single work models of reality that represent different genological orders. This is, obviously, a different phenomenon from a typical “interplanetary“ SF convention, which presents a multitude of often quite diverse worlds/planets or even the “parallel worlds–multiuniverses” convention which, inspired by some modern scientific theories, assumes the existence of an unlimited number of variants of the mimetic reality, which exist side by side. In both of the cases mentioned above the genological borders—here the borders of the SF genre convention—are not breached when the protagonists move from one world to another in the way they are in all the texts discussed in this section. 15 See my discussion of the historical evolution of SWF in Fantasy. Ewolucja, Chapter One.

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in the 1960s, when the genre of SWF had already been established. A good example here is The Witch World by Andre Norton. Its protagonist, Simon Tregarth, is an ex-colonel of the US Army who transfers from the mimetic reality through a magical portal to the world of Escarp, which is ruled by the conventions of secondary world fantasy. The mimetic reality is soon forgotten and emphasis is put on the description of the new reality. Simon Tregarth features in some of the subsequent installments of Norton’s cycle, but the mimetic reality is never recalled again. The presentation of the mimetic reality on the initial pages of the first book of the cycle is typically pre-textual. The confrontation between the two world models is neither emphasised (in a way that is typical of the fantastic mode), nor is the link between them explained and explored (in a way that is typical of the antimimetic mode). Simon’s transfer and his presence in the secondary world is not meaningful (in the way that it is, for example, in The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever, which I will discuss in the subsequent paragraphs) and it mainly serves a certain narrative purpose—the reader can identify with the protagonist, who is ignorant of the fictional world as herself/himself, and discover it through the protagonist’s eyes.16 Interestingly, the operation described above, at least in some texts, survives the stabilisation and recognition of the SWF genre in the 1960s, after which the “rationalisation” of a secondary world is no longer demanded. Moreover, translation fantasy gradually becomes a convention of its own and starts to serve different purposes. The relationship between mimetic reality and the SWF world also begins to change. By way of example, in such predominantly SWF texts as the trilogies by Joyce Ballou Gregorian (The Broken Citadel, 1975; Castledown, 1977 and The Great Wheel, 1985) and Guy Gavriel Kay (Fionovar Tapestry, including the volumes: Summer Tree, 1984; The Wandering Fire, 1986 and The Darkest Road, 1986), the characters travel between the two worlds on several occasions. The transfer itself is presented less and less as a single and miraculous event, but rather as a repeatable and explainable process. Thus the relationship between the two realities also becomes, in a way, “rationalised”—in Fionovar Tapestry it is, for example, suggested that the tapestry encompasses a multitude of worlds (including the mimetic reality), of which Fionovar is the primary one. This is clearly a shift from the fantastic/exomimetic to the antimimetic order and a step towards the creation of the concept of multi-universes as well. It is also worth remarking that sometimes the juxtaposition of the two 16

This strategy has been at length discussed by Mendlesohn (Rhetorics 2-58).

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realities—the mimetic and SWF ones—carries complex meanings instead of being a strictly pre-textual compositional operation. Such is the case in The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever by Stephen Donaldson. The protagonist is called into the fantastical land at the beginning of each of the three volumes and returns to the mimetic reality at the end of each. The mimetic reality does not function here only as a compositional framework, but it is constantly present in Covenant’s consciousness. The construction of the protagonist and much of the book’s message is largely based on the confrontation between the two worlds he conducts in his mind, uncertain until the very end as to what is real or even how to define “reality” for himself. This is very different from most of the translation SWF novels, where the mimetic reality is soon forgotten and does not affect the protagonists’ actions or events in the secondary world. Obviously, the model of multi-universes does not always have to include the mimetic reality. There are numerous SWF series in which two or more secondary exomimetic worlds are connected without any reference to the mimetic reality. Such is the case of Raymond Feist’s The Rift War Saga (1982-1986), in which the semi-medieval world of Mikdemia is invaded through a magical portal by another semi-medieval world of Kalewan. Despite emphasising certain differences between the two worlds, they have both been created with the use of typical SWF conventions—this is simply a juxtaposition of two variants of feudal orders and two variants of magic. A more interesting case is posed by The Witch World (see Chapter Four, section 2), where the invaders from Kolder are presented in conformity with SF conventions. Apparently more conscious vision of a multi-universe is presented in “The Eternal Hero” supercycle by Michael Moorcock. As the writer himself describes his concept, “the ‘multiverse’ is a multitude of alternative universes intersecting sometimes with our own and to which, of course, our own belongs—an infinite number of slightly different versions of reality in which one is likely to come across a slightly different version of oneself” (Introduction; no page given). Moorcock’s multiverse appears primarily as a framework encompassing individual cycles, such as “Elrik of Melnibone” (Elric of Melnibone, 1972; The Fortress of the Pearl, 1989; Sailor on the Seas of Fate, 1976; The Singing Citadel, 1967; The Weird of the White Wolf, 1976; The Sleeping Sorceress aka Vanishing Tower; 1971; The Revenge of the Rose, 1991; The Bane of the Black Sword, 1977 and Stormbringer, 1963)17, or “Corum” (the cycle consists of two trilogies— 17 My list rather reflects the internal chronological order of the cycle than the publishing order.

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“Swords of Corum”, encompassing The Knight of the Swords, 1971; The Queen of the Swords, 1971 and The King of the Swords, 1971; and “Chronicles of Corum”, including The Bull and the Spear, 1973; The Oak and the Ram, 1973 and The Sword and the Stallion, 1974). It must be, however, noted that most of the individual subcycles—unless they are read meta-textually—remain relatively homogeneous genologically texts of exomimetic heroic fantasy. In some other subcycles it is usually the protagonist him or herself who travels between different worlds. And so, in “The Eternal Champion Trilogy” (The Eternal Champion, 1990; Phoenix in Obsydian, 1990 and The Dragon in the Sword, 1991), John Draken is called from the mimetic reality to another world of the multiverse by King Rigenos, so that as an incarnation of the legendary warrior Erokose he can lead a crusade against the enemy race of the Eldren. In the course of the war Draken realises that it is the humans who are the real aggressors and switches sides, while at the same time falling in love with the beautiful Eldren princess, Ermizhad. Seeing no chance for peace with humans, he brings about humanity’s doom and returns to Ermizhad to rule the Eldrens by her side. Unfortunately, he is soon called again to another world as an incarnation of another hero, Ulrik Skarsol. Thus begins Draken’s odyssey, during which he visits consecutive worlds of the multiverse, unwillingly fulfilling consecutive missions and struggling in vain to return to his beloved Ermizhad. While following Draken’s quest we are familiarised with the complex coexistence of various planes and levels of existence in Moorcock’s model. Finally, the protagonist has to confront the Lords of Chaos and the result of this fight is bound to determine the fate of not only a single world, but of all the worlds of the multiverse. Moorcock’s supercycle constitutes a crucial development in the evolution of the multi-universe model as it deliberately strives to provide a common ontological rather than pre-textual framework for the whole system. On the other hand, it is worth noting that there is relatively little diversity in the construction of the particular worlds within the cycle (they are mostly constructed in conformity to the heroic fantasy conventions). Also, it is predominantly only the figure of the protagonist who joins the particular realities—the worlds themselves do not actually interfere with one another in a meaningful way (although they all become affected by what happens in the higher planes of the fictional reality), similarly as in translation fantasy novels. Thus, Moorcock’s multiverse in many respects actually appears to be more of a loose collection of exomimetic heroic fantasy worlds rather than an integrated cluster of interacting realities, as is the case of the more sophisticated multi-universe models that will be

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discussed further in this section. All of the texts mentioned above are predominantly exomimetic and ruled by conventions that are typical of SWF—their principal parts are set in feudal, magical worlds and they employ motifs that also prevail in the other, more genologically homogeneous texts of this genre (quest, initiation and spiritual transformation of the protagonist, struggle between good and evil on a transcendental scale). Let us now, in turn, scrutinise some texts which show more affinity with the antimimetic mode proper. Greg Bear’s two-volume novel (The Infinity Concerto, 1984 and The Serpent Mage, 1986) presents a fictional world that stands probably halfway between the exomimetic and antimimetic modes. The first volume apparently employs the basic pattern of translation fantasy. The protagonist, Michael Perrin, transfers through a portal in the house of the mysterious composer Arno Waltiri to the otherworldly realm of the Sidhe, where he experiences numerous adventures (during which he is initiated into magic), and returns to the mimetic reality by the end of the book. The second volume, however, takes place mostly in the mimetic reality, although Michael on many occasions visits the realm of the Sidhe as well as the worlds created by other magicians. He (and some other protagonists) can move almost without any restrictions between the two worlds. In contradistinction to the texts discussed earlier in this section, in which the particular realities remain relatively separate, Bear’s novels suggest a constant interaction between the two worlds. In the first volume Michael meets many people that have been kidnapped by the Sidhe, who have numerously intervened in human history. In the second volume, in turn, the Sidhe, escaping from their dying realm, massively invade the mimetic reality, as a result of which it is changed permanently. Thus, in a way that is typical of the antimimetic novels discussed in the previous section, the protagonists’ vision of the universe is corrected and the fictional reality is enlarged by new fantastical dimensions. At this point of our current discussion we come to works in which the models of the multi-universes are, arguably, most complex and sophisticated. They are also most consciously constructed. By way of example, we will discuss three of them. The ten-volume Chronicles of Amber (Nine Princes in Amber, 1970; Guns of Avalon, 1972; Sign of the Unicorn, 1975; The Hand of Oberon, 1976; The Courts of Chaos, 1978; Trumps of Doom, 1985; Blood of Amber, 1986; Sign of Chaos, 1986; Knight of Shadows, 1986; Prince of Chaos, 1986) by Roger Zelazny starts from a short mimetic introduction. Its protagonist, Carl Corey, initially seems to be a patient suffering from amnesia who is being kept at a private clinic against his will. Soon he

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escapes and pays a visit to his sister who has placed him in the clinic, which starts a whole series of unusual events and adventures. In the course of action Corey discovers that his real name is Corwin and that he is actually a prince from another world, Amber, and a victim of his siblings’ plotting. Corwin resolves to return to Amber and to challenge his main rival to the throne, Erik. During the subsequent journey we are gradually initiated into the laws that govern the fictional world. The model is revealed to be that of a multi-universe. Corwin’s native world, Amber, is the centre of all creation, and all the remaining ones (including the mimetic reality) are its emanations, “called into being to the interests of Corwin’s superhuman family” (Attebery, The Fantasy Tradition 161). It is also only they who can, thanks to their special psychic powers, move freely through all the “worlds-shadows”. Interestingly, most of the realities are shaped by the conventions of SWF—they are atechnological, feudal worlds with a strongly emphasised presence of magic. The position of the primary world, Amber, is in all respects central—it is the origin of the whole multi-universe and it perpetuates its existence. The plot, initially formed by the intrigues of Corwin and his siblings and later by the conflict between Amber and the Courts of Chaos, is not limited to one, two or even three worlds, as in the other texts mentioned so far, but takes place in the area of the whole multi-universe. The protagonists travel constantly between numerous worlds, sometimes only passing them on their way and sometimes spending more time in chosen ones, although the key events usually happen in Amber. In the course of the narration Corwin discovers that Amber itself came into being as a result of a rebellion in the still more ancient and primordial Courts of Chaos. Thus, ultimately a dualistic model is presented—the primordial chaos is juxtaposed with a world created by a rebellious demiurge Dworkin, the ancestor of the Amber royal family. In the subsequent volumes of the cycle the Courts of Chaos attempt to destroy Amber and its shadows, and Corwin and his siblings undertake a quest to save their multi-universe. Imajica (1991) by Clive Barker similarly starts as a mimetic novel and gradually introduces several characters whose later prominence for the plot is not always obvious at the beginning. On the first pages a man called Charles Estabrook hires a mysterious assassin, Pie’oh’pah, to murder his estranged wife Judith, but later changes his mind and asks Judith’s exlover John Furie Zacharias to rescue her. Fantastical events which breach the laws of mimetic reality culminate rather early—Pie’oh’pah turns out to be a shape-changer, and all of the events are monitored by a secret society

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called “Tabula Rasa”. Soon the true, “corrected” vision of the fictional universe is revealed. The mimetic reality belongs, in fact, to a complex system of five worlds/dominions called Imajica. However, the Earth, the Fifth Dominion, became separated from the remaining four dominions a long time ago. All of Imajica (except for Earth) is ruled by the Autarch, and magic is operative there. In presenting a version of the feudal order and emphasising the role of magic in the narration, Imajica resembles SWF novels but, on the other hand, it does not follow typical conventions of this genre in the creation of social or ontological orders, in structuring the characters or in plot development. The narration introduces several plots and subplots which revolve around the protagonists’ quests to other dominions and their efforts to reconcile the fifth dominion with the remaining ones. The plot is extremely complex, dynamic, full of unexpected twists; almost nothing (including the true identity of the key protagonists) is as it initially appears. The gradual recovery of the backstory is in the centre of the narration and it is instrumental in ultimately resolving the plot. The third example comes from Philip Pullman’s trilogy His Dark Materials (The Golden Compass, 1995; The Subtle Knife, 1997; The Amber Spyglass, 2000). The model presented here is closest to the traditional concept of parallel worlds of science fiction, as all of the realities seem to occupy the same space but in another dimension. The mimetic reality also belongs to this multi-universe, but—in contradistinction to the other, at least compositionally antimimetic multi-universes mentioned earlier—it is introduced only in the second volume. The particular realities are shaped in conformity with different genological conventions. And so, the first volume alone can largely be read as an alternative history (see my discussion of uchronia in section 3 of the previous chapter) in its more “radical” version (the set of physical laws of the empirical reality is not preserved). The plot is set in a world that is geographically (and also to some extent ethnically and culturally) analogous to the empirical reality, but in some other respects it is considerably different. It is ruled in a totalitarian way by institutions connected with the Church18 but, first of all, it is informed by a certain form of magic rather than science/technology. All people are accompanied by daemons—the embodiments and reflections of their inner selves in the 18 The texts brings about associations with The Alteration by Kingsley Amis, mentioned in the previous chapter, which also presents a totalitarian Europe ruled by the Catholic Church and the pope tyrant John XXIV. Amis’s book is, however, a more “mainstream” type of uchronia (see the discussion in Chapter Four, section 3), as the set of physical laws of the empirical reality is preserved there.

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shape of animals—and the world is full of strange, fantastical creatures, such as northern witches flying on special brooms or the intelligent armoured white bears of Svalbard. The laws of this uchronian/fantasy model are breached when, at the end of the first volume, Lord Asriel trespasses the barrier between worlds. The second volume, Subtle Knife, starts with a mimetic introduction and recounts the events from the point of view of a twelve-year-old boy, Will Parry, who is looking after his ailing mother. The laws of the initially presented order—this time mimetic—are again breached when Will unexpectedly travels to another, “intermediate” world where he meets the protagonist of the first volume, Lyra. The narration presents several other worlds that are visited by Will, Lyra and other characters, and the conventions that are used also shift on several occasions. Some of the realities are, for example, shaped in ways that are typical of SF conventions—the fragments in which Mary Malone explores one of the parallel realities, if read out of context, seem to be borrowed directly from a SF novel when describing the adventures of a cosmic ethnographer on an alien planet. The model of the whole multi-universe is nevertheless coherent, ultimately antimimetic and ontologically elaborate. It primarily draws on several biblical motifs and the Christian vision of the afterworld, but at the same time it reverses it (God is presented as a senile tyrant manipulated by his corrupted angels, and the positive characters rebel against Heaven and its domination). On the whole, His Dark Materials appear to be one of the most heterogeneous, contemporary non-mimetic works, fusing motifs and elements of different supragenological orders, genre conventions and literary traditions. Works by Zelazny, Barker and Pullman, as discussed above, apparently present more complex visions of multi-universes than in most of the previous fiction. The introduction of a model of a multi-universe here is not a pre-textual operation serving other narrative purposes or their byproduct, but rather the main principle of the texts’ construction and a structural dominant to which other elements and motifs are subordinated. Those texts consciously draw on diverse conventions and traditions in order to create new, original, coherent and, at times, cognitively inspiring models, which are arguably in some respects even more complex than the genologically uniform models of exomimetic fiction. As has been said at the beginning of this chapter, fictional realities in multi-universe works exhibit traits of both antimimetic and exomimetic supragenological systems and, consequently, of several genres that belong to these orders. Apparently, the hybrid genological structure of a multi-universe has a

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considerable speculative potential which is at least comparable to that of ambitious exomimetic fiction and definitely exceeding that of more conventional antimimetic fiction. Undoubtedly, multi-universes are one of the most interesting literary phenomena in contemporary non-mimetic literature as far as fictional world-making is concerned, and they deserve more thorough critical research.

CHAPTER SIX CONTEMPORARY FANTASTIC FICTION

1. The Fantastic Mode Fantastic fiction is a supragenological category which probably poses the most theoretical problems. At the very beginning, to avoid terminological confusion, we should distinguish between the textual operation of the fantastic marked by a breach of the pre-determined laws of the presented world and the specific supragenological category of fantastic fiction. The operation of the fantastic, as has already been suggested, is a crucial genological factor that occurs constantly at all stages of evolution of non-mimetic literature. It is the principal compositional operation in such historical genres as utopia, the gothic novel or the fantastic novel of adventure. In contemporary literature it sporadically appears even in texts which are otherwise predominantly exomimetic. This is, for example, the case of “translation” fantasy, in which protagonists from a mimetic reality are transferred to a secondary world shaped by the laws of the fantasy convention; vide Andre Norton’s Witch World or Stephen Donaldson’s The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever. It can also occur in paramimetic texts (for example, in C. S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia, 1950-1956, which will be discussed in the next chapter). Without a doubt in contemporary non-mimetic literature the operation of the fantastic is most closely related to the antimimetic and fantastic modes, which makes them in many respects similar. It is, as we remember, inherently inscribed in the antimimetic model. Obviously, both antimimetic and fantastic novels begin in an identical way, that is, from a mimetic introduction. Only at some point of the narration are the mimetic laws breached due to some apparently “unnatural”, fantastical incident. In the case of antimimetic fiction the protagonists’ vision of the universe is subsequently corrected, and the model is revealed as antimimetic. In the case of fantastic fiction, as Zgorzelski suggests, there follows a confrontation between the two orders and the text “stress[es] the strangeness of those it confronts with the known order of the phenomenal

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reality” (“Fantastic Literature” 33). A question, however, arises: where exactly does the demarcation line between the antimimetic and the fantastic, the correction of the initial mimetic model and the confrontation of different models lie? The proportion between rationalisation and strangeness seems to be a gradable phenomenon, and also one that is rather difficult to approximate; there will be, undoubtedly, many texts in which either rationalisation or strangeness prevails, but perhaps, even more, in which the borders are blurred. Distinguishing between fantastic and antimimetic fiction may not always be simple, and there will probably be many hybrid texts defying this distinction. Nevertheless, there are two distinct tendencies in operation. These are best visible when we compare any of the antimimetic texts discussed in the previous chapter, on the one hand, and such works as, by way of example, numerous novels by Jonathan Carroll (including The Land of Laughs, 1980; Voice of Our Shadow, 1983; Bones of the Moon, 1987; Sleeping in Flame 1988 or A Child Across the Sky, 1989), Replay (1986) by Ken Grimwood, or several works by the world-famous Japanese mainstream writer Haruki Murakami (including A Wild Sheep Chase, 1982; Dance, Dance, Dance, 1988; The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, 1995; Kafka on the Shore, 2002 or 1Q84, 2009), on the other hand. Contemporary texts that may initially be qualified as fantastic seem to constitute a very diversified group—perhaps much more diversified than the texts of any of the remaining types—but some generalisations pertaining to the mode of creating fictional reality should be accessible. Let us have a quick look at how the fantastic operates in some of the works in question. The plot of Bones of the Moon takes place on two parallel planes. The mimetic plane recounts events from the life of Cullen James, a contemporary young woman from New York: her initial, unfortunate loveaffair resulting in an abortion, a subsequent happy marriage with a basketball player, Danny James, and her second pregnancy, the birth of her daughter, Mae, her friendship with a neighbour, Elliot Kilbertus, a slightly antagonistic acquaintance with the director, Weber Gregston, and increasingly disturbing correspondence with an ex-neighbour, the murderer and psychopath Alvin Williams who is currently confined in an asylum. The second plane is introduced by Cullen’s dreams of Rondua, which start during her second pregnancy and gradually become more and more frequent and intensive. Rondua is a fantastical island inhabited by people, gigantic animals and other strange creatures. To some extent it more or less directly (and metaphorically) reflects Cullen’s life experiences and her mundane reality but, at the same time, it is also an autonomous world with its own surreal logic and causality. The story concentrates on the quest

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undertaken by Cullen’s son, Pepsi (who later reveals that he is her first, unborn child), in search of the five bones of the moon which will make their finder the lawful ruler of Rondua. Cullen assists Pepsi on this dangerous quest (his remaining companions being the three gigantic animals—Mr Tracy the Dog, Felina the Wolf and Martio the Camel) as he overcomes subsequent obstacles and approaches the unavoidable confrontation with his rival in ruling Rondua—the cruel, treacherous and powerful Jack Chilli. There seems to be some strange connection between Cullen’s ordinary life and her dreams (for example, Jack Chilli, who is a shape-shifter and appears in a different shape to everybody, often takes on the looks of Alvin Williams for Cullen). Moreover, gradually the Rondua dreams start to subtly intrude into the mimetic plane. Cullen gains some inexplicable, supernatural powers with which she is able to defend herself against either the obtrusive Weber or an accidental punk harassing her in the street. Additionally, after having been hit by Cullen, Weber also begins to dream of Rondua. In the last of the Rondua dreams Cullen witnesses the confrontation between her son and Jack Chilli, but suddenly wakes up in her flat before the duel is resolved. In that very moment Alvin Williams, who has escaped from the asylum, breaks into Cullen’s flat, murders Elliot before her eyes and threatens both Cullen and her infant daughter. Suddenly, a flood of white light enters the room and Pepsi comes into it, destroying Williams. This is the first and only moment in the book when the two realities actually (and physically) interact with each other. A short reconciliation between Cullen and her son follows before they part forever; it is suggested that Pepsi returns to rule Rondua, where he has won the confrontation with Chilli, and Cullen returns to her ordinary everyday life. As we can see, this is a considerably different way of world-making than in the antimimetic novels we have discussed in the previous chapter. The relationship between the mimetic reality and Rondua—although it undoubtedly does exist—is never explained in logical terms. It is vague, ephemeral and cannot be completely rationalised. The emphasis is definitely put on the strangeness on Rondua and on the fictional events, and the mode is that of the growing confrontation between the two world models, which is resolved in their sudden, violent but brief interaction in the book’s finale. Rondua also cannot be interpreted as an annex or complement to the mimetic reality. Neither is it a fully autonomous, complete world of exomimetic SWF. It is largely what it initially appears to be Cullen’s dreamworld, perhaps as rich and imaginative as true secondary universes, but not nearly as coherent. It is fragmentary and

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always to some extent dependent on the mimetic reality, thus providing distorted images of some of its elements—people, places, events or memories.1 Its logic and causality are hinted rather than precisely explained, as in the case of antimimetic or exomimetic models. In contradistinction to them it is clearly never meant to be fully comprehended. This construction of the fictional universe strongly influences the book’s meanings. In the case of most antimimetic novels (and also exomimetic ones with the possible exception of some recent sciencefantasy texts as discussed at the end of Chapter Four, section 3), we rarely have doubts about what truly happened. The dominant strategy is to explain, to rationalise, and to familiarise the strange and unfamiliar, to provide a logical cognitive framework for all of the fantastical elements, to regain the unity of the fictional world. Here the tendency is largely opposite: strangeness is emphasised until the very end, and the breach in the mimetic order is never repaired (although it finally disappears). The relative ambiguity of the fictional universe results in the relative ambiguity of the book’s messages. An interesting novel, Lecą wieloryby (2010, “The Whales Are Flying”; untranslated), by the Polish writer Aleksander KoĞciów (hailed by critics as “the Polish Haruki Murakami”), similarly to Carroll’s work employs the convention of the “dream vision”. The composition is slightly different here—instead of alternating mimetic and dreamworld passages, as in Bones of the Moon, the novel features a mimetic introduction and ending, whereas the middle narrates the protagonist’s adventures in a fantastical world while he remains in a coma that has been caused by an accident.2 The plot proper starts when the protagonist, Jon, rushes to a railway station in his efforts to meet Maja, the love of his life, to save their 1

It might be suggested that all texts in which dreams reflect the mimetic reality employ, to some extent at least, the paramimetic mode as well, as we are dealing here with some kind of translation of a mimetic order into a dream one. Moreover, it seems that highly metaphorical prose in general may be associated with the paramimetic mode—Zgorzelski, for example, recognises the paramimetic genre of “metaphorical prose” which is best exemplified “by Kafka’s novels and some of Chekhov’s stories” (“Fantastic Literature” 34). I would argue, nevertheless, that in the case of all of the texts discussed in this section, it is the fantastic mode that prevails, as the emphasis is definitely put on the strangeness and confrontation; and the operation of “translation” is relatively fragmentary and inconsistent. The reader is clearly to be confused or amazed by the fictional reality, and not to recognise and identify clearly and precisely encrypted, “translated” patterns; in other words, the dreamworlds of fantastic literature are not to be read allegorically. 2 In this respect (as well as in many others) the book is reminiscent of Iain Bank’s The Bridge, 1986.

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jeopardised relationship. On the way he is run over by a car and falls into a coma. He wakes up in a strange, immensely surrealistic world in which men hunt running trains in the way one hunts wild animals, and all people, except for Jon, possess mysterious personal “stamps”. The story recounts Jon’s desperate quest to escape from this confusing reality and to reunite with Maja. On the way he is continuously obstructed by the mysterious Doxs and his ugly monster Horda as well as the corporation of the “Quiet Ones”—preposterous, uniformed bureaucrats. Both parties seem to have sinister plans concerning Maja. This dreamworld is much more puzzling than Carroll’s Rondua, and Jon’s confusion, his incomprehension, his desperation while he is trying to burst through this strange reality is at all times emphasised. The protagonist’s position is reminiscent of both Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Frank Kafka’s novels. In Bones of the Moon, some internal logic of the fictional reality is at least hinted at (although not explained); KoĞciów’s novel seems to declare the elusiveness of its crazy world much more overtly. The strange reality of Jon’s coma is clearly not to be taken too seriously, and the reader is not to be convinced that this world exists independently outside of Jon’s mind (unless, obviously, we are speaking about some sort of strictly metaphorical, ephemeral existence)—unlike in the case of Rondua which to some extent is an autonomous world. This world is purposely presented as absurd, chaotic and driven by dream logic rather than by an autonomous, selfcoherent and rationally explainable logic of antimimetic “corrected” universes or exomimetic secondary worlds. On the other hand, if we are prone to interpret it as a metaphor of Jon’s mundane life, it is an immensely complex and ambiguous metaphor. Again, it is even more ambiguous than the model of fictional reality in Carroll’s novel, which consequently results in even more ambiguous and multivocal meanings and messages. Lecą wieloryby, similarly to many other fantastical works, is an extremely metaphorical work eluding simple and straightforward interpretations. Generally speaking, the field of possible interpretations is much larger here (and in the many other fantastic texts mentioned in this section) than in the case of most antimimetic and exomimetic works. Although Murakami’s Dance, Dance, Dance also employs the motif of dreams, the fantastic functions in a considerably different way here than in the two previous novels. This work is predominantly a mimetic psychological novel. The protagonist, a commercial writer, is disturbed by memories of the Dolphin Hotel in Hokkaido that he once stayed in and those of Kiki, an exclusive call-girl and his one-time girlfriend. The

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narration focuses on the narrator’s attempt to solve the mysterious disappearance of the girl who, as it turns out at the end of the book, was murdered by his former schoolmate. The fantastical elements are very subtle and fragmentary here. On several occasions we might even wonder if the laws of mimetic order have actually been breached.3 The protagonist experiences dreams, visions or premonitions that may be supernatural or simply delusional, depending on the interpretation, although the effectiveness of the hints they give him suggests the first. Nevertheless, at least on three particular occasions does the protagonist seem to enter a different metaphysical dimension in his waking life: the first time in the Dolphin Hotel where he speaks to the fantastical Sheep Man, then during his excursion to Honolulu when he chases his lover’s ghost and finds himself in a strange room with six skeletons, and again in the Dolphin Hotel at the end of the book (this time he is accompanied by his new girlfriend, Yumiyoshi). Unlike in Carroll’s and KoĞciów’s novels, the fantastic does not constitute a structural dominant. In other words, it is theoretically possible to imagine this text deprived of all of its fantastical elements and still retaining most of its meanings. The operation of the fantastic apparently contributes to the creation of a peculiar mood, helps defamiliarise the familiar and enhances the book’s existential and psychological messages. This is definitely, in a manner of speaking, more “mainstream” fantastic fiction than Bones of the Moon or Lecą wieloryby. If we are to qualify this text as fantastic, Zgorzelski’s description of this supragenological type should perhaps be slightly modified. In contradistinction to the two novels discussed earlier, it is difficult to speak about a confrontation of the two world models. The fantastical elements are simply too fragmentary, too incoherent, too subtle to justifiably speak about the possible “order” or “model of reality” they constitute—a model or order that could be subsequently confronted with the mimetic one on more or less equal rights. Undoubtedly we will encounter here a breach in the laws of the mimetic universe, but the uncertainty on the part of the character largely results from the lack of any discernible order, no matter how strange and fantastical it is. This subtype of fantastic fiction is 3

Of all the texts discussed here, Murakami’s novel is probably closest to Todorov’s category of the fantastic (see Chapter Two, section 3), as we can speak about a certain lasting hesitation on the part of both character and reader whether mimetic reality has been breached. In many contemporary “postmodern” novels this hesitation is not ultimately resolved. Uncertainty is inscribed in the world model itself and in many cases—as in quantum physics—both natural and supernatural interpretations are simultaneously possible.

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characterised primarily by an inherent instability of the fictional universe. Replay by Ken Grimwood presents yet another way in which the operation of the fantastic may function. The book tells the story of Jeff Winston, a 43-year-old journalist who in 1988 suddenly dies of a heart attack and subsequently awakens as an 18-year-old man again, back in the year 1963, but preserving all of the memories of his former life. In this way he is given the opportunity to re-live his life again (and even make some amendments). Although he tries to prevent the heart attack, he dies again in 1988 at exactly the same moment as previously, and once more awakens at the age of 18, but this time several hours later. The cycle is repeated numerous times, and each time the “replayed” span of life is reduced. Finally, in the last chapter Jeff awakens just a few minutes before the fatal moment. To his surprise this time he does not die but goes beyond it. Thus he is freed of his strange curse/blessing and can live the rest of his life as an ordinary man. Basically, the novel follows the themes and motifs of a contemporary mimetic social and psychological novel. The only fantastical element is the mysterious mechanism that resurrects the protagonist and turns him back in time. It is never explained or rationalised. Despite the protagonists’ (Jeff is accompanied by another “replayer”, Pamela, later in the narration) occasional pondering on the enigma of their strange experiences, the book clearly does not focus on solving the mystery (contrarily to the conventions that are typical of popular non-mimetic literature, regardless of its supragenological type, where solving the mystery is essential), but rather on exploring its social and psychological implications as well as its effects on the lives of the protagonists. We might speak here about a certain unspoken agreement between the text and reader in which both parties agree that the breach caused by the characters’ resurrection is a necessary but, in a manner of speaking, strictly technical, pre-textual operation which enables an acting out of new, interesting, psychological motifs. Similarly to Murakami’s novel, Grimwood’s text appears as relatively “mainstream” fiction, but the operation of the fantastic functions differently here. On the one hand, the whole structure of the book and its meaning are totally dependent on it, on the other hand, as has already been suggested, it is rather pre-textual. The novel neither emphasises strangeness nor confrontation, unlike the other fantastic texts mentioned in this section. On the basis of the four texts discussed above we have surveyed some basic narrative strategies that prevail in contemporary texts representing the fantastic supragenological type. Obviously, contemporary fantastic literature is even a more diversified group. Other novels that might be

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mentioned at this point are, by way of example, Patrick O’Leary’s Door Number Three (1995), William Browning Spencer’s Resume with Monsters (1995) and Zod Wallop (1996), Bradley Denton’s Lunatics (1996), Jon Courtenay Grimwood’s 9Tail Fox (2005), Megan Lindholm’s Wizard of the Pigeons (1986), M. John Harrison’s The Course of Heart (1992) or Peter Straub’s lost boy lost girl (2003).4 This is, as has been suggested, a very heterogenous collection of works. It might be even argued that—to some extent at least—it encompasses texts which simply cannot be conveniently placed in any of the remaining categories. Moreover, it is probably genologically the most “impure” of them all. Many of the works mentioned above visibly approach the antimimetic or even the metaconventional type, as their respective realities either include a substantial deal of rationalisation of the fantastical elements or, contrarily, balance on the verge of openly declaring their fictionality and meta-textuality. As has been suggested in our discussion of Dance, Dance, Dance, Zgorzelski’s definition of the fantastic mode should be, perhaps, extended to also account for texts in which it is difficult to speak of the confrontation of the two world models, as the fantastical elements are too fragmentary and inconsistent to constitute a proper model of reality. The breach in the mimetic laws in such cases ultimately results in the lack of 4

Those three last novels have been discussed extensively by Mendlesohn as examples of liminal fantasy (Rhetorics 199-209; 230-236). Since Mendlesohn suggests that this category is characterised by disorientation rather than surprise on the part of the characters, many of the other texts mentioned in this chapter would probably not qualify there. Interestingly, Mendlesohn herself notices analogies between Todorov’s ephemeral genre of fantastic and her own category of liminal fantasy. She apparently regards Todorov’s fantastic as a certain subclass of texts within liminal fantasy, as she views hesitation as “only one strategy employed by these [liminal fantasy] writers” (Rhetorics xxiii). It is, once again, difficult to compare Zgorzelski’s and Mendlesohn’s taxonomies because they are based on different premises, nevertheless, probably the majority of texts belonging to the fantastic supragenological type might be described as either liminal or intrusive fantasies in Mendlesohn’s terms. Moreover, it seems that there is a certain relationship between such variously defined categories as Todorov’s fantastic, Jackson’s “subversive texts”, Mendlesohn’s liminal fantasy, which is a class of contemporary texts that is sometimes described by critics as “slipstream”, and, finally, texts representing the fantastic supragenological type as discussed in this chapter. Despite the different theoretical approaches that help delimitate each of these categories, they all, to a certain extent, emphasise hesitation in the interpretation of fictional events or the strangeness and ambiguity of fictional universes.

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any discernible order. Thus the uncertainty on the part of the characters reflects an inherent instability of the fictional universes.5 Despite the diversity as discussed above, it seems, nevertheless, that all of the texts grouped in this section share several significant characteristics. In contradistinction to the characters in the texts of other supragenological types, the protagonists of fantastic fiction are continuously confused and disoriented. The protagonists of antimimetic literature, for example, quickly accept the new, corrected order and adopt to it, but the uncertainty of the protagonists of fantastic fiction usually prevails until the very end of the narration. In antimimetic fiction, after the initial breach a correction of the protagonists’ faulty vision of the universe follows, and the world model is, in a way, re-united. The element of the fantastic disappears from the narration and, instead, efforts to describe the new model in a relatively coherent and detailed way (although usually less emphasised than in exomimetic fiction) are clearly visible. In fantastic fiction, in turn, the unified vision of the fictional universe, once breached, is never regained or re-integrated. The character’s uncertainty is of a metaphysical rather than strictly pragmatic nature—this does not refer only to the interpretation of particular events, but also to the very ontological order of the fictional universe. As Robert Scholes once stated, “all writing, all composition, is construction” (“The Fictional Criticism” 7). But the exomimetic, antimimetic and paramimetic modes tend to construct realities that are rationalised, self-coherent, largely logical and predictable. Fantastic fiction most frequently uses the technique of distortion rather than building—it provides strange mirror-images of the mimetic reality instead of extending its model or presenting alternatives to it. While all other types strive to create—in their own respective ways—some rationally explainable cognitive frameworks for their world models, fantastic fiction implies ontological chaos and semantic ambiguity. It often employs dream logic that is incomprehensible both to its characters and readers. It offers a type 5

This lack of discernible world order or instability of the fictional universe, which is characteristic of the supragenological category of fantastic fiction and results from the strangeness of the presented events, must be distinguished from apparently analogous phenomena in “postmodern” metafiction. In the latter case, ontological chaos results from the texts’ inter-textuality and openly declared conventionality, fictionality and literariness. The worlds of fantastic fiction— unlike the worlds of metafiction—are still to be treated seriously, and traditionally require from the reader the suspension of disbelief. Obviously, both classes seem to overlap to some extent and there exist a significant number of “borderline” texts. See my discussion of non-mimetic metafictional literature in Chapter Eight.

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of construction that, in fact, brings inescapable associations with destruction. The fantastic mode is most closely related with the surreal, the oneiric and the pathological. It is also, arguably, the most metaphorical of all modes, and its meanings and messages are extremely ambiguous, confusing and multivocal in comparison with the relatively straightforward and clear meanings and messages of other types of non-mimetic literature. In their themes and motifs, in the narrative strategies and literary conventions applied, in the shaping of plots and protagonists, the texts of contemporary fantastic fiction are often closer to modern (or postmodern) mimetic psychological prose than to other non-mimetic writings. The fantastical elements neither facilitate elaborate explorations into the nature of man and the universe or into the dimension of myth and archetype as in the most sophisticated works of SF and SWF, nor do they help construct attractive adventure- and wonder-driven plots, as in the many works of antimimetic literature. Instead of creating their meanings in ways that are typical of popular non-mimetic prose, they tend to enhance or modify those that are already present in literature and usually perceived as “realistic”. Many of the contemporary fantastic texts are often labelled as postmodern or surrealist rather than “fantastic” or “fantasy”. Of all the non-mimetic writings they are probably most readily accepted by the “mainstream” reading public and are not associated with fantasy or SF. Modern fantastic literature, in contradistinction to the exomimetic and antimimetic fictions between which there is constant mutual interaction, develops in a way that is separate and relatively unaffected by tendencies prevailing in the domain of broadly understood “genre” non-mimetic prose. It is also worth noting that fantastic fiction does not, in fact, present an especially complex, innovative or sophisticated way of world-making, especially in comparison with exomimetic literature. The conventions and narrative strategies it applies—such as the exemplary convention of the dream-vision—are relatively simple and traditional, and rooted in historical-literary forms. Yet, while adopting them the fantastic mode is, apparently, capable of creating artistic and sophisticated texts. This perceived high literariness and artistic quality of contemporary fantastic literature seems, however, to result largely from the fact that, as has already been suggested, its strategies are analogous to those of modern mainstream fiction. It is, perhaps, paradoxical, that a mode that has its roots in relatively simple and cognitively unambitious literary forms such as, for example, the gothic novel, has produced non-mimetic works that are most frequently associated with “high art” nowadays. The diversity of contemporary fantastic literature makes the description

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of particular genres within it relatively difficult. Most of the affinities mentioned so far pertain to a mode as such rather than to any possible genres. When we try to go beyond the general features of the fantastic mode concerning its strategies of world-making and look at more specific traits of individual texts, we encounter a considerable heterogeneity. One specific generic category that might be—at this stage rather tentatively—suggested here would encompass such works as Carroll’s Bones of the Moon or the various novels of Murakami and KoĞciów. This possible genre of fantastic fiction (the term “contemporary metaphorical fantastic novel” seems especially suitable) would be characterised primarily by: inherent instability of a fictional universe (the protagonists’ uncertainty about the ontological order of their reality as well as their own status is emphasised); special interest in various metaphysical and psychological motifs; extensive use of postmodern, oneiric or surrealist techniques; application of complex, confusing metaphors; ambiguity and multivocality of meanings, and, finally, creative and imaginative use of language. Obviously, the initial approximation conducted above would have to be complemented by a more thorough analysis of a much wider range of texts but, nevertheless, this potential genre of contemporary metaphorical fantastic novel appears to be one of the most interesting (and artistic) categories of modern non-mimetic prose in general.

2. Contemporary Horror There seems to be, however, one more contemporary fantastic genre that is especially well discernible and easy to delimitate. Of all categories of texts that might possibly be associated with the fantastic mode today, literary horror seems to have retained most of the original character of the gothic novel, which is one of the earliest historical fantastic genres. Sometimes, as some of the descriptions quoted below suggest, it is even viewed as its direct continuation. It is, at the same time, also visibly distinct from the metaphorical and “mainstream” fantastic texts discussed in the previous section. As with other popular labels (see the discussion on “fantasy” in Chapter One), the very term “horror” is a slightly confusing one. Tymn, Zahorski and Boyer, for example, use the category of Gothic fantasy as also encompassing contemporary “horror” texts which can be distinguished from other theme-based fantasy categories such as “myth and fairy tale fantasy”, “science fantasy” or “sword and sorcery”. At the same time, it can also be distinguished from “weird tales, tales that are not fantasy when they offer rational explanations for weird phenomena”

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(15)—that is, in other words, texts in which the laws of the mimetic reality are not actually breached.6 The researchers state that Gothic fantasy stresses “humankind’s archetypal fascination with, and fear of the unknown and the unnatural” (15). Their description, however, starts to be perhaps too inclusive when they remark that Gothic fantasy “just as fantasy literature in general can be divided into high and low fantasy, so too can Gothic fantasy be divided by the same primary differentiating criteria of causality and setting” (16). Thus they include both “Gothic high fantasy”, set in secondary worlds, and “Gothic low fantasy”, set in a mimetic reality, which practically means that the proposed category encompasses nearly all of non-mimetic literature (with the exception of science fiction) that contains some significant fear-provoking elements. On the other hand, they suggest that “the effect of the Gothic is more startling in low fantasy. This, of course, is because the nonrational element occurs in an otherwise realistic context” (16). Wolfe, in turn, perceives horror as one of the three major fields of fantastic literature aside from fantasy and SF (Evaporating Genres 1) and defines it as “a genre of popular fiction unusual in that it is labelled not according to its own conventions, but according to its desired effect” which “leads to some difficulties in attempting to draw generic lines between horror and fantasy or horror and science fiction” (Critical Terms 53). He further characterises horror as a genre “which emerged from the shadow of the Gothic to discover that its key dynamic was not a particular story pattern but anchored anxiety” (Evaporating Genres 24). The Encyclopedia of Fantasy similarly states that “unlike fantasy, supernatural fiction and science fiction—terms which describe generic structures—horror is a term which describes an affect. A horror story makes its readers feel horror” (478). The authors of The Encyclopedia also feel it necessary to make two distinctions. First, they exclude from the class of texts that is of interest to them stories that are devoid of fantastical elements (“set in entirely mundane worlds”, 478), which they perceive as “simple exercises in sadism” (478). Second, they remark, importantly, that “what [they] are calling ‘pure’ horror can be distinguished from stories which convey a sense of horror while continuing to fulfil other generic requirements” (478). Within the approach that has been adopted in this study it is, probably, most adequate to delineate horror as a genre predominantly relying on the fantastic mode but, at the same time, in contradistinction to other 6

This category of “weird” texts, in which the model of reality ultimately reveals itself as mimetic, seems to be roughly equivalent to Todorov’s class of “uncanny”.

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contemporary fantastic texts (as those mentioned in the previous section), focusing on evoking the feeling of fear, which constitutes the dominant that subordinates all other crucial elements of the texts’ structures. This, obviously, results in the creation of certain specific narrative patterns. It is worth remarking at this point that of all the supragenological types, the fantastic one seems to be naturally suited for achieving “the effect of the Gothic”. As H. P. Lovecraft once stated in the introduction to his seminal Supernatural Horror in Literature, “the oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown” (12). The fantastic mode, where the familiar environments of the mimetic order are breached by some intruding “supernatural” element, which is strange and apparently unexplainable, in an obvious way creates the effect of fear. Fantastic universes— fragmented, largely incomprehensible in purely causative terms—are bound to enhance and preserve this effect throughout the narration, in contradistinction to, for example, antimimetic ones in which once the intruding element becomes “rationalised”, it can also be logically comprehended and then dealt with more or less effectively. The antagonists of antimimetic or exomimetic literature—an invading faerie, magicians from another dimension, all variations of Dark Lords—may be powerful and terrifying, but they are also, to some extent at least, comprehensible. Their evil is clearly defined in ethical or metaphysical terms. The evil in horror is largely impossible to define and indescribable; the very tearing of the fabric of a familiar reality seems to be the primary fear-evoking factor. Among typical modern horror texts we could mention several novels by Stephen King (for example, Christine, 1983; Pet Sematary, 1983; It, 1986 or Insomnia, 1994), Dean Koontz (Phantoms, 1983; Darkfall, 1984 or Dragon Tears, 1993), Peter Straub (for example, Julia, 1975; Ghost Story, 1979 or Floating Dragon, 1982), and many other popular authors.7 King’s Pet Sematary constitutes one of the exemplary cases that well illustrates how the fantastic mode operates in a modern horror text. The 7

Obviously not all novels written by writers associated with horror, or even labelled as “horror”, represent, in fact, the fantastic genre of horror as delineated in this chapter; for example, Peter Straub’s Shadowland (1980) or several novels by Clive Barker present realities which are predominantly antimimetic or exomimetic, while Stephen King’s numerous texts (especially those written under the pseudonym Richard Bachman) include strongly emphasised science-fictional or dystopian elements. Additionally, many of the novels by all of the above authors might be qualified as simply mimetic thrillers, as they do not, in fact, include “supernatural” elements.

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story centres on doctor Louis Creed, who moves with his wife Rachel, daughter Eileen and son Gage into a house on the outskirts of the small town of Ludlow in Maine. The place proves to be very peculiar due to its being in the vicinity of an ancient native American burial ground, which is situated just beyond “the pet cemetery”, where local children bury their dead animals and from which it is separated by “the deadfall”—a barrier of bush and tree limbs. The Creeds are welcomed by the elderly neighbours, Jud and Norma Crandall, who seem to be well informed on all local matters, including strange incidents that happened in the past in the neighbourhood. The laws of the mimetic order are breached when, after Eileen’s cat, Church, is killed by a truck (the Creeds’ house is situated near a very dangerous highway), Jud takes Louis to bury the animal in the ancient burial ground. The cat is subsequently resurrected and returns home, although its strange, zombie-like behaviour disturbs the family. Soon a greater tragedy takes place—Gage is also run over by a passing truck. After the funeral, the desperate and heart-broken Louis, berated by his in-laws and full of remorse, resolves to exhume Gage’s body and place it in the ancient burial ground as well, ignoring Jud’s warnings and his frightening tale of another, failed attempt at a resurrection that took place just after World War II. Louis sends his wife and daughter to his in-laws and then carries out his plan. This leads to a series of even more horrible events. Gage returns as a demonic figure that is capable to speak and act like an adult, despite his former, innocent appearance. He breaks into Jud’s house, torments and murders him and then, when Rachel returns, murders her as well. Louis, now acting on the verge of insanity, manages to kill Church and Gage and sets fire to Jud’s house. At the end of the novel Louis, now even more insane and desperate, sets out to resurrect Rachel, convincing himself that Gage’s resurrection failed because he had waited too long with it, but this time he will get everything right. In the final scene the resurrected Rachel returns home, saying “darling” in a dirty, unnatural voice, and thus it is suggested that further monstrosities are approaching. The narration from the very beginning focuses on the gradual rise of tension in a way that is reminiscent of traditional gothic stories. The prevailing mood is that of strangeness, and emphasis is laid on the unknown (and the horrible) intruding into the protagonist’s life. Although some hints are given for a possible explanation of the unnatural properties of the burial ground, they never aspire to form a coherent vision. Moreover, there are some unnatural incidents which do not fit into any potential cognitive framework that might be capable of translating the

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fantastical events into some non-mimetic but otherwise logically describable order, the way it occurs in antimimetic texts; for example, soon after moving into the new house, Louis is visited at night by the walking corpse of Victor Pascow, a recently deceased Maine university student who died just one day earlier in Louis’s presence (there was also a strange interaction between the two, as Pascow directed his last words at Louis although they had never met previously). Pascow leads Louis to the pet cemetery and warns him to never go past the deadfall. After waking up Louis decides it was merely a dream, despite the evidence of his dirty feet and bed. The character of Pascow has, obviously, no direct connection with the mystery of the burial ground; the strange incidents involving him simply serve to enhance the atmosphere of strangeness and suggest the imminent breach of the mimetic order—perhaps at the cost of providing a logical framework that will simultaneously account for all of the supernatural events in the book. Also, the book’s unresolved ending contributes to the escalation of monstrosity, which is an indispensable element in most horror texts. In terms of conveyed meanings and subject matter, contemporary horror in its statistical shape probably belongs to the most emotional and least cognitively sophisticated non-mimetic genres. Even if more serious psychological or ethical issues are encountered here, they are usually dominated by efforts to evoke particular emotions, such as fear or disgust, to ultimately shock the reader. Contemporary horror with its relatively simple, emotion-driven messages could be contrasted not only with exomimetic (and to some extent antimimetic) texts, which are usually characterised by more serious subject matter, but also with the highly metaphorical fantastic works we discussed in the first section of this chapter. This is definitely a different facet of the fantastic mode—one in which cultural rather than artistic mechanisms prevail. Contemporary horror (again, in its statistical shape) appears to be one of the most massmarket, “genre” types of non-mimetic fiction today which is especially susceptible to certain endlessly circulating and relatively uninventive, traditional formulas and conventions that are accepted by the market. This said, it is important to remark that the numerous texts of contemporary horror more and more often employ conventions that are typical of other mimetic and non-mimetic genres. The borderlines between the horror and the mimetic thriller on the one hand, and the horror and antimimetic magical novel or antimimetic speculative novel on the other hand often become blurred. At the beginning of the first section of this chapter I suggested that the proportion between rationalisation and strangeness is difficult to approximate in many contemporary texts which

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hover on the border between the antimimetic and fantastic modes – and this obviously also concerns horrors. Various hybrid forms of horror seem to be more interesting in the creation of their textual realities than in its genologically homogeneous works, and they definitely deserve thorough research; by way of example we might mention here such texts as Weaveworld (1987) by Clive Barker or Shadowland (1980) by Peter Straub.

CHAPTER SEVEN CONTEMPORARY PARAMIMETIC FICTION

The worlds of paramimetic fiction are allegorical. This mode presupposes a “translation of the fictional order into the terms of the phenomenal one, despite the possible differences between them” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 32). Zgorzelski perceives the paramimetic mode as one of the three oldest ones, and among the historical paramimetic genres he mentions the animal fable, the allegorical romance or the neoclassical pastoral (“Fantastic Literature” 34). He also recognises a relatively modern paramimetic genre of “metaphorical prose”, which is best exemplified “by Kafka’s novels and some of Chekhov’s stories” (“Fantastic Literature” 34). It seems, however, that the mode’s relevance is primarily historical. In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries it surfaced rather sporadically and—as far as the sphere of “popular” non-mimetic literature is concerned—it proved to be the least prominent of all supragenological types. Nevertheless, there are several especially clear cases where the mode is definitely in operation. By way of example we will briefly discuss two such works: George Orwell’s Animal Farm (1945) and C. S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia (1950-1956). At first they may appear to be generically distant from each other in the perception of the reading public, as the first one is often labelled a “political satire” (and treated as mainstream literature), whereas the latter is usually classified as “children’s fantasy”. However, both texts construct their fictional realities in ways that are strikingly analogous. Animal Farm retains much of the allegorical character of the animal fable. The book recounts the story of a revolution conducted by the sentient animals of Manor Farm who, thanks to the teachings of the old boar Old Major, realise that humans are parasites and successfully drive them away, with the young pigs Snowball and Napoleon taking the leadership after Old Major dies. The farm is now renamed “the animal farm” and a new, apparently democratic order is implemented. The initial period of enthusiasm soon gives way to a gradual process of transforming the order of the farm into a gloomy dictatorship by the cruel Napoleon,

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who is assisted by other pigs (especially the master of revolutionary propaganda, Squealer). The book ends with the pigs renaming the farm “Manor Farm” again, making peace with neighbouring humans and exploiting other animals even more mercilessly than the original owners of the farm did. The microcosm of the farm quite accurately reflects the dynamics of the evolution of a totalitarian system (it was primarily modelled on that of Soviet Russia under Stalin’s rule). This dynamic is preserved not only in the general outline of the story and its meanings, but also in minor details; it is, for example, often argued that Old Major is a combination of Marx and Lenin, Napoleon is the figure of Stalin himself, Snowball represents Trotsky and Squealer Molotov.1 Animal Farm is, undoubtedly, meant to be read as an allegory. As The Encyclopedia of Fantasy states, Animal Farm “uses the Beast-Fable format as a vehicle for a savagely ironical allegory of how socialist political ideas … became corrupted in the USRR” (737). The case of the seven-volume The Chronicles of Narnia is in many respects similar. The first volume of the series, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, recounts the story of four children, siblings Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy, who enter through an apparently magical wardrobe into the fantastical, secondary world of Narnia which is inhabited by sentient, talking animals and creatures that are directly borrowed from different mythologies, such as fauns, centaurs, dryads or even Santa Claus. The children prove to be instrumental in defeating the tyrant usurper of Narnia, the White Witch, and in assisting the returning true ruler, the Lion Aslan, “who, it is made increasingly clear, is the Narnian aspect of Christ” (The Encyclopedia of Fantasy 578). At the end of the book they are appointed by Aslan to be the kings and queens of Narnia, and after many long years of rule they “stumble back through the wardrobe, returning to Earth as children after a real-time absence of mere minutes” (The Encyclopedia of Fantasy 578). Most of the subsequent books in the series (with the exception of The Horse and His Boy, which does not feature a mimetic framework) repeat the pattern of transferring characters from a mimetic reality in order to make them fulfil some mission which has been appointed by Aslan. Thus, on a surface level the cycle is reminiscent of a typical translation fantasy novel, where the protagonist/protagonists from a mimetic reality is/are transferred into a secondary, magical world. This secondary world is, however, created in a rather specific way—it is not completely autonomous 1 For a detailed allegorical interpretation of Animal Farm’s meanings see, especially, Rodden and Hitchens.

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and self-coherent in the ways the worlds of exomimetic SWF usually are. The series has deliberately been constructed to convey the Christian ethos. There is a relatively straightforward equivalence of the numerous characters and events here—by way of example, Aslan represents Christ (or, actually, is Christ), the Calormen deity Tash—Satan, Aslan’s voluntary sacrifice and resurrection in volume one—Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection, the last battle in the final volume—Armageddon, etc. The outcome of particular events (for example the recurring motif of the reformation, with Aslan’s assistance, of particular “sinners”, such as Edmund in the first volume or Eustace Scrubb in the third one) as well as of the whole story is largely predetermined by its Christian message and religious references. In its construction the series is not entirely unlike medieval allegorical romances in the vein of The Faerie Queene. Although Narnia is often compared to Tolkien’s Middleearth works, whose Christian inspirations are also visible, this is a radically different way of world-making. Works by Lewis and Tolkien well illustrate the basic distinction between the paramimetic and exomimetic modes: while the first relatively straightforwardly translates the Christian order into a fictional world, the latter uses it (among other inspirations) to construct a new, more autonomous world model.2 It seems, however, that apart from the two texts mentioned above, it is rather difficult to find a contemporary work in which the paramimetic mode dominates so visibly. This may be perhaps linked with various “animal fantasy” stories such as, by way of example, Watership Down (1972) by Richard Adams, Hunter’s Moon (1989) by Garry Kilworth or The Duncton Chronicles (1980-1993) and Wolves of Time (1995-1970) by William Horwood, which, at least superficially, are rooted in the tradition of the beast tale. The Encyclopedia of Fantasy distinguishes between a “pure animal fantasy”—“a tale which features sentient animals who 2

This distinction was noticed and commented on by Tolkien himself who, apparently, did not approve of The Chronicles of Narnia despite the prolonged friendship between the two writers. Tolkien did not like the straightforward use of allegory in Lewis’s work, he also perceived Lewis’s secondary world as unconvincing, somewhat carelessly composed of various, provisionally assembled and not quite compatible motifs (see, especially, Long passim; Wilson 222, 225226; and Sayer 313). Interestingly, the main assumptions of Tolkien’s own literary theory concerning the creation of “secondary universes” seem to translate quite well into the specifics of the exomimetic mode as described in this paper in structuralist terms (see Tolkien, On Fairy Stories passim). Thus Tolkien appears as one of the first writers whose work was, in a way, consciously “exomimetic”, i.e. set in a completely autonomous secondary world that was invented by the author.

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almost certainly talk to one another and to other animal species though not to humans, and who are described in terms which emphasize both their animal nature and the characteristic nature of species to which they belong” and a “beast fable”—“a tale whose animal protagonists are described in terms which permit a satire– or allegory–based comparison of their behaviour and nature with that of humans; these comparisons are normally made without much attention being paid to real animal behaviour” (31). While the latter type of animal tale can most directly be linked with the paramimetic mode, most of the contemporary animal fantasies (as the ones mentioned above, with the exception of Animal Farm) clearly fall into the first category. Obviously, it can be argued that the paramimetic mode is to some extent still operative here on a more general level, as the reality of human experience is translated into a fictive animal fantasy order, but this is a relatively fragmented and not nearly as allegorical way of applying this mode as, for example, in the two novels discussed earlier in this chapter. Moreover, the texts of Adams, Kilworth and Horwood, in their detailed and imaginative construction of specific animal societies, also exhibit visible traits of exomimetic world-making. They are also considerably shaped by numerous conventions and motifs that make them less similar to classical paramimetic works and more similar to contemporary SWF or antimimetic “fantasy” novels (for example, they often apply the motif of quest, emphasise mythic content or describe the struggle between good and evil). As I have noted at the beginning of this chapter, the paramimetic mode in its clearly identifiable shape is rather rare in contemporary literature in general, and it did not seem to considerably influence the rapid development of popular nonmimetic fiction in the twentieth century. It is also difficult to speak about possible generic categories here—the texts of contemporary paramimetic literature are few, relatively distinct from one another and cannot be easily grouped into more specific categories, with the possible exception of the semi-paramimetic contemporary animal fantasy tale, which, however, cannot be perceived as a quite representative application of the paramimetic mode. By taking the more extratextual perspective, it is worth remarking that the paramimetic mode in its typical implementation is, in a way, the most “mundane” of all supragenological types. Its texts come into being in a direct reaction to certain extra-textual (cultural, social, ideological, religious, etc.) stimuli, and often include an overt didactic dimension which is otherwise rare in contemporary non-mimetic fiction. It is also the paramimetic mode that is most closely connected with satire.

CHAPTER EIGHT METACONVENTIONAL NON-MIMETIC FICTION

The status of metaconventional literature seems to be clearly distinctive as, in contradistinction to the five remaining types, the style of reading or presupposition on which it is based “does not refer to the bilateral relations of the phenomenal and fictional realities, but defines the relation of the utterance itself to the historically established ways of communication” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 33).1 Thus, meta-conventional texts “openly discuss the laws of literary communication” (Zgorzelski, “Fantastic Literature” 33). Zgorzelski further describes this category in the following way: Meta-conventional literature (MC), which, while taking for granted not only the reader's knowledge of the phenomenal reality and his linguistic competence, but also his competence in traditional literary systems, presupposes a commentary upon the conventional ways of communicating. Such a commentary is usually playful: it often shapes the given text as a parody of a genre; it determines, for instance, the spirit of entertainment and motivates humour in the grotesque tales of Ijon Tichy by S. Lem or it negates the possibility of anyone taking seriously the model of reality suggested in The Land of Cockaigne. The text becomes then doubly a meta-literary one: not losing its auto-referential function, it also draws the reader's attention to the arbitrary, non-motivated, rhetorical nature of the conventions in literary history. Meta-conventional literature appears to be most openly a literary game. (“Fantastic Literature” 33)

Even a casual look at the above description suggests that, in fact, we are dealing here with an immensely broad and heterogeneous category which encompasses various historical and contemporary works ranging from, perhaps, the eighteenth century and Laurence Sterne’s fiction to the 1

Jadwiga WĊgrodzka suggests in her publishing review of the present study that “metaconventional texts impose metafictional interests only on other genre patterns, so the status of a completely separate category of metaconventional literature is debatable” (pages not given).

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works of “post-modern” or “metafictional” writers, such as, especially, John Fowles, Kurt Vonnegut or John Barth. The notions of “postmodern” fiction or “metafiction” quite obviously self-impose themselves here, as they are also usually associated with such literary phenomena as intertextuality, parody, pastiche and, generally speaking, open demonstrations of the texts’ auto-referentiality. The notion of “postmodern” fiction is a relatively vague and elusive one and, in most cases, as much (or perhaps more) cultural or historical2 in nature as theoretical. On the other hand, metafiction is usually defined more precisely, and its various definitions, in most cases at least, partly overlap with the notion of metaconventional literature as used in this study. Both notions also apparently correspond to more or less the same category of texts. Generally speaking, metafiction is described as “fictional writing which self-consciously and systematically draws attention to its status as an artefact” (Waugh 2). It is “fiction about fiction—that is, fiction that includes within itself a commentary on its own narrative and/or linguistic identity” (Hutcheon 1). It “typically involves games in which levels of narrative reality (and the reader’s perception of them) are confused” (Hawthorne 208). As Horstkotte observes (also in conformity with Zgorzelski’s remarks on meta-conventional prose) “one of the characteristics of metafiction that many critics agree upon is its playful nature” (139). Horstkotte cites such authors as, especially, Brian Stonehill, Rudiger Imhof, Dale Knickerbocker and Peter Hutchinson, who “devotes an entire study to the games authors play with the reader and their fiction, in which he calls literary play ‘self-conscious’” (Horstkotte 139). The study of the whole category of meta-conventional fiction or metafiction (or, especially, “postmodern” fiction as such) considerably exceeds our present interests,3 which focus on problems directly related to the taxonomy of contemporary non-mimetic literature. There appears, however, to exist a group of texts which, although usually associated by readers and critics with popular non-mimetic genres, at closer scrutiny exhibit strategies that could properly be characterised as “meta-conventional”. Thus the texts in question occupy, in a manner of speaking, a sort of borderline between the particular non-mimetic modes 2

See, for example, Horstkotte 53-55. As the researcher suggests, quite adequately, “the designation ‘postmodernism’ seems to be a fantastic thingless name, since it refers to something—and nothing—undefined that follows after modernism” (53). 3 For a more detailed study of postmodern fiction and metafiction see, especially, McHale, Waugh, Hutcheon, Stonehill, Imhof, Hutchinson, Scholes (Fabulation and Metafiction), and Malcolm.

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and the meta-conventional one and, arguably, should be included in a systematic discussion of contemporary non-mimetic literature. A special interrelation between postmodernist and—differently understood—fantastic literature has often been suggested by literary criticism, the outcome of the discussion being, however, to a large extent unclear—largely due to the ambiguity of both terms in question. By way of example, Brian McHale, in his seminal study Postmodernist Fiction, suggests that postmodernist fiction has close affinities with the genre of the fantastic, much as it has affinities with the science-fiction genre, and it draws upon the fantastic for motifs and topoi much as it draws upon science fiction. It is able to draw upon the fantastic in this way because the fantastic genre, like science fiction and like postmodernist fiction itself, is governed by the ontological dominant. (74)4

Other researchers, as Horstkotte observes, go even further (in this context he mentions Yuan Yuan and Lance Olsen), suggesting that postmodernism and the fantastic are, in fact, synonymous (66; compare Olsen 46; Yuan 15). I am, however, more prone to accept Horstkotte’s own stance, which distinguishes between traditional and postmodern fantastic on the one hand, and between postmodern fantastic and postmodernism devoid of clearly perceptible “fantastical elements” on the other hand. This middle-ground category of postmodern fantastic is described by Horstkotte in the following way: The postmodern fantastic … represents a late twentieth-century form of the fantastic that is characterised by postmodern traits. In accordance with formalist arguments concerning the evolution of literary history, it follows from this that the postmodern fantastic did not appear ex nihilo, but rather stands in the tradition of the literary fantastic. It is strongly influenced by the traditional fantastic and shares common theoretical ground with it. […] the postmodern fantastic takes up many of the themes and motifs that have been described as characteristic of the literature of the fantastic, remodels them in a way that is distinctly postmodern and adds new elements to them. The natural consequence of this close connection of the postmodern 4

It must be noted that the taxonomy applied by McHale differs quite considerably from the one applied in this paper. It can be deduced from the statements quoted above that the critic distinguishes two main genres of non-mimetic fiction – science fiction and the fantastic. The first is in a way taken for granted (although Suvin’s theories describing the genre are cited; see 59-60; compare Suvin, Metamorphoses of Science Fiction), the other is basically described with reference to Todorov’s theory of the fantastic (74).

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Horstkotte’s statements include many useful intuitions and observations, but several crucial reservations should also be made at this point. First, the subject of mutual interrelations between postmodern and nonmimetic fiction is somehow limited in Horstkotte’s dissertation. Although his study does not reveal a taxonomical interest per se, it does introduce a certain taxonomical view of non-mimetic literature (see the discussion in Chapter Two, section 4) that is mainly based on the ideas of Todorov and Jackson. In his discussion, Horstkotte pursues the connections between postmodernism and only one of the delimitated categories—fantastic literature (in a meaning that is similar to Todorov’s or Jackson’s), whereas the issue clearly involves a much broader range of non-mimetic writings.5 Second, it may be argued that the category of postmodern fantastic, as introduced by Horstkotte, needs further delimitation. The appearance of postmodern motifs in non-mimetic texts or non-mimetic elements in the works of contemporary postmodernism does not necessarily mark the need for a new generic class; after all, modern fiction is a field of constant mutual interaction. Perhaps this middle-ground category, as it is called by Horstkotte, might be described still more narrowly and precisely with the help of clearer and more structural determinants. In this respect, for our present needs we will also rely on the relatively unequivocal and theoretical in nature term of “metafiction” (or metaconventional literature) rather than “postmodernism”, as the latter is so vague and elusive that any genological discussion involving it is probably bound to create certain ambiguities and overgeneralisations. Contrarily to most of the critics, who emphasise the similarity of nonmimetic and postmodern fiction while juxtaposing both modes with the realist or mimetic one,6 I will argue that when it comes to the description 5

A large proportion of McHale’s seminal study, for example, is devoted to a discussion of the interrelations between postmodernism and particular types of non-mimetic fiction. The critic attaches special significance to science-fiction here—a subject which is virtually overlooked in Horstkotte’s dissertation (see McHale, Chapter Four). He even writes about “the science fictionalization of postmodernism” and “the postmodernization of science fiction” (65-72). 6 For example, either the playful nature of both the fantastic and metafiction is emphasised or—by taking a cultural stance rather than a literary-theoretical one— their subversive function is emphasised. See Horstkotte passim; McHale passim, Jackson passim; Knickerbocker 479.

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of the creation of the presented world in more textual terms, the metaconventional mode stands in clear contrast both to the mimetic mode and all the non-mimetic ones. Namely, it defies—common to all other types— the traditional literary strategy to present a coherent and autonomous textual world (no matter how fantastical it might appear in the reader’s reception) which prompts the reader “to the suspension of disbelief”. In a way, “metafiction represents a clash of two forms of reality, an intratextual and an extratextual one. Extratextual reality intrudes upon the reality in the text when intratextual illusion is broken and fiction starts referring to itself” (Horstkotte 140). It seems, however, that a more or less perceptible border can be drawn between, on the one hand, typically metafictional or postmodernist texts that employ some conventions borrowed from traditional non-mimetic fiction and use them to their own ends and, on the other hand, texts that are clearly structured around non-mimetic conventions in which some metaconventional or metaconventional elements surface. Acknowledging the fact that there is constant interaction between both groups and that the borders between them cannot always be delimitated clearly, I will argue that while the first group would probably be more properly included in the study of postmodernism or metafiction proper, the other is more closely related to the modern non-mimetic genres and that its discussion should supplement a comprehensive study of contemporary non-mimetic literature. The term “metafictional non-mimetic literature” will from now on be used to refer to this heterogeneous class of works. The texts in question will, to varying degrees, be characterised by such metafictional elements as intertextuality, genre transgression and the playful nature of the narratives. All of these elements, however, will not result in the ultimate destruction of the coherence of the textual universe and intratextual illusion.7 The worlds of contemporary metafictional nonmimetic fiction—no matter how improbable or artificial they might seem—will retain some internal coherence that will enable them, at least to some extent, to be read in the way the worlds of more traditional nonmimetic literature are. The two most obvious examples of such writings are probably the Discworld cycle by Terry Pratchett and the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde. I will briefly discuss here the latter which—largely due to its 7

The distinction made here between texts in which intratextual illusion/coherence of the presented world is completely broken and those in which it is relatively preserved roughly corresponds to the opposition between overt and covert metafiction as introduced by Hutcheon (22-35), or the one between explicit and implicit metafiction as suggested by Werner Wolf (228-229).

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specific use of intertextual motifs—appears as an especially spectacular venture into the meta-fictional mode while retaining the basic characteristics of a contemporary popular non-mimetic work.8 The series that is most up to date comprises seven novels—The Eyre Affair (2001), Lost in a Good Book (2002), The Well of Lost Plots (2003), Something Rotten (2004), First Among Sequels (2007), One of our Thursdays is Missing (2011) and The Woman Who Died a Lot (2012). The series is popularly referred to as “alternate history novels” or “comic fantasy”.9 Additionally, the first paragraphs of The Eyre Affair signal the science-fiction genre convention by introducing the popular motif of time travel: “My father had a face that could stop a clock. I don’t mean that he was ugly or anything; it was a phrase the ChronoGuard used to describe someone who had the power to reduce time to an ultra-slow trickle. Dad had been a colonel in the ChronoGuard” (1). As the story develops, at first glance the cycle appears to be a rather unusual alternate history. The action of the first book is set in an alternative England in the year 1985. There is no United Kingdom (England borders to the west with the socialist Republic of Wales), and England is a republic that is still in the Crimean War with Tsarist Russia. This reality, however, does not constitute a certain creative and fantastical but otherwise coherent, logical and cognitive model based on rational extrapolation in a way that is characteristic of typical uchronias. Neither does it attempt to simulate the feeling of the verisimilitude that is generally essential in exomimetic literature. Instead, it can be described as a literary patchwork composed of many diverse elements that are selected due to their attractiveness rather than mutual compatibility. This is the world where genetic engineering has brought back to life the dodo bird and the Neanderthal, a world inhabited 8

Another interesting case of metafictional literature can be found in the works of Andrzej Sapkowski, usually labelled as the most outstanding Polish fantasy writer. Some of his prose—especially the first two volumes of the “WiedĨmin” (“Witcher”) stories, i.e. Ostatnie Īyczenie; 1993 (trans. into English as The Last Wish: Introducing the Witcher, 2008), and Miecz przeznaczenia; 1993, include strong elements of a literary game and, to a large extent, provide a sort of commentary on traditional fairy-tale and SWF motifs. 9 See, for example, “Thursday Next” (entry) in Wikipedia, cited here as a proxy vox populi again. It is, perhaps, not incidental that works that could be associated with non-mimetic metafictional literature as delineated in this chapter are often labelled “comic fantasy” (another contemporary work that, arguably, might fit into this category is Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series; comic elements are also important in Sapkowski’s works, but they do not become as dominating there), as the “playful nature of narrative” seems to be inherently inscribed in this type of literature.

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by vampires and villains equipped with supernatural abilities, a world in which reality constantly shifts due to unauthorised time travel. The heterogeneity of this world is well reflected in the list of SpecOps departments—special government police forces established to “handle duties considered either too unusual or too specialized to be tackled by the regular force” (The Eyre Affair 1). There is SpecOps 2 that deals with weirder stuff, SpecsOps 3 that deals with alternate universe travel, SpecOps 5 that chases supervillains, SpecOps 12—the Chronoguard, an office for Special Temporal Stability, SpecOps 13 that polices illegal gene sequencing and hunts down various chimeras, SpecOps 17—Suckers & Biters, the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operation, or SpecOps 27— Literary Detectives dealing with forged and stolen manuscripts and crimes related to literature in general. The construction of this world is clearly not based on some type of a creative relation to the empirical reality, but rather on a relation to various literary motifs and conventions that are primarily connected with popular genres of non-mimetic fiction. We can easily find there elements of SF, fantasy, the gothic novel, the detective story, thriller and many other genres, including evident traces of the postmodern novel. To decode and enjoy the texts fully the reader has to, in the first place, recognise literary conventions and motifs the author plays with. The themes of literature and literariness are constantly suggested in many different ways and on many various levels by the text. Thursday Next novels are also exceptional, even in comparison with other works that might be described as non-mimetic metaconventional literature (such as Pratchett’s or Sapkowski’s novels), as they put the postmodern notion of intertextualism to a very (in a manner of speaking) literary and adventurous extreme—owing to a miraculous invention the protagonists are able to actually enter the fictional worlds and move between them. A large portion of The Eyre Affair takes place in the fictional world of Charlotte Brontë’s original novel, and the protagonists even manage to alter the (presumably) original course of the events in the book (it is suggested to have ended unhappily) into the one that we know from Brontë’s actual text, in which Rochester and Jane reunite. In the subsequent volumes the protagonist visits several other novels and broadens her knowledge of the BookWorld. In fact, there exists a sort of intertextual government that takes care of everything that takes place in particular texts as well as an intertextual policing force which Thursday Next joins in the course of the narration. It is perhaps surprising that, taking into account this highly imaginative play with plots and motifs as well as the (variously suggested) literariness

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and intertextuality of the cycle, it still seems to preserve intratextual illusion. The relative coherence and solidity of the fictional reality (in comparison to truly metafictional works in the vein of, for example, John Fowles’s Mantissa, 1982 or John Barth’s The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor, 1991) may largely result from the fact that the narration, twisted and unconventional as it is, ultimately relies on two elements which are developed in an analogous way as in more conventional nonmimetic fiction—the plot and the characters. The plot in the whole cycle, largely driven by adventure, romance, mystery and other motifs that are typical of popular non-mimetic fiction, despite its patchwork-like design remains, is, on its own terms, coherent, causative and logical. The characters in the books, in contradistinction to the characters of postmodern metafiction, which often reveal their own elusiveness, are as solid and clearly defined (and also easy to identify with for the reader) as in any other modern non-mimetic work. Additionally, the intertextuality is applied in the series in a way that it does not, apparently, breach fictional reality but is, instead, incorporated to become an integral part of it. Various literary and intertextual motifs paradoxically extend and enrich the world of Thursday Next, validating it rather than rendering it incredible or exposing its artificiality. Fforde’s cycle well illustrates the very concept of non-mimetic metaconventional literature as introduced in this chapter; the ways in which a non-mimetic text may draw on metafictional or postmodern elements while retaining the traditionally described internal coherence of fictional reality. Obviously, the issue of the mutual relationship between contemporary non-mimetic genres and postmodernism is a much vaster one, and many interesting phenomena of both cultural and strictly literarytheoretical (or genological) import still await proper research here.

CONCLUSIONS

In the preceding chapters I have attempted to apply Andrzej Zgorzelski’s model of supragenological types of fiction to a more detailed description of contemporary non-mimetic literature. The characteristics of each of the four, principal non-mimetic types as well as the most typical strategies of the “fantastic” world-making that was adopted by them have been analysed on a sufficiently broad range of texts. Some more specific generic categories have also been suggested and initially described in conformity with the adopted methodology: science fiction, secondary world fantasy, science fantasy, dystopia and uchronia within exomimetic literature; the contemporary1 magical novel, the contemporary speculative novel and historical fantasy within antimimetic literature; contemporary metaphorical fantastic novel and horror within fantastic literature, or animal fantasy within paramimetic literature. These genres (as well as other possible ones) are, as has already been noted, to be understood as certain generalised tendencies rather than convenient labels used for classification. I will argue, nevertheless, that the categories I have approximated manifest themselves rather clearly in the literary historical process. They are also relatively well discernible and describable in structural terms. On the other hand, it should be remarked that in several cases (for example, the contemporary magical novel or the contemporary speculative novel) they probably cannot be viewed as genres in the sociohistorical sense as they have not been recognised in the contemporary literary consciousness and, consequently, have not been able to enter the traditional genre hierarchy (see Chapter One, note 3). Also, I prefer to speak of some of them as merely potential genres, as their respective genological statuses would have to be confirmed by more thorough research. Nevertheless, despite their being largely constructs of the observer, they still demonstrate quite efficiently the usefulness of the referential pattern that is applied. Obviously the results of my present discussion do not amount to an 1

The use of the word “contemporary” suggests here (and also in the other antimimetic and fantastic generic categories proposed in this book) setting the plot in initially mimetic “contemporary” surroundings as well as considerable affinities to contemporary mimetic conventions.

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elaborate and fully systematic taxonomy, as they are affected, among other things, by the limited scope of this, by definition, preliminary research and, admittedly, the author’s own background and experience as both a reader and researcher of “fantastic” fiction, which is, naturally, also limited. I realise that many interesting literary phenomena have been treated rather superficially, whereas some others have, perhaps, been altogether ignored. Yet I hope that my discussion has nevertheless provided a new outlook on issues connected with the taxonomy of nonmimetic literature as well as on the intricacies of “fantastic” world-making in contemporary literature in general. It is clearly visible that the supragenological types offer a considerably different taxonomical approach than many of the prevailing perceptions. By way of example, texts that are often indiscriminately labelled as “fantasy” here fall into four distinct supragenological categories (although statistically most of the books that are today marketed as “fantasy” probably belong to either exomimetic SWF or the antimimetic contemporary magical novel) and, in fact, possibly represent several distinct genres. At the same time, both science fiction and one of the “fantasy” genres, i.e. secondary world fantasy, are perceived as genres within the exomimetic type of literature, and thus their special affinity is emphasised.2 Dystopia and uchronia have been initially delimitated as other possible genres of their own within the same exomimetic type, rather than simply thematic variants of SF. The distinction between antimimetic and fantastic “contemporary” fantasies (as described in Chapters Five and Six, respectively), usually categorised as the same group, has also been drawn. The discrepancies between many popular taxonomical perceptions and the model proposed in this book are largely accounted for by the fact that the former usually rely on (as they are bound to) strictly commonsensical and primarily thematic criteria (such as the presence of certain characteristic 2

Making a more personal observation—it never appealed to me (as, probably, to many other readers) to perceive the generic distance between, for example, The Left Hand of Darkness and A Wizard of Earthsea as greater than the distance between any of these novels and Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or Jonathan Carroll’s Bones of the Moon. In fact, I believe, it is exactly the other way around: being considerably speculative texts, A Wizard of Earthsea and The Left Hand of Darkness have much more in common with each other (and this is not merely because they have been written by the same author; we can substitute any sophisticated contemporary secondary world fantasy novel for the first and any “otherworldly” science fiction novel for the latter, and the result will still be very much the same) than with the two remaining books.

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elements; for example, it is sufficient for a contemporary text to include some “magical motifs” to be classified as “fantasy” in common opinion), whereas the latter on a set of more specific structural determinants. In the case of more literary-critical or theoretical treatments of the subject it would be rather obvious to state that taxonomies based on different methodological premises are bound to differ as well. Nevertheless, it seems that on several occasions crucial affinities between the model used in this study and other theoretical systems (notably those of Jackson, Mendlesohn and Horstkotte) have been revealed. If all the systems in question are not quite mutually compatible (again, as they are bound not to be, since they serve different purposes), the categories they introduce appear to be—to a considerable extent—“translatable” or, at least, they frequently help delimitate analogous classes of texts. This might validate the existence of certain literary phenomena which can be effectively approximated from different methodological positions. Naturally, no model can be perceived as completely self-sufficient in the modern world of polysemic practices (compare Mendlesohn xv). The approach presented in this study is only one of a multitude of possible ways to discuss non-mimetic or “fantastic” literature which depend on, as has already been noted, the researcher’s methodology, his/her agenda or the ideological filter that is applied. Yet, supragenological types of fiction prove to be an interesting taxonomical tool. The concept seems to help one see contemporary nonmimetic/“fantastic” literature from new angles and to notice certain relationships that are often overlooked. It seems to have two, at least, unquestionable advantages. First, it describes the mode of the creation of the fictional universe and its relationship to mimetic reality with greater complexity and precision than in many of the traditional taxonomical systems (especially those relying on a simple “realistic” vs. “nonrealistic”/“fantastic” dichotomy). Second, it can conveniently be applied to the description of all non-mimetic literature in all of its richness and diversity being, in a way, a comprehensive and “technical” rather than ideological tool (which, naturally, may be perceived as a drawback rather than advantage by several researchers; see, for example Jackson’s critique of Todorov; Jackson 61) because it does not focus on certain classes of texts at the cost of others. This said, it must also be remembered that this is merely a certain referential pattern whose objective is not to classify texts but rather to grasp and generalise certain tendencies that govern “fantastic” world-making as well as the evolution of non-mimetic genres. It is also worth emphasising at this point that modern genres of non-mimetic literature do not evolve in isolation, but rather constantly interact with one

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another. The outcome is a huge number of texts that do not only exhibit traits of various genre conventions, but also traits of diverse supragenological types of literature. And it is in this vast “borderline”— comprising various hybrid forms—that most interesting (and, frequently, most artistic) texts come into being. The basically structuralist notion of supragenological types may also enable one to make interesting observations of an extratextual (contextual) or cultural nature as the particular modes are most probably strictly connected with certain distinct cognitive strategies and artistic approaches. Even this preliminary discussion suggests, for example, that the exomimetic mode is the most speculative and intellectually engaging one (and also deals with the most serious subject matter, as the innovative and inspiring world models help elaborate on various ontological, metaphysical, philosophical, social, scientific or ethical issues), whereas the antimimetic tends to produce more ludic, entertaining and conventional (although in some respects still artistic) texts. The fantastic mode is most closely related with the surreal, the oneiric and the pathological and, at the same time, creates the most heterogeneous and convention-breaching texts. Many contemporary fantastic works are also remarkably metaphorical, and their meanings and messages are extremely ambiguous, confusing and multivocal in comparison with the relatively straightforward and clear meanings and messages of other types of non-mimetic literature. The paramimetic mode, finally, is most directly rooted in the empirical experience (as its texts come into being in a reaction to some extra-textual stimuli) and often operates with didacticism and satire. These are, again, only certain generalisations, as it would not be difficult to find within each of the categories texts that defy these observations. Nevertheless, it seems that exploring the relationship between the particular modes and the basic operations they employ (translating, correcting, confronting and speculating, respectively) on the one hand, and the cultural impulses that inspire them (as well as the cognitive strategies they exemplify and the artistic styles they apply) on the other hand, constitutes an especially significant subject for future research. Another interesting extratextual issue implied by the proposed taxonomy is the question of readership, which seems to be visibly distinct in the case of each supragenological type. Some initial observations can already be made at this stage; for example, exomimetic literature which, from a strictly historical and evolutionary point of view is the most advanced and radical form of non-mimetic writing also attracts, as has been suggested, the most distinct readership. It requires the most reading competence (meant as being aware of the conventions of the genre, its

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traditions and modes and, in the case of SF, additionally, a basic knowledge of the paradigms of modern science). The antimimetic and paramimetic fictions probably have a slightly wider readership and are less reluctantly accepted by “mainstream” readers. This is because the former includes the mimetic model, which is easily recognised by the common reader and often uses conventions that are analogous to those prevailing in modern mimetic prose, whereas the latter relates, in a relatively direct and unobtrusive way, to the contemporary empirical context. Finally, fantastic fiction (with the exception of contemporary horror, which appears as rather conventional “genre” fiction) appeals to a more sophisticated “mainstream” reading public and its texts are frequently labelled as “postmodern” rather than fantastic. The preliminary discussion is by no means exhaustive and, obviously, needs to be supplemented with more specific treatments of particular genres/classes of texts—perhaps also in a broader cultural rather than strictly genological context. However, if at least some of the major fields of taxonomical interest have been defined and some of the unmapped territories of contemporary non-mimetic literature have been marked, then I hope this attempt is well justified.

APPENDIX GENOLOGICAL CATEGORIES OF CONTEMPORARY NON-MIMETIC LITERATURE

The purpose of this provisional list is to summarise, in a possibly ordered and systematic (and at the same time concise) way, the genological proposals presented in the study, as well as to give—at a quick glance—a general idea as to which texts could be placed in which of the categories. Obviously, the list includes only a few representatives of the multitude of possible examples. Admittedly, some of the categories at hand have been given considerably more attention than others. This is not only because of their perceived significance for contemporary nonmimetic literature, but also due to the fact that research materials are relatively more available for these categories. The list has also unavoidably been affected by the author’s previous research studies, which up until now have focused mainly on the genre of secondary world fantasy. Thus I feel it necessary to emphasise once more that my proposals are too fragmentary at this stage to constitute a full-fledged taxonomy— they should be rather viewed as simply a convenient way of illustrating the potential usefulness of the referential pattern that is applied in this book. The list attempts to give a synchronic overview of contemporary nonmimetic literature, which has been in the centre of my attention, and therefore it excludes more historical categories. A comprehensive diachronic diagram exhibiting the evolution of non-mimetic genres within particular supragenological types would be an extremely interesting addition to any genological discussion of the subject, yet it has to be preceded by more thorough historical research. All of the non-mimetic categories that I am prone to (albeit sometimes rather tentatively) confer an independent genre status have been italicised. They are, as has been pointed out on several occasions, to be understood merely as certain generalised tendencies or convenient constructs helping one to better perceive the intricacies of non-mimetic world-making rather than as stiff labels used for classification. Obviously, the issue is by no

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means exhausted and the list may probably be considerably extended or revised in the future because, undoubtedly, contemporary non-mimetic literature in all of its richness and diversity, contains many more interesting literary phenomena.

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I. Exomimetic Literature The Science Fiction Genre Convention SF is approximated here as an exomimetic genre (that is, presenting a unified world order) which is specifically characterised by: —presentation of diverse technological/scientific motifs —setting the plot in a world that preserves at least fragmentary spatial or chronological equivalents of the mimetic reality —introducing a set of physical laws that either conform to physical laws of the empirical reality or are intentionally suggested to be their direct extension or extrapolation —presentation (or, at least hinting or suggesting) of the dimension of cosmic space. These are core or primary generic features; it is acknowledged here that secondary generic features such as, by way of example, the predominating thematic content, particular cognitive ambitions (or their lack), specific narrative strategies, the use of specific conventions in shaping the plot, characters and language, the texts’ axiology, etc… exhibit extreme variability when we look at the genre of SF from a broader diachronic perspective and take into consideration all of its variants or “subgenres”. In other words, it is virtually impossible to find a common framework for all science-fictional works outside the relatively general and, in a manner of speaking, “technical” set of primary features as specified above. This is why, in my opinion, all definitions based on the thematic content, ideology or cognitive merit of SF can never be truly comprehensive; in order to be effective they are always bound to exclude a large part of the genre (see also the introduction, note 7). SF is delimitated here more narrowly than in most traditional critical treatments (see the discussion in Chapter Four). Basically three main classes of texts traditionally labelled as SF are excluded: 1. Various historical works from the years 1900-1939 using presumably “scientific” motifs (but in considerably different ways than in later SF) which do not present a unified world order. This is a very diverse and heterogonous group encompassing various scientific romances and texts pursuing the tradition of utopia or early space operas. By way of example we might mention several writings by H. G. Wells (for example, The War of the Worlds, The Time Machine, etc.), Olaf Stapledon (Last and First Men) or E. E. Smith (the “Skylark” and “Lensman” series). See Zgorzelski, Fantastyka. Utopia. Science Fiction 102-147. 2. More contemporary texts which, despite the presence of often seriously

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treated scientific/technological motifs, represent, in fact, the antimimetic order (see the contemporary speculative novel). 3. Texts of contemporary dystopia and uchronia which have here been conferred an independent genre status. Even if we apply these exclusions, SF will probably still remain by far the most prolific and variable genre of contemporary non-mimetic fiction, and any sufficiently comprehensive list giving justice to SF’s richness and diversity would have to be published perhaps in the form of a separate volume. Therefore, only two short lists have been provided here. The first gives some examples of typical texts that are representative of the first genre variant of SF as described by Zgorzelski (which stabilised, according to the researcher, in the years 1938-1943), whereas the latter lists science-fictional works that have been mentioned or hinted to in this study (supplemented by several additional works to make it slightly more comprehensive). It is by no means representative but does reflect, to some extent, at least heterogeneity of the genre as it includes both hard and soft SF novels as well as contemporary space operas. SF—typical examples of the first genre variation: Isaac Asimov, “Foundation” Cycle Isaac Asimov, I, Robot Isaac Asimov, Nightfall John Blish, They Shall Have Stars Robert Heinlein, Blowups Happen Robert Heinlein, Let There Be Light Robert Heinlein, The Roads Must Roll A. E. Van Vogt, Destination: Universe SF texts mentioned in this study (supplemented with several additional titles): Brian Aldiss, Hothouse Brian Aldiss, Nonstop Alfred Bester, The Stars My Destination Lois McMaster Bujold, Miles Vorkosigan series Stepan Chapman, The Troika Arthur Clarke, The City and the Stars Edmund Cooper, The Cloud Walker

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Philip K Dick, Ubik Greg Egan, Schild’s Ladder C. S. Friedman, This Alien Shore William Gibson, Neuromancer Joe Haldeman, Forever War Frank Herbert, Dune Nancy Kress, Probability Moon Ursula Le Guin, Hain Trilogy Ursula Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness Stanisáaw Lem, Solaris C. C. MacApp, Recall not Earth George R. R. Martin, Dying of the Light Jack McDevitt, Infinity Beach Richard Morgan, Takeshi Kovacs trilogy Jahn Scalzi, The Ghost Brigades Dan Simmons, Hyperion Cantos Cordwainer Smith, The Rediscovery of Man Norman Spinrad, The Void Captain’s Tale Neal Stephenson, Snowcrash Bruce Sterling, Schismatrix Michael Swanwick, Stations of the Tide Sheri Tepper, Six Moon Dance James Tiptree, Jr, Star Songs of an Old Primate Jack Vance, The Space Pirate Jeff Vandermeer, Finch Ian Watson, Slow Birds and Other Stories David Webber, Honor Harrington series Kate Wilhelm, Where Late the Sweet Bird Sung Walter Jon Williams, Ambassador of Progress

The Secondary World Fantasy Genre Convention This exomimetic genre is characterised primarily by (primary generic or core features) setting the plot in a secondary quasi-medieval world of relatively closed spatial and temporal parameters at a low level of technological development but with magic which is openly present and functioning within the presented model of the universe. The following juxtaposition of historical genre variants and structurally describable subgenres of SWF is based on my study Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku.

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Proto SWF (the world model still not unified). Lord Dunsany, Idle Days on the Yann E. R. Eddison, The Worm Ouroboros H. P..Lovecraft, Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath Early Heroic Fantasy The first historical genre variant of SWF which stabilised in the works of Robert Howard and his imitators (in the 1930s-1940s), which is characterised primarily by: —focusing on the adventures of a barbarian warrior/hero who fights with other warriors, monsters and sorcerers —taking the basic structure of a short story/novella —subsequent creation of a loose superstructure of a novelistic cycle, linked mainly by the protagonist. Lin Carter, Throngor of Lemuria series Robert Howard, Conan series John Jakes, Brak the Barbarian series Henry Kuttner, Elak of Atlantis series Fritz Leiber, Fafhrd and Gray Mouser series C. L. Moore, Jiriel of Joiry series Epic Fantasy The second historical genre variant of SWF was invented largely by J. R. R. Tolkien and stabilised in the works of his imitators in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s. It is characterised primarily by: —shaping the narration with motifs of quest and war between good and evil fought on a transcendental/cosmic scale (the dual motif of quest and war) —a dualistic vision of the presented world with a clear division between light/good and dark/evil —taking the structure of a multi-volume and multi-plot novel of a closed narrative structure. Stephen Donaldson, The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever Davie Eddings, The Belgariad and The Malloreon

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Raymond Feist, Rift War Saga Terry Goodkind, The Sword of Truth Guy Gavriel Kay, Fionovar Tapestry Neil Hancock, Circle of Light J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Tad Williams, Memory, Sorrow and Thorn Fantasy of Initiation and Spiritual Transformation As an independent genre variant it functioned mainly from the 1960s to 1980s, although its elements were subsequently adopted by other variants of SWF. In its classical shape it focused on the central motif of the protagonist’s initiation and spiritual transformation, employed various psychological motifs (with less emphasised motifs of war and good/evil dualism than in epic fantasy) and took the structure of a one-volume and single-plot novel. Tanith Lee, Volkhavaar Tanith Lee, Winter Players Ursula K. Le Guin, Tombs of Atuan Ursula K. Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea Patricia McKillip, The Forgotten Beasts of Eld Andre Norton, Year of the Unicorn Later Heroic Fantasy An evolutionary form of traditional heroic fantasy which was considerably modified by the conventions of other subgenres of SWF (primarily those of epic fantasy). See Fantasy. Ewolucja gatunku, Chapter Two, section 3). David Gemmell, Legend David Gemmell, Quest for Lost Heroes Richard Morgan, A Land Fit for Heroes Michael Moorcock, Elrik of Melnibone series Michael Moorcock, Corum series

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Historical Epic Roman-Fleuve Fantasy This genre variant evolved in the 1990s from classic epic fantasy. It may be characterised by: —taking the shape of a multi-volume and multi-plot novel, more complex and expanded than epic fantasy and with a much more open narrative structure —presentation of a wide historical panorama (wars, political intrigues, social upheavals) of the presented world and focusing on the issues of philosophy of history —abandonment of a dualistic vision of the universe and replacement of the motif of the fight between good and evil with the presentation of a complex array of forces struggling for power —gradual reduction of elements connected with the tradition of myths, the fairy tale or the heroic epic; appearance of elements typical of a contemporary mimetic novel (especially the historical or war novel). Steven Erikson, The Malazan Book of the Fallen Robert Jordan, The Wheel of Time George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire Translation Fantasy A class of fantasy texts (that otherwise might be shaped in conformity with particular variants of SWF) in which the protagonist/s is transferred from a mimetic reality to a secondary world. The operation of the fantastic in some cases is strictly pre-textual and appears as an evolutionary relict (Witch World), but in other cases it is crucial for the text’s structure and meanings (The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever). Terry Brooks, Landover Stephen Donaldson, The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever Joyce Ballou Gregorian, The Broken Citadel Guy Gavriel Kay, Fionovar Tapestry Andre Norton, Witch World

The Science Fantasy Genre Convention The denomination of “science fantasy” is most universally used to describe a wide range of texts that exhibit elements of both SF and SWF.

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However, at this point I am referring exclusively to relatively recent texts which, while drawing on both respective genre conventions, at the same time transcend them by creating their own specific world model. They are also frequently (but not always) characterised by innovative narrative techniques (as those described by Farah Mendlesohn in her chapter on “immersive fantasy”; Rhetorics 60-113). The texts in question may mark an altogether new stage in the evolution of exomimetic fiction. K. J. Bishop, The Etched City C. S. Friedman, The Cold Fire Trilogy China Miéville, Perdido Street Station China Miéville, The Iron Council Felicity Savage, Humility Garden Felicity Savage, Delta City Steph Swainston, The Year of Our War Michael Swanwick, The Iron Dragon’s Daughter Gene Wolfe, The Book of the New Sun Gene Wolfe, The Urth of the New Sun

The Dystopia Genre Convention I am referring here to texts exhibiting certain specific structural features that make them considerably distinct from the SF convention (and also distinct from SF texts exploiting dystopian motifs). The distinguishing traits of the exomimetic genre of dystopia could be summarised as follows: —emphasis is put on descriptions of dangerous, frequently totalitarian social mechanisms —the protagonist’s role is rather passive; he/she is primarily shown as a victim of the oppressive system —axiology appears as nihilistic; no positive values can be effectively realised in the dystopian world model —spatial parameters are usually more closed than in SF and SWF, and the inability to breach one’s spatial restrictions is emphasised —the worlds of dystopia are drawn less fully in comparison with SF or SWF worlds; they are usually centred on the extrapolation of only some chosen aspects of social life whose amplification is often conducted at the cost of feeling the overall coherence and verisimilitude of the fictional universe. Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

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Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 Anthony Burgess, Clockwork Orange Aldous Huxley, Brave New World Lois Lowry, The Giver George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four Neal Shusterman, Unwind Scott Westerfeld, Uglies trilogy Janusz A. Zajdel, Paradyzja Yevgeny Zamyatin, We

The Uchronia (Alternative History) Genre Convention This exomimetic genre which constructs its universes by extrapolating on the “what if?” principle exists in two distinct variations. The classical variant of uchronia is deeply rooted in the utopian tradition and therefore shows much affinity with another (relatively) direct descendant of utopia—modern dystopia. It is characterised by a considerable interest in sociological and history-philosophical issues and a relative absence of fantastical elements. In its more radical version uchronia is much more fantastical; the set of physical laws does not mimic that of the empirical reality, and various “technological” or “magical” motifs appear. This variant is considerably influenced by SF and SWF conventions. Uchronia (“classical”) Kingsley Amis, Alteration Otto Basil, Wenn das der Führer wüsste! Philip K Dick, The Man in the High Castle Robert Harris, Fatherland Vladimir Nabokov, Ada or Ardor: the Family Chronicle Uchronia (“radical”) Orson Scott Card, The Tales of Alvin the Maker Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell Philip Pullman, Northern Lights aka The Golden Compass (the first volume of His Dark Materials).

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II. Antimimetic Literature The Contemporary Magical Novel (Contemporary Fantasy) Genre Convention This is an antimimetic genre in which the mimetic model of reality is extended by some magical dimension. The most essential traits of this genre which distinguish it from exomimetic and antimimetic fantasies but also from other antimimetic “magical” texts can be summarised as follows: —the texts introduce ordinary, mundane protagonists who are backgrounded against contemporary mimetic environments. Their daily lives are described quite typically for a contemporary mimetic novel until, usually accidentally, the hidden dimension of reality intrudes into their lives —elements of humour and romance are often included —while justifying the presence of magic and constructing their world models, the texts recall motifs from local/national mythologies and fairy tales —the plots of contemporary magical novels are often driven by a conflict with a powerful fantastical antagonist or antagonists whom the protagonists have to confront with more or less significant assistance of other, often also fantastical characters. The ensuing conflict is more of a local, in a manner of speaking, “private” nature than the cosmic struggles between good and evil in SWF —the plots rely on episodic mythopoeia and “unrationalised” magic —purely ludic, entertaining functions dominate (such as the creation of an adventurous plot). Subject matter is relatively less serious than in exomimetic (but also some other antimimetic) texts. Potential artistic qualities are connected mainly with more sophisticated and poetic use of language and a careful creation of moods —contemporary magical novels nearly always take the shape of a onevolume novel with a closed narrative structure. Paul Brandon, Swim the Moon Paul Brandon, The Wild Reel Emma Bull, War for the Oaks Stephen Dedman, The Art of Arrrow Cutting Stephen Dedman, Shadows Bite Neil Gaiman, American Gods

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Neil Gaiman, Anansi Boys Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere Simon R. Green, Drinking Midnight Wine Charles de Lint, Forests of the Heart Charles de Lint, The Little Country Charles de Lint, Moonheart China Miéville, King Rat

The Historical Fantasy (Historical Magical Novel) Genre Convention This class will include all texts pretending to re-create particular historical settings that are precisely specified both spatially and temporarily (in ways that are analogous to the mimetic historical novel), but at the same time extending them by an additional magical or supernatural dimension. Antimimetic historical fantasy is not to be confused with SWF works that either focus on the issues of philosophy of history or loosely model their secondary universes on some (usually more or less exotic) pseudohistorical settings (see Chapter Five, note 12). Marion Zimmer Bradley, Mists of Avalon Barry Hughart, Bridge of Birds Kij Jonson, The Fox Woman Kij Jonson, Fudoki Stephen Lawhead, Pendragon cycle Andrzej Sapkowski, Narreturn trilogy Gene Wolfe, Latro in the Mist Gene Wolfe, Soldier of Arete

Contemporary Speculative Novel Texts denominated here as contemporary speculative novels are usually labeled as SF (with which they have much in common); they represent, however, rather the antimimetic than exomimetic order. They can be simply described as texts in which fantastical scientific or technological motifs are backgrounded against mimetic environments.

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Greg Bear, Eon Greg Bear, The Forge of God Haruki Murakami, The Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World (“The Hardboiled Wonderland” part) Ursula K. Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven Robert J. Sawyer, The Terminal Experiment Dann Simmons, The Hollow Man Jose Carlos Somoza, Zig Zag Ian Watson, The Jonah Kit Examples of other notable antimimetic texts: Stephenie Meyer, Twilight Saga Jane K. Rowling, Harry Potter series Anna Rice, Interview with the Vampire Multi-universes This list included some of the most notable works presenting sophisticated models of multi-universes. The works in question are characterised by an antimimetic framework, but they also include exomimetic models within them. Clive Barker, Imajica Greg Bear, Songs of Earth and Power Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials Roger Zelazny, Chronicles of Amber

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III. Fantastic Literature The Horror Genre Convention This is the direct descendant of the gothic novel and the most clearly perceivable fantastic genre. While relying on the fantastic mode, horrors focus on evoking the feeling of fear, which constitutes the dominant element subordinating all other crucial elements of the text’s structures. Stephen King, Christine Stephen King, Insomnia Stephen King, It Stephen King, Pet Sematary Dean Koontz, Darkfall Dean Koontz, Dragon Tears Dean Koontz, Phantoms Peter Straub, Floating Dragon Peter Straub, Ghost Story Peter Straub, Julia

The Contemporary Convention

Metaphorical

Fantastic

Novel

Genre

A possible genre of fantastic literature that is mainly characterised by: —inherent instability of a fictional universe (the protagonists’ uncertainty about the ontological order of their reality as well as their own status is emphasised) —special interest in various metaphysical and psychological motifs —extensive use of postmodern, oneiric or surrealist techniques —the application of complex, confusing metaphors —ambiguity and multivocality of meanings —creative and imaginative use of language. Jonathan Carroll, Bones of the Moon Aleksander KoĞciów, Lecą Wieloryby Aleksander KoĞciów, PrzeproĞ Haruki Murakami, 1Q84 Haruki Murakami, After the Quake Haruki Murakami, Dance, Dance, Dance Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

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Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase Haruki Murakami, The Wind-up Bird Chronicle Examples of other notable contemporary fantastic works: Bradley Denton, Lunatics Jon Courtenay Grimwood, 9 Tail Fox Ken Grimwood, Replay M. John Harrison, The Course of Heart Megan Lindholm, Wizard of the Pidgeons Patrick O’Leary, Door Number Three William Browning Spencer, Resume with Monsters William Browning Spencer, Zod Wallop Peter Straub, lost boy lost girl

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IV. Paramimetic literature Allegorical paramimetic literature: C. S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia George Orwell, Animal Farm

Animal Fantasy (a semi-paramimetic genre convention) Richard Adams, Watership Down Garry Kilworth, Hunter’s Moon William Horwood, The Duncton Chronicles William Horwood, The Wolves of Time

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V. Metaconventional non-mimetic literature Jasper Fforde, Thursday Next series Stanisáaw Lem, The Star Diaries Andrzej Sapkowski, The Witcher Saga Terry Pratchett, Discworld series

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INDEX

Ackroyd, Peter, 40 Adams, Douglas, 160 Adams, Richard, 63, 153, 154, 183 Aiken, Joan, 53 Aldiss, Brian, 76-77, 88, 171 Alpers, Hans Joachim, 26, 92-93 Amis, Kingsley, 108, 177 Anthony, Piers, 22 Archell-Thompson, Pauline, 26, 118 Asimov, Isaac, 77, 83, 97, 171 Attebery, Brian, 20, 24-26, 27, 41, 50, 92, 131 Atwood, Margaret, 102, 177 Bacon, Francis, 74 Bailey, J. O., 75, 83 Baker, Sheridan, 76 Barker, Clive, 131, 133, 147, 150, 180 Barrie, James, 22 Barron, Neil, 75 Barth, John, 22, 25, 156, 162 Basil, Otto, 177 Bear, Greg, 130, 180 Beckford, William, 29, 39 Bester, Alfred, 47, 171 Bianga, Milena, 26, 118 Bishop, K. J., 52, 97, 176 Blaim, Artur, 2, 56 Blish, John, 171 Boyer, Robert H., 4, 27, 33, 36-39, 74, 113, 145 Bradbury, Ray, 25, 29, 102, 177 Bradley, Marion Zimmer, 125, 179 Brandon, Paul, 112, 114, 118, 178 Bretnor, Reginald, 76 Brooks, Terry, 176 Brunner, John, 52 Bujold, Lois McMaster, 77, 97, 171 Bull, Emma, 53, 65, 114, 178 Bulmer, Kenneth, 94

Burgess, Anthony, 74, 101, 102, 177 Burroughs, Edgar Rice, 92 Cabell, James Branch, 47 Campbell, John W., 76, 83, 103 Canary, Robert H., 76-77 Card, Orson Scott, 110, 117, 177 Carroll, Jonathan, 29, 31, 53, 65, 136-138, 140, 145, 164, 181 Carroll, Lewis, 22, 29, 31, 139, 164 Carter, Angela, 40 Carter, Lin, 22, 23, 27, 64, 71, 74, 89, 173 Carter, Paul A., 76 Chapman, Stepan, 97, 171 Chesterton, G. K., 39 Clareson, Thomas D., 75, 76, 83, 103 Clarke, Arthur, 77, 83, 97, 171 Clarke, Susanna, 53, 177 Clute, John, 32-33, 96 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 40 Cook, Glen, 83, 88, 119 Cooper, Edmund, 84, 171 Crowley, John, 53 Cudak, Romuald, 5 De Lint, Charles, 53, 114, 118, 119, 179 Dedman, Stephen, 65, 112, 114, 178 Denton, Bradley, 142, 182 Dick, Philip K., 108, 110, 172, 177 Donaldson, Stephen, 7, 22, 24, 31, 86, 89, 114, 119, 128, 135, 173, 175 Dukaj, Jacek, 85 Dunsany, Lord, 47, 126, 173 Eddings, David, 24, 89, 173 Eddison, E. R., 47, 71, 73, 173 Egan, Greg, 83, 172 Erikson, Steven, 82, 87, 89, 90, 124, 175

208 Feist, Raymond, 128, 174 Fforde, Jasper, 160, 162, 184 Fowles, John, 24, 40, 162 Franklin, Michael, 35 Fredericks, S. C., 19, 20, 49, 81, 82, 91 Friedman, C. S., 84, 94-96, 176 Fry, Northrop, 76 Gaiman, Neil, 16, 63, 112, 114, 119, 178-179 Garbowski, Christopher, 82 Gemmell, David, 174 Gernsback, Hugo, 75 Gibson, William, 107-108, 172 Godshalk, William L., 16, 47, 54 Goodkind, Terry, 89, 174 Grant, John, 31 Green, Simon R., 65, 112, 114, 179 Gregorian, Joyce Ballou, 127, 175 Grimwood, Jon Courtenay, 142, 182 Grimwood, Ken, 31, 65, 136, 141, 182 Gruszewska-Blaim, Ludmiáa, 2 Haldeman, Joe, 172 Hambly, Barbara, 83, 88, 119 Hancock, Neil, 174 Hand, Elizabeth, 53 Harris, Robert, 108, 177 Harrison, M. John, 53, 142, 182 Heinlein, Robert, 76, 77, 83, 97, 171 Herbert, Frank, 44, 172 Hoffman, E. T. A., 43 Holdstock, Robert, 53 Horstkotte, Martin, 20, 21, 45-46, 50, 54, 156-159, 165 Horwood, William, 63, 153, 154, 183 Howard, Robert, 22, 83, 89, 92, 173 Hughart, Barry, 179 Hume, Kathryn, 20, 24, 26, 33 Hutcheon, Linda, 156, 159 Hutchinson, Peter, 156 Huxley, Aldous, 71, 74, 100, 102, 177 Imhof, Rudiger, 156

Index Irwin, W. R., 19, 32, 41 Irwin, Robert, 39 Jackson, Rosemary, 2, 8, 9, 16, 20, 21, 23, 27, 41, 43-45, 62, 73, 142, 158, 159, 165 Jakes, John, 89, 173 Jones, Diana Wynne, 52 Jonson, Kij, 125, 179 Jordan, Robert, 114, 175 Joyce, Graham, 53 Kafka, Franz, 25, 43, 138, 139, 151, 181 Kay, Guvriel Guy, 71, 89, 124, 127, 175 Ketterer, David, 107 Kilworth, Gary, 153, 154, 183 King, Stephen, 147-149, 181 Knickerbocker, Dale, 156, 159 Knight, Damon, 14 Koontz, Dean, 147, 181 KoĞciów, Aleksander, 138-139, 140, 145, 181 Kress, Nancy, 172 Kuttner, Henry, 173 L’Engle, Madelaine, 117 Lawhead, Stephen, 125, 179 Le Guin, Ursula K., 7, 16, 22, 24, 31, 58, 63, 77, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 93, 99, 112, 114, 117, 119, 172, 174, 180 Leavitt, Martine, 52, 97 Lee, Tanith, 52, 89, 174 Leiber, Fritz, 44, 89, 173 Lem, Stanisáaw, 81, 155, 170, 184 Lessing, Doris, 29 Lewicka, Karolina, 80 Lewis, C. S., 44, 47, 51, 62, 135, 139, 151, 153, 183 LichaĔski, Jakub A., 20, 82 Lindholm, Megan, 53, 142, 182 Lovecraft, H. P., 53, 126, 147, 173 Lowry, Lois, 102, 177 Lynn, Ruth Nadelman, 23, 35 MacApp, C. C., 77, 172 Machen, Arthur, 39

Worlds So Strange and Diverse Mallory, Thomas, 22, 29 Manlove, Colin, 4, 15, 19, 20, 3840, 64, 74, 119 Márquez, Gabriel Garcia, 22, 29 Martin, George R. R., 90, 124, 172, 175 Martin, Philip, 73, 80, 81 Matthews, Richard, 20 Mayne, William, 53 McDevitt, Jack, 77, 83, 172 McHale, Brian, 67, 157, 158, 159 McKillip, Patricia, 63, 88, 112, 114, 119, 174 Meacham, Beth, 35 Mendlesohn, Farah, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 17, 20, 22, 31, 41, 49-53, 54, 59, 62, 72, 73, 79, 94, 96, 97, 99, 111, 113, 115, 116, 120, 127, 142, 165, 176 Merla, Patrick, 23 Meyer, Stephenie, 112, 122, 180 Miéville, China, 97, 114, 176, 179 Milton, John, 22, 29 Mobley, Jane, 23, 33 Moorcock, Michael, 128-129, 174 Moore, C. L., 173 More, Thomas, 73, 100 Morgan, Richard, 7, 87, 88, 90, 105106, 107-108, 120, 174 Morris, William, 29, 31, 44, 74 Murakami, Haruki, 29, 65, 136, 138, 139-140, 141, 145, 180, 181, 182 Nabokov, Vladimir, 108, 177 Nicholls, Paul, 33 Norton, Andre, 63, 86, 89, 93, 112, 127, 135, 174, 175 O’Leary, Patrick, 142, 182 Olsen, Lance, 157 OlszaĔski, Tadeusz, 83 Orwell, George, 39, 62, 71, 74, 101, 102, 151, 177, 183 Ostaszewska, Dorota, 5 Oziewicz, Marek, 2, 8, 16, 19, 20, 24, 25, 26, 117, Parrinder, Patrick, 75 Perkins, George, 76

209

Pisarska, Katarzyna, 85 Pratchett, Terry, 24, 39, 40, 52, 53, 160, 161, 184 Pullman, Philip, 130, 131, 176, 179 Rabkin, Eric, 19, 21, 27, 41, 57, 76, 77 Radcliffe, Anne, 53 Resnick, Mike, 63, 112 Rice, Anna, 123, 180 Rowling, J. K., 63, 112, 180 Rushdie, Salman, 22, 29 Sapkowski, Andrzej, 14, 160, 161, 179, 184 Savage, Felicity, 97, 176 Sawyer, Robert J., 123, 180 Scalzi, John, 172 Schlobin, Roger, 27, 33 Scholes, Robert, 2, 26, 33, 35, 57, 59, 143, 156 Searless, Baird, 35 Shakespeare, William, 21 Shippey, T. A., 26, 82 Shusterman, Neal, 102, 177 Simmons, Dan, 78, 83, 97, 99, 105106, 123, 172, 180 Smith, Clarke Ashton, 92 Smith, Cordwainer, 172 Smith, E. E., 170 Somoza, Jose Carlos, 180 Spencer, William Browning, 142, 182 Spinrad, Norman, 172 Stapledon, Olaf, 47, 170 Stawicki, Mariusz, 26, 118 Stephenson, Neal, 107-108, 172 Stewart, Sean, 97 Stoker, Bram, 53, 123 Stonehill, Brian, 156 Straub, Peter, 142, 147, 150, 181, 182 Suvin, Darko, 3, 7, 16, 48-49, 54, 75, 76, 77-78, 81, 90, 109, 157 Swainston, Steph, 52, 97, 176 Swanwick, Michael, 52, 84, 95-96, 97, 172, 176 Swift, Jonathan, 22, 74

210 Tepper, Sheri, 172 Thurber, James, 53 Tiptree, James Jr., 172 Todorov, Tzvetan, 8, 9, 16, 19, 21, 27, 41, 42-43, 45, 46, 51, 54, 57, 140, 142, 146, 157, 158, 165, Tolkien, John Ronald Rouel, 7, 16, 22, 24, 29, 31, 44, 47, 51, 53, 58, 62, 63, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 112, 114, 119, 153, 173, 174 TrĊbicki, Grzegorz, 7, 30, 37, 44, 49, 63, 66, 70, 79, 84, 90, 91, 105, 112, 117, 118, 120 Trocha, Bogdan, 117 Tymn, Marshall, 4, 27, 33, 36-38, 44, 64, 74, 113, 145 Vance, Jack, 77, 172 Vandermeer, Jeff, 97, 172 Vonnegut, Kurt, 47, 156 Waggoner, Diana, 27 Walker, Jeanne Murray, 26, 118 Watson, Ian, 77, 78, 123, 172, 180 Webber, David, 77, 172 Wells, H. G., 74, 170 Westerfeld, Scott, 102, 177

Index WĊgrodzka, Jadwiga, 155 Wilde, Oscar, 22 Wilhelm, Kate, 84, 172 Williams, Charles, 39 Williams, Tad, 89, 114, 174 Williams, Walter Jon, 172 Wolf, Werner, 159 Wolfe, Gary K., 13-14, 15, 27, 28, 31, 50, 75, 76, 106, 108, 109, 146 Wolfe, Gene, 125, 176 Yuan, Yuan, 157 Zahorski, Kenneth, 4, 27, 33, 36-38, 44, 64, 74, 113, 145 Zajdel, Janusz, 104, 177 Zamyatin, Yevgeny, 177 Zelazny, Roger, 130, 133, 180 Zgorzelski, Andrzej, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 9, 12, 13, 17, 18, 21, 29, 30, 33, 34, 39, 46, 50, 51, 56-63, 66, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 86, 87, 88, 90, 94, 96, 97, 99, 100101, 111, 117, 123, 135, 138, 140, 142, 151, 155, 156, 163, 170, 171