Orcs: Fantasy Race and Pseudo-Racial Slur

Trigger Warning: This contains frequent discussion of racist slurs used against African Americans (out of respect I refuse to spell the words out)

                
          After reading her Dreamblood Duology, I have finally begun to read NK Jemisin’s Inheritance Trilogy and plan to read her newest book, The Fifth Season shortly. NK Jemisin, a black female author, is a much-needed voice in a genre dominated by white male authors such as George GG Martin or JR Tolkein writing Eurocentric fantasy worlds. In contrast, she gives priority to people of color and other minorities overlooked or oppressed within the genre and embeds them in cultures outside the trope of pseudo-medieval European worlds. Whereas I find such fictional writing of hers entertaining, I find her critical writing enlightening.  One of my favorite articles she wrote is “The Unbearable Baggage of Orcing” wherein she deconstructs what these generic fantasy foes represent in the real world and why they are morally problematic for the fantasy genre. 
          

          Tolkein is (in)famously responsible for providing the foundation of the traditional fantasy setting populated by fantasy races adapted from European mythology and folklore such as dragons, elves and dwarves. Orcs have a more complex geneology behind them, being a sort of demonic elf, but have become as recognizable as the other aforementioned races to anyone familiar with the fantasy genre. In Jemisin's analysis, orcs are “creatures that look like people, but aren’t really. Kinda-sorta-people, who aren’t worthy of even the most basic moral considerations, like the right to exist. Only way to deal with them is to control them utterly a la slavery, or wipe them all out.” The only way to confront orcs is to have them “mowed down, usually on sight and sans negotiation, by Our Heroes. Orcs are human beings who can be slaughtered without conscience or apology.” They are inherently evil and therefore necessarily unworthy of our attention, but our intent to destroy them. And yet it’s the orcs themselves who are considered evil? Funny that.

         

          If this sounds to you like the way in which people of color have been routinely represented as sub-human by white supremacists and imperialists throughout history, then you are not alone. It is the same conclusion that Jemisin reaches at the end of the article and is the reason that she is uninterested in the inclusion of orcs in her writing. If you fail to see this connection then you probably white, and are blinded by the distance your whiteness privileges you with. I have written about the conservative and racist tendencies in the fantasy genre before, devoting specific attention to Tolkein and orcs. Rather than repeat that essay, I want to offer an analogy that I think is helpful to conceptualizing how creatures such as orcs can nevertheless be offensive despite their being imaginary.
         

          Think of the term “orc” as a racist slur like the N-word is in the United States. Russian writer Yisroel Markov did exactly that in his fantasy parody of Tolkein, The Last Ring-Bearer. Taking place in Middle Earth after the events of The Lord of the Rings books, Markov puts us in the perspective of Mordor and the “dark forces” of Sauron. The book is written as a revisionist history of the events portrayed in Tolkein’s original works, rewriting much of what we consider to be canon in the history of Middle-Earth if not the fantasy genre in general. One of my favorite revisions is his depiction of orcs: rather than referring to corrupted sub-human monsters, Markov reinvents the term as a racist slur used against the Orocuen, a race of foreign men. In this way, Markov makes explicit within his writing the way in which “orc” is read as a dehumanization of foreign and “primitive” peoples of color. His orcs are just men who have been labeled as monsters by the imperialists intent upon the collapse of Mordor's scientific and independent culture.

          Now substitute “orc” for the N-word and think through the implications this has. Orcs are dirty, impoverished, violent primitives.  They are dark skinned and ape-like, less intelligent than humans but possessed of animalistic strength. They are short-lived but breed in great numbers and probably inhabit inhospitable regions such as deserts or jungles. This description of orc is congruent with the racist caricature of African Americans that the N-word may convey when used as a term of derision. Look at the way in which African Americans have been depicting in racist art; the imagery of grotesque black-skinned ape-men are common-place and hardly a far-cry from the appearance of Tolkein-esque orcs. Also keep in mind that the humans doing the orc-slaying are probably all white pseudo-Europeans with noble souls blessed by destiny of the gods to justify such slaughter. That sounds hauntingly familiar as well. 
          

          Orcs are a convenient way to represent peoples of color as sub-human without appearing guilty of doing so. Because one cannot be guilty of dehumanization if the person in question is not even human at all, can they? This reminds me of a racist comment I once overheard on my university campus in response to accusations of anti-Semitism: “its not racist if Jews are not human to begin with.” A disgusting rationalization, but a convenient one nevertheless; racism appears to provide its own rationalized excuse and fantastical racism has the added benefit of well, fantastical. The caricature of a n***er is offensive because it deals with actual African Americans, while the description of an orc is apparently inoffensive because orcs are not real at all. But this misses the point. People do believe in real “orcs”, they just refer to them using the N-word instead.

          

          Orcs and the black-faces of minstrel-shows are both offensive fantasies that pervert the beauty and diversity of black bodies and cultures. The only apparent difference between the two mockeries if that the the minstrel-show is intended to be a reflection of reality in a way that the former is not. But representation is more critical than intention; one can be offensive without intending to be racist or believing that a monstrous example of racism is true. One doesn’t have to internalize a racist joke into a sincere belief to find it amusing, but one’s amusement is likely to be interpreted as nevertheless offensive to those it portrays. I don’t believe that simply because one enjoys reading a book about orc-slaying one is unconsciously fantasizing about the genocide of Africans just as I don’t think one is a necessarily a white supremacist simply because one possesses privileges associated with being white. The problem is when such privileges and their associations to power structures remain unacknowledged and unchallenged; by failing to critique the symbols of systematic oppression we only reinforce its status-quo they are invested in.
          

          By focusing our attention upon the intentions of white writers we ignore the way in which their works are received by black audiences as offensive. And by responding to such black critics with accusations of reverse racism or over-sensitivity is absurd in the case of the former and ironically indifferent in the case of the latter. Such responses would perhaps be legitimate if black people and other peoples of color were not so routinely forced to live their lives as if they were orcs, as something sub-human, something other to be feared and suppressed like wild animals. For people born of white privilege, orcs are a mere fantasy while for people of color it may be a lived reality of oppression and institutional violence. The way in which fantasy narratives not only reflect but justify such violence is likely to only appeal to those ignorant of their privilege or invested in it. 

One could, and many authors do, write worlds with metaphysics that justify wanton slaughter because the victims' being is inherently evil and antithetical to the order of existence. But that sort of narrative is exactly the same which racists construct in their own conscience to rationalize their bigotry. If the fantasy genre is to mature beyond criticisms of irresponsible escapism, let alone sexism or racism, it must transcend moral alignment based upon mere racial or cultural affiliation alone. Our world is not benefited by such dishonest moral simplicity and it is a waste to indulge in such delusional literature. I don’t have any interest in such childishly violent fantasies or their parallels in reality; that is why I chose to read writers like NK Jemisin over Tolkein and why you should too. What we need is literature that looks beyond the moral stupidity of the orc trope. I at least want orcs that own up to the racist reflection which they are, orcs which are themselves victims of bigotry, rather than the rationalization of it. I await the day when "orc" is considered a dirty word in the history of the fantasy genre, and the product of a less tolerant, less diverse age of literature.   

Aliens, Art and Fan Appreciation

          Yesterday morning I awoke to two things. The first such thing being my newly adopted Chihuahua wiggling across my bed for her much needed morning affection. The second was a comment on a work I posted on my Deviant Art profile, “Alienietzsche,” from another profile by the name of “Squidnapper.” As I read the comment I realized that it was from none other than the author whose work inspired the drawing to begin with. Peter Watts, author of Blindsight, my favorite science fiction book and one of the best books in the genre, had not only discovered my amateur work online but actually appreciated it enough to request that it be added to his website. I was shocked and elated. I am a huge nerd but I keep it to myself mostly. I have never attended Blizz-Con, Comic-Con or E3, although I plan on going to at least one of them one of these days. I don’t attend book signings or readings or comment on author answer-and-question threads on Reddit. I'm too lazy, too shy and too unfocused. The extent of my introverted fandom is my few attempts at fan art on my Deviant Art page. I’ve never sought the attention of someone whose work I appreciate, however immensely. So to discover that one such someone had stumbled across my humble tribute and had given me small praise was nothing short of awesome. Today my drawing appeared in his post “A Young Squid’s Illustrated Primer” under “part the Second: Scramblers.” He had the following to say: "Last week’s ego-surf turned up this great little illustration from Deviant Artist “Alienietzsche“— whose vision of Blindsight‘s scramblers is perhaps the closest I’ve seen to the images that were floating around in my own head while I was writing about those crawly little guys. This is going straight into the Gallery, with thanks and with ol ‘Nietzsche’s blessing." 

          

          Peter Watts is a “hard” science fiction writer which is the primary reason that I really enjoy his work, especially Blindsight and its pseudo-sequel Echopraxia. The names of these two books are derived from scientific phenomenon, as is much of the Watts’ writing. Whereas other speculative fiction authors might provide an appendix for the sake of fleshing out their world-building, Watts provides an appendix to justify his speculation with actual scientific research and publications. Bonus points for promoting scientific literacy. Unlike many works of popular science fiction, Watts takes his science seriously (he is a marine biologist after all). He doesn’t treat it as a surface level aesthetic, merely importing the imagery of the genre, but puts in the effort to argue for its scientific legitimacy. Thanks to his prose, pained with cynical intellect, this degree of scientific accommodation never devolves into being a mere info-dump to the reader. And even though Watts tethers his writing to scientific research and review, it doesn’t appear to constrain the reach of his imagination. Forget del Toro’s The Strain or Cronin’s The Passage (but not really, they deserve to be read, especially the latter), Watts has created the most scientifically plausible and terrifying vampires in the genre. His short-story, "The Things" is a brilliant and disturbing re-imagining of John Carpenter's classic horror film The Thing from the perspective of the alien itself. I strongly recommend you check out his work and welcome you to check out my Deviant Art profile. I realize I haven't even discussed the titular aliens who inspired this series of events to begin with but I fear that any elaboration regarding them would compromise their alien uniqueness to the genre and the imagination. 

Jurassic World and the Extinction of Capitalism

Jurassic World is exactly what one would expect of the fourth installment in a film series revolving around the resurrection of dinosaurs: it is as loud, thrilling, stupid and awkward as the dinosaurs themselves are.  And the plot of the film is as entertaining as it is predictable. Set 20 years after the events of the original Jurassic Park, the dinosaur theme-park industry has finally become viable and successful. Ironically, it is so popular that the familiar dinosaurs no longer inspire inherent awe and fear. The dinosaur theme-park industry feels threatened by such fading wonder and paranoid with the possible loss of revenue. To support itself the theme-park turns to outside investors to fund its newest attractions: hybridized dinosaurs.  The first such commercialized hybrid, and the primary threat throughout the film, is the Indominus Rex: a hybrid of T-Rex and Velociraptor DNA created by Dr Henry Wu (BD Wong). Suffice to say that such a creature does not prove a commercial success, at least not for the entertainment industry.  The military industrial complex, on the other hand, is interested in its potential as a military asset. And Indominus isn’t the only dinosaur they are interested in weaponizing; Velociraptors are also in demand as counter-terrorism assault units. Velociraptor-handler Owen (Chris Pratt) and operational manager Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) unite together against both the escaped dinosaurs and the military industry out to exploit them as weapons.     

Jurassic World is a combination of sequel and reboot, in the same way that the iconic Indominus Rex is as much a new dinosaur as it is a hybrid of previous genetic strains. It repeats the same dinosaur-disaster-scenario of the original films but provides it with the rationale of contemporary political concerns over corporate manipulation and military exploitation. Both the film and the park itself appropriate elements of their former incarnations in order to derive greater profit from such rejuvenated nostalgia. Yet the film and the theme-park within the film build upon the success of what preceded it as much as they build over it, deliberately obscuring its origins out of anxiety over its absence of authenticity. The new Jurassic World theme-park is literally built upon the ruins of the old Jurassic Park and hidden behind walls from the public.  Lowery (Jake Johnson), one of the park control room operators, comes into work wearing a Jurassic Park t-shirt that he bought online out of nostalgia for the original park. He is then reprimanded by Claire for doing so with her claiming it was done in poor taste. Such is the internal conflict of the film: the oscillation and contradiction between respecting the authenticity of original creations and the commodification and manipulation of creations for profit. Jurassic World appears to endorse the former as a priority but this ideal is continually undermined throughout the film. Lowery came to the park out of the same nostalgia that attracts movie audiences to Jurassic World who are fond of the original Jurassic Park; but for both Lowery and the film audience, the encounter proves unfulfilling. 

Although both Jurassic World the film and Jurassic World the theme-park may be unfulfilling, at least the former is not unenlightening, devoid of critical insight. Viewed from the proper perspective and the disappointment of the film is its most critical asset. In order to appreciate the film, one must recognize the parallel between the film and the theme park that the film depicts. The most explicit signifier of the parallel between the film two is the title of the film itself; Jurassic World being both the title of the film and the name of the park within the film. Jurassic World merely appears to be another movie about dinosaurs, but it is actually a movie about movies about dinosaurs.  It is a criticism, albeit a conflicted one, about resurrecting beloved franchises, be they dinosaurs or films about dinosaurs, for profit. Jurassic World is fundamentally a film about corporate exploitation, not merely of nature, but of the film industry as well. The film is thoroughly self-conscious of itself not only as a film, but as a franchise film.  It frequently makes references which collapse the distinction between the escapist spectacles of the theme-park with that of the film industry itself. Underlying both is the same operating principle of deriving profit from consumers by capitalizing on nostalgia for past excitement made more spectacular. Whether contained within the screen of a theatre or the enclosure of a theme-park the spectacle is the same.

If viewed with a critical gaze, it becomes apparent that the film is an indictment of the block-buster film industry within the crisis of contemporary capitalism. Films are produced primarily to provide corporate revenue, and are hastily assembled from disparate appropriated elements of previously successful films in the hope that the familiar imagery of previous films will predict profit for the rest of the franchise. The film is as much homage to the originality of previous films as it is a criticism of attempts to exploit that originality through sequels. The reboot, unlike the sequel, clears away past plot-lines while appropriating the icons that made the previous films successful.  The audience is able to indulge in the product, insofar as they are capable of collective amnesia regarding past plot-lines they may have been invested in. Loyalty is to the brand alone, since it being divorced from any narrative context outside of its current presentation. For fans of both the film and the park, all that matters are the iconic dinosaur-commodities, with it apparently being best to forget the disastrous events preceding them. Yet it is this intentional ignorance of remembering the past as past that proves disastrous for both the film and park. Indominus was genetically engineered as a commodity to sustain the capitalist industry of the park. In similar fashion, the Jurassic franchise has intensified itself with each film in order to maintain relevance and commercial success. Not only do we want to live in a perpetual present, able to relive the past again and again, but we want it to be more spectacular with each incarnation, and this desire proves to be more disastrous as well.   

Lowery laments that people never learn, commenting on recurrence of dinosaur-related crises caused by capitalism. His statement not only addresses the corporate sponsors of the park, but those of the film itself. The partnership between the new theme-park and corporate sponsors undermines the integrity of the park’s original vision of being able to encounter dinosaurs with wonder, rather than greed.  If new dinosaurs are being sponsored by corporations, they might as well be named after them as well. Why not Pepsi-saurus or Doritos-don? After all, it’s already “Indominus Rex presented by Verizon”. Ironically, this criticism of corporate excess is contradicted throughout the movie as the audience endures product-placement for Mercedes-Benz, Starbucks, Pandora, Brookstone, Margaritaville, Beats by Dre headphones, and Coca-Cola. Yet such intrusions are doubly ironic for they remain consistent with Lowery’s complaint within the film, even if they prevent that message from resonating with the audience. Since the film takes place within a theme-park resorting to corporate sponsorship, it is only nature for such brands to be on constant display for the audience. The product placement of the film is a self-referential meta-joke whereby the movie is critical of itself. What appears to be merely an in-film advertisement that undermines the film, may actually be an arresting example of its message to the audience. 

Capitalism provides the realism for the film, situating us within a world we recognize as mediated through brand labels. And thereby does capitalism reinforce itself as the only economic reality we can relate to. The corporate sponsorship of the theme-park is as consistent as it is in conflict with the anti-corporate message of the film, but underlying both is the assumption that capitalism is the only economic reality conceivable to us, and criticism of it can only occur from within the horizon of capitalism itself. Jurassic World is awkwardly aware of itself, much in the way that the contemporary consumer is critical of capitalism but cannot conceive of the world as otherwise. Unable to conceive of a space outside of capitalism by which to criticize it and offer an alternative to it, the critic is only able to present criticism immanent to the commodity itself.  Unable to offer an alternative to capitalism, but unwilling to support it, the critic can only present their critique as a further commodity of the entertainment market. As Russell Brand notes, the film “plays on the anxieties that it’s creating and then sells those anxieties back to you in the form of a movie.” One cannot help but read the conflicted self-awareness of the film as reflecting the inner turmoil of the film-makers themselves.

Earlier in the film, the military security expect Vic Hoskins (Vincent D’Onofrio) attempts unsuccessfully to convince Owen Grady that the Velociraptors would be better served as military assets rather than entertainment animals.  Owen rebukes Vic, insisting that the Velociraptors are not mere commodities but are living things that have to be respected, not mastered. But once Indominus Rex escapes and is rampaging through the park, Owen and his raptors are forced to submit themselves to military oversight. Vic convinces Owen that the raptors will be made into military assets with or without his participation, and it would be better for Owen if he was there to lead them than stand idly by. In similar fashion, with or without director Trevorrow, the studio was going to make Jurassic World so as to produce profit for its shareholders. But rather than produce another failed franchise film, Trevorrow directed a film critical of the franchise industry despite being a franchise film itself. This reflects the contemporary conception of capitalism as a dominating totality that can only be criticized from within. Specifically such comodification is understood as inevitability; the best one can do in such circumstances is to produce ironic self-critical commodities since commodification as a whole is unavoidable and inevitable.  

The problem with such parodies of commodification, especially in film, is that they appear as authentic forms of dissent while obscuring the fact that they are actually mass commodities guilty of the most gratuitous forms of corporate branding. Despite the inescapable fact that Jurassic World is a franchise film sponsored by corporate interests, it can be credited with making this comedically explicit and condemning it. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the character of Lowery situated in the control room. Not only does the control room parallel a movie theatre with its massive screen, but Lowery even wears a fan-boy t-shirt and sips on a large soft-drink making him easily identifiable with an audience member of the film. Lowery’s frustration mirrors our own; he is attracted to the nostalgia of Jurassic Park just as we were with Jurassic Park, yet we are each cynical about the commercialization of its current form and feel powerless to see it collapse before us on screen. And just as Lowery is working for a company whose practices he detests, so too do we find ourselves responsible for the production of terrible franchise films because studios know they can exploit us into seeing them again and again by resurrecting the past for profit. The extent to which the audience is ruthlessly criticized in the movie will likely escape their awareness. The film asks us to reflect back upon ourselves and question the degeneration of the film industry and our responsibility for it. The joke is on us as members of the audience as the film accuses us of being at fault for movies like itself. Jurassic World was made to remind audiences that it should not have been made, that the original Jurassic Park should be preserved and not exploited and refashioned into some new hybrid form through excessive corporate investment.  

In Russell Brand’s review of the film he states that what fascinates him is that “Starbucks will pay big money to have a fake franchise outlet in a fake theme park, even though the theme park is a microcosm of man’s destructiveness, particularly as a result of capitalism.” This truly is fascinating.  Not only is a real corporation interested in product placement in an unrealistic film, but it maintains this interest despite the fact that the film is an obvious critique of the absurdity of such an investment. Corporations have become so consumed by profit, that they seek out product placement even in spaces which explicitly condemn them, and we have become so cynical regarding such corporate interests that we are willing to welcome in their dominating presence, if we are even conscious of it. If the theme park of Jurassic World is to be identified with the film of Jurassic World then the attendees of the former represent the audience of the latter. If Indominus Rex is the monstrous product of focus-groups as much as the film itself is, then we as members of the audience are implicated in both the disaster of the park and film. Not only do we want to indulge in the fantasy of seeing a dinosaur, on some level we want that fantasy to escape and run rampant, destroying the exploitative system that spawned it. Our fantasies cannot be contained in isolation, but will eventually escape and wreak havoc.

Jurassic World represents the rampant chaos of capitalism in all its self-destructive glory in the vehicle of Indominus Rex: created to ensure the prosperity of the park it proves to be the catalyst for its collapse. Just as the dinosaurs, created to entertain humanity, prove to be their destruction, so too does the threat of rampant appropriation and commodification of life threaten the future of civilization. The film tells the cautionary tale of exploitative and destructive capitalism, only for us to them fall prey to it and be consumed by it in turn. The drive for profit and power over the market result in the collapse of the industry.  This mode of dominating nature and distilling commodities from it can only lead to inevitable disaster. In the original film, death and destruction appeared as obstacles to the awe and wonder of encountering an actual dinosaur.  In Jurassic World however, such destruction is itself the source of wonder, with dinosaurs being created and exploited precisely because of their propensity for violence and terror. This reveals not only the destructive consequences of capitalism, but its inherent self-destructiveness, of which we as consumers are implicated. The excesses of capitalism inevitably cause it to explode in crises and disasters which threaten the system as a whole while simultaneously producing the rationale to reinvest in the system to contain those crises; the release of Indominus Rex provides the rationale to turn the raptors into counter-terrorism units and the crisis serves as their field test. This sort of insanity is intelligible only if capitalism is conceived as a totalizing system with no alternative to it.  The best we can do is to produce our own monsters to contain other monsters.

Despite the Frankenstein-nature of Indominus Rex, Dr Wu is quick to point out that all the dinosaurs of the franchise are not true dinosaurs; they are all hybrids of recovered dinosaur DNA and DNA derived from other animals such as reptiles and amphibians. Not only does this provide an explanation of how the dinosaurs were able to be resurrected through incomplete DNA samples, but it also gives the film an excuse for maintaining its aesthetic against the imperative of scientific accuracy.  Jurassic World (and Jurassic World) willfully ignores scientific discoveries in order to cater to consumer interests; the dinosaurs are genetically modified to prevent them from exhibiting characteristics that conflict with the scientific expectations of dinosaur physiology. But most critically his statement exposes the impossibility of any natural purity; it is artificial commodification all the way down the lineage. The original film did not make this explicit, pretending that the dinosaurs were accurate representations of nature, while Jurassic World is more honest about its manipulation of nature in the service of profit. As such, it risks its honesty as being labeled hypocrisy.

As a critique of capitalism, the film is interesting in its own right.  But as a failed critique, the film is fascinating.  It is not only a representation of the struggle against commodification, but is itself a site of that very struggle. Jurassic World presents a critique of capitalizing and commodified nostalgia, only to perpetuate that process and thereby force its critic upon itself. Critics who expect the film to be taken seriously will be sorely disappointed but such critics fail to recognize as a joke, deriving insight from this insincerity.  Wherein less observant critics will see the film as a failure, a more nuanced appreciation of the film will reveal that the film is reflective of a greater failure of the film industry as a whole, if not global capital itself and our inability to imagine the world any other way. Apparently it is easier to imagine the resurrection of dinosaurs, thanks to capitalism, rather than the extinction itself.    

The Name of the Wind and the Importance of Folklore in Fantasy

I recently finished reading The Name of the Wind, the first novel in Patrick Rothfuss’ Kingkiller Chronicles series.  It is meta-fantasy at its finest in two senses; It is both a fantasy story within a fantasy story and a fantasy story about fantasy stories.  The frame story is told in third-person as Devan Lochees the Chronicler records the life of Kvothe, who has assumed the alias of Kote the innkeeper, and is hiding from his past.  The recounting of Kvothe’s past forms the central narrative of the novel and is appropriately told in first-person through his perspective.  Each novel of the series represents a day of Kvothe narrating his rise and fall for Chronicler to record.  Weaved throughout the frame and central narrative are additional sub-stories in the form of folkloric and mythic legends concerning the Fall of Myr Tarinel, the birth of the God Tehlu in the form of Menda, the Binding of the demon lord Encanis, the corruption of the hero Lanre into the Chandrian Halix, etc.  Folk songs such as Chandrian, Chandrian, Tinker Tanner, and The Lay of Sir Savien Traliard also feature prominently in the narrative given Kvothe’s heritage as a member of the gypsy-like Edema Ruh.      

Having finished the novel, I can see why the book has such a beloved following and it got me to thinking about what distinguishes the best fantasy stories above others.  I think it is relatively uncontroversial that the greatest appeal of the fantasy genre is the way in which we come to find ourselves in another world; more realistic fantasies make the illusion of being in that world more complete and coherent, making the narrative more engaging and appealing.  But then there is the question of what makes a fantasy narrative realistic and another merely fantastic and fanciful.  There are a variety of methods one can rely on to, some more controversial than others (grim-dark hyper-realism, for example).  Here I want to focus on only one method of realism that was both a central theme of The Name of the Wind and a method curiously underappreciated within much of fantasy: fantasy stories and folklore itself. 

It is important to recognize the difference between history and folklore or mythology in the fantasy setting.  Most fantasy series require elaborate histories as part of their world-building to give context to the events of the narrative, the motivations of the characters and the state of the world.  But providing the history of how the forest dwarves were emancipated from the tyranny of elven empire following the war with the giants of the southlands is not the same as providing a mythology for such beings.  Mythology and folklore are, in a sense, unhistorical narratives insofar as they necessarily occur prior to and outside of our mundane experience of time.  They deal with what is magical and divine in the world.  History may provide a narrative of events occurring over time in the world, but it does not explain the origins of the world itself or give any all encompassing meaning to history itself or our capacity to form historical narratives to begin with.   This is the purpose of gods in religion and mythology and even in the modern real world, the pull of mythological narratives remain inescapable to our thinking.  All the more reason for the inhabitants of medieval fantasies to inhabit a world saturated with myth.

We are thinking beings, searching for meaning in the world and our elaborate narratives of myth, folklore, religion and even fantasy itself, are a testament to this.  But meaning is interpretative, there is no immediacy between the mind and world; there is a gap between the way the world is and the stories we tell ourselves and one another about the world. This gap is exacerbated by the conflicting influence of maintaining codified cultural beliefs and rituals against the relentless advance of history.  Myths must change over time and find new interpretations if they are to continue to resonate within a culture.  If myth functions to explain the way of the world and our place and purpose within it, then changes in our world must be reflected back into the mythology.  Otherwise the myth loses its explanatory purpose.  This conflict between legend and reality is reflected in both the frame and central story arcs of The Name of the Wind.  In the central story, Kvothe is drawn to the University in order to research the nature of the Chandrian through their mythology, a mythology that is called into question over the course of the narrative.  In the frame story, the legend of Kvothe, The Kingkiller, is undermined by his own self-narration as he deconstructs his own rumored heroism.  Throughout Rothfuss’ novel we find ourselves thrust between myth and apparent fact and must draw our own interpretations about how to best navigate the gap, thus making for an engaging and entertaining fantasy story. 

Fantasy stories routinely appropriate the mythologies, folklores, and religions of diverse cultures in the creation of their secondary worlds.  For minority cultures, such appropriation is problematic, as I have argued in another essay, “Tolkein and the Reality of Fantasy's Failure With Racism.”  Such appropriation is so common in fantasy literature that it has become foundational to our expectation of the genre; one expects to read about dragons, elves, dwarves, angels, demons, centaurs, trolls, etc. in a fantasy story.  This has the ironic effect (and in the case of minority cultures, problematic effect) of disassociating such beings from their native mythological narratives and reducing them to an icon of fantastical literature.  But I digress.  The greater irony is, that for all the appropriation of real-world folklore into fantasy, there is very little folklore to be found fantasy worlds themselves.  A fantasy story might have griffins, but these are real griffins, not the griffins found in some native folklore among the peasantry. 

                

One reason for the absence of secondary-world folklore within fantasy may precisely be the pursuit of realism.  As stated above, the appeal of fantasy lies in its portrayal of impossible worlds as if they were actual worlds. If one wants to incorporate mythological creatures such as centaurs and hydras into their narrative, it would be distracting if not inconsistent for there to be a native folklore for them within the fantasy world as well.  They are supposed to be real in the way that a whale or elephant is real (with the possible addition of “magical” attributes), not mythological like their real-world representations are.  This is a simplistic understanding of folklore and mythology with a strict boundary made between mundane and magical beings and experiences.  Superstitions which attribute magical properties to ordinary animals such as cats, dogs, or birds are also a part of folklore and mythology.  This is entirely possible to do in a fantasy setting and even provides an opportunity to deconstruct tropes and subvert expectations regarding some of the commonplace fantasy creatures. 

                  
Imagine a medieval fantasy world in which the countryside peasantry is routinely harassed by what they call vampires: nocturnal flying creatures who feed on the blood of their livestock and occasionally their children.  Fearing for their lives in the face of such terrible creatures, the peasantry is intensely devoted to the teachings of their local religious orders.  Amongst these orders exists an elaborate demonology which has been codified over centuries; the creatures harassing the villages bear a superficial resemblance to one such class of demon, the vampire.  Out of such a demonology arose various superstitions regarding the vampire: that they could be kept at bay with faith in a holy relic, they could transform into and hide amongst one’s fellow villagers, that the light of the sun or sacred fire would kill them, etc.  The combination of a rising vampire population and reactionary religious zealotry amongst the villages becomes disruptive to commerce so the government sends a natural philosophy from the academy to investigate the rumors of demons.  After much astute observation and the dissection of a specimen, it is concluded that the vampire is naught be a grotesquely large variant of bat driven by starvation from their cave habitat due to the mining operations of the local villagers. 

                 

In terms of realism, this is a superior strategy to take with the appropriation of fantastical creatures; it simultaneously incorporates the mythological being into the world and provides it with an elaborate folklore system attributed to it on top of an underlying naturalized explanation for its existence.  Rothfuss takes this strategy himself in The Name of the Wind with the creature he calls a draccus.  Like the dragons of folklore most people mistake them for, the draccus is a fire-breathing reptile; but unlike the dragon, the draccus is an herbivore, cannot fly, and is relatively peaceful.  Devan Lochees provides a naturalistic account of the draccus in his text, The Mating Habits of the Common Draccus, which also serves to deconstruct the mythology of the dragon which the draccus inspired.  It seems that this text is not widely read, or known, in the world however since when a draccus is encountered in the story it is believed to be a dragon and then a demon by over-zealous peasants.  This is an interpretive approach to world-building which acknowledges the layered and conflicted interpretations of the world by the people that inhabit it.  It lends itself well to realistic fantasy since it parallels so closely the own way in which we form conflicting narratives to explain our experiences and give them meaning.            

                

Rothfuss doesn’t simply deconstruct the tired trope of the fantasy dragon but also succeeds in providing a deconstruction of the classic genre hero as well through the character Kvothe.  He is able to do so because Kvothe is the narrator of his own story and because, as Edema Ruh, he is intimately aware of the heroic folk-myths and legends of his own world.  In the first-person narrative, Kvothe is able to directly address the audience through Chronicler, reminding them that his own story is unlike that of the great men from the songs and legends.  This should be read not merely as Kvothe commenting about the high fantasy of his own world, but those found throughout the genre of our own world as well.  Epic heroes cannot tell their own narratives, especially not with the level of self-deprecation Kvothe exercises, but must have their tale told by other people in grand style.  As myths and legends, their stories must be timeless and told across generations, not narrated from within the time in history they live. 

Kvothe defies that by telling his own story to Chronicler, precisely to correct the exaggerated legends that have sprung up through gossip regarding his life’s adventures, trials and tragedies.  Kvothe is telling his own story precisely to divest himself of the heroism we expect of him.  Yet within the frame story in which Kvothe recounts his past, the world is in turmoil.  Demons walk the earth, a rebellion and war rage on, and Kvothe has gone into hiding because he blames himself partially responsible for this state of affairs.  Kvothe refuses to recognize himself as the hero, yet the world clearly needs him to be one.  Bast, Kvothe’s Fae companion and student who listens to his dialogue with Chronicler, recognizes this tension.  Bast confronts Chronicler and threatens him to guide Kvothe’s story towards the heroic, so that Kvothe can remember himself as Bast wants him to be remembered: as a hero.  Those like Bast who can only conceived of heroes in epic and perfect proportion may be the very burden of expectation which prevents our heroes from rising to the occasion when they need them most.  I will have to read the next book and wait for the third to see exactly what kind of a hero Kvothe was and may be again.   

The Name of the Wind represents the best the fantasy genre has to offer simultaneously providing a compelling narrative, subverting the expectations of the fantasy genre itself, and critiquing our unrealistic indulgence in fantasy.  Fantasy needs realism, because our real world needs fantasy.  Fantasy allows us to creatively engage with our inherited ideological myths and legends, recognizing that much of what we consider to be history, to be truth, is itself a fantasy written by someone in power and for their own interest.  Yet one must not escape the fantasies of this world into the fantasies of another written world.  Realistic fantasy wards against such escapism by subverting the wish-fulfillment and idillyic nature some expect of the genre.  One form of realism is for the fantasy world to struggle with its own myths and legends, and to acknowledge the gap between stories and the world.  Such fantasy divests us of our expectations and limitations of this world, yet refuses to provide us a pacifying alternative to escape into. Fantasy cannot provide the answers to reality, but it can give us a perspective on reality from which we might better see the solutions in our own world.  We must, like Kvothe, tell the stories of our own lives; we must not allow them to be written for us, whether under the guise of history or fantasy, by others with power over us.  Perhaps the most heroic thing to do is to admit that history is not heroic and perfect, yet nevertheless strive for a more perfect world.         

Mad Max and the Ideology of Masculinity

What a lovely film. Last night I saw George Miller’s Mad Max: Fury Road and was enthralled by the post-apocalyptic action movie. The film is essentially an extended car chase, punctuated only by brief opportunities find what hope and strength remains among the ruins of the old world. It is visually arresting, populated with malformed and tormented characters, absurd and monstrous vehicles and yes, absolutely, a feminist critique of the hyper-masculine brutality that inhabits the post-apocalyptic genre. In Fury Road the women are as brutal and capable as the men. But unlike their masculine counterparts, their brutality has a purpose beyond itself. The hyper-masculine antagonists reinforce the status-quo through cycles of violence depravity and resource deprivation. In contrast, the female protagonists exercise violence only in order to revolutionize society to a state where it will no longer be necessary to kill in order to survive. Not only does the film depict women as equal to men, but it ensures that they fight for that very equality to be shared across society, if we can call what remains of humanity a society.        

I have always loved the post-apocalyptic genre of book or film for its speculation on how people will endure the collapse of society and how they will rebuild a new one amidst the ruins of the old world order. Yet problematic to the genre is its frequent collapse into a spectacle of violence, sanctioned by the scarcity of resources. Casual and brutal violence is routinely exchanged between characters as they compete for resources in the wastelands of the post-apocalyptic world. Consider the last season of AMC’s The Walking Dead in which Rick displayed little conscientious objections to violently overthrowing a fellow community in order to preserve what resources it provided. Even after the end of the world, the violent logic of capitalism endures proving that it is indeed “easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism.” Fury Road confronts this imaginative flaw within the genre through a feminist perspective while sustaining all the engrossing grotesquerie, madness and grit we adore post-apocalyptic worlds for.

The villain, Immortan Joe hordes the precious resource of water and enslaves people to serve his will. Men either serve as industrial laborers are indoctrinated into his person War Boy cult, believing that a violent and glorious death will send them to Valhalla while women are raped to provide him with offspring or are milked like livestock for their “mother’s milk.” This is society stripped bare of humanity, reduced to the lust for power and driven by the fear of starvation; be it from lack of food, water, or meaningful death. This is a hyper-masculine, hyper-capitalist society of the post-apocalypse if there ever was one, where everyone is dehumanized into a resource within the economy of scarcity: women are reduced to their breasts and wombs, men into blood and hired muscle. Even Tom Hardy’s Max, the expected hero of the film, is a mere “blood bag” for a good portion of the film; he lives only to sustain the War Boys on their mad chase after Charlize Theron’s Imperator Furiosa into the desert wastes. As Tom Hardy’s Max narrates, he is “a man reduced to a single instinct: survival.” Quite the emasculated, deconstruction of the hero we expect from the genre.

Furiosa, however, is not here reduced to Max’s romantic (sexual) object of interest, as are female characters in action-oriented genres, but she is his equal and the central protagonist of the film. Max is positioned in the literal passenger seat of the narrative, frequently dependent upon Furiosa for his survival and subservient to her command, as she drives them onward towards salvation and redemption. Not since Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley have we seen a female character with this much presence and power on display in a male dominated genre of film. Of Joe’s emancipated brides, a few stand out. She is literally taking on the patriarchy of Immortan Joe: seeking to liberate his breeder-brides and return them to her own lost matriarchal band, the Vulvani. Together they hope to defeat Immortan Joe and take his Citadel for themselves, sharing its resources openly and hoping to plant the seeds, literal and metaphorical, for a more peaceful and prosperous future. Subtle, this movie is not. But the end of the world rarely is. 

Yet it appears that the idea that water is a human right, women are more than resources, and are just as self-sufficient and driven as men is too controversial for some. Aaron Clarey, writing for MRA blog Return of Kings in a post titled “Why You Should Not Go See ‘Mad Max: Feminist Road'” says he “ fears that male viewers of the film will be “duped by explosions, fire tornadoes, and desert raiders into seeing what is guaranteed to be nothing more than feminist propaganda, while at the same time being insulted AND tricked into viewing a piece of American culture ruined and rewritten right in front of their very eyes.” Never mind that Mad Max is an Australian franchise. Men’s Right Activists aren’t known for the concern for honesty. Clarey is convinced that this film is “the vehicle by which [Hollywood] are guaranteed to force a lecture on feminism down your throat. This is the Trojan Horse feminists and Hollywood leftists will use to (vainly) insists on the trope women are equal to men in all things, including physique, strength and logic. And this is the subterfuge they will use to blur the lines between masculinity and femininity, further ruining women for men, and men for women.” The feminism of Fury Road will not undermine anyone's capacity to enjoy the other sex, but it will make explicit that women's enjoyment of men is not synonymous with men enjoying women as mere things. 

Ironically, Clarey’s anxiety over the emasculation of his beloved franchise necessitates the belittlement of men. Men, Clarey warns, will be “duped” by the spectacle of violence, apparently too dim-witted to pick up on the message of the film; a film franchise which George Miller has apparently ruined through the apparent betrayal of his own masculinity. Clarey ignores that it is Miller’s own franchise. Apparently men only have agency insofar as that agency is only devoted to the cause of “heterosexual, masculine men.” Otherwise, they are fraternal traitors. In order to sustain the ill-conceived illusion that men are simultaneously superior to women, yet threatened by feminist films, the MRA movement reduces men to a pathetic caricature of itself.  Fury Road is aware of this contradiction inherent in patriarchy and critiques it throughout the film. Patriarchy promises masculine empowerment but actually confines men to cycles of self-destructive violence. Like Immortan Joe’s army of War Boys (War boys, not men), who crave immortality through a violent vehicular death, Clarey and fellow MRAs sacrifice their own integrity for the illusion of victory.    

The complaint that the film is an exercise in feminist propaganda is misleading because it depicts feminism as an ideology foreign, if not incompatible, with the genre and as a narrative we must be seduced into. The status quo of patriarchy which is pervasive in media, especially in the action oriented genres of science fiction and fantasy, needs no propaganda for its ideology. Or rather, since every form of media is an ideologically constrained representation of reality, it is dishonest to qualify some as propaganda or others as not. Fury Road, sans Furiosa and her rebellious and revolutionary feminism, would be just as propagandistic as actual film with her in it; albeit many would fail to recognize this since they assume that men are entitled to the genre more than women much as it is believed that men are entitled to most everything before women. Critics are even less entitled to this complaint given that the film genre is fantastical, not historical. Of course it is not realistic, since the assumed reality of patriarchy is the problem. When an ideology is so entrenched in one's understanding of reality, it may take the exaggerated proportions of fantasy to provide an effect critique of that ideological content.  Thankfully the apocalypse of Fury Road has not yet times occurred. But if men are unwilling to confront the violence of patriarchy in the way the film does, the end may eventually come. As one character in the film rhetorically asks: “Who killed the world?” we can only answer: men. If society is a patriarchy, then the apocalyptic collapse of the world belongs to revolutionary feminists, not reactionary misogynists.      


This article is also available at A Feast For Nerds 

Game of Thrones and Fidelity to Fictional Worlds

The fifth season of A Game of Thrones, HBO’s television series based on George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire book series, has just begun.  Four episodes in and this season has already made dramatic departures from the book series it was based upon.  (SPOILERS) In this season so far, Mance Rayder and Barriston Selmy have died and Jamie Lannister has traveled to Dorne while Sansa Stark has followed Petyr Baelish to Winterfell (END SPOILERS).  In previous seasons I was upset when a character from the books I found fascinating, like Lady Stoneheart or Coldhands, was cut from the show.  Now characters are not merely being cut from the show, but are being killed off in it while their literary counter-parts continue to live (for now).  Cutting secondary characters, especially in the later books, could be excused as necessary to create a tighter narrative for the show to follow.  But killing off characters in the show, after they have already been introduced into the narrative, can dramatically alter the plot if they are still alive in the book series.  If a character is killed off within the story of the show but has thus far continued to live in the books, there is concern that this either reveals that ultimate significance to the book series to be minimal or can split the two series down increasingly different paths.    

Only time will tell what the consequences these changes will wrought for the divergent narratives of the television and book series.  But regardless of how divided the world shared by the books and show become, it appears that the changes in the television series this season is already making significant divisions in the overall fan-base.  This is not simply a division between those that prefer one series, television or book, over the other but is also a division between how those series should relate to one another.  It is a difference of opinion regarding the relationship between fictional worlds, their audience, and their creators.  There are those that believe that the television series should reflect the book series as closely as the medium can, and there are those that believe that the television series should be allowed to diverge from its literary parent.  I am sympathetic to the latter, but with certain limitations in mind.  

Given that both series focus upon the same pseudo-medieval world, I believe that the show should follow the books in its world-building.  To my knowledge the show has done this quite well and it must if fans of the book series are to identify the world in the show with the literary world that first captured their interest.  Changing the background lore of the television series undermines the impression that it shares its world with its literary predecessor and betrays the George RR Martin’s vision that made the television series possible.  Dorne should not be erased from the map, or dragons replaced with griffon.  That said, I believe that the television show is entitled to flesh out the lore or invent some of its own, so long as it does not contradict the canon established before.  The world of the show must reflect that of the books, but that does not mean that we must view the world in the show with the same detail and from the same perspective as that of the books.  Having the series in a televised media allows the audience an opportunity to see more of the world and in a degree of detail impossible to capture through the exercise of one’s imagination.         

The world of the show is populated more or less with the same cast of characters from the book series.  If it involved a radically different cast of characters set within the same world, it would be a spin-off series and not a reflection of the book series itself. It is important that the identity of the characters be maintained relative to the world they inhabit; Oberyn should be from Dorne and not Braavos, Tyrion should be one of three Lannister heirs, Ned should be of House Stark and not House Bolton, etc.  As the most dynamic and emotionally engaging aspects of the world, these characters need to remain true to George RR Martin; to change their history, identity and personality, is to deprive fans of the perspectives that shaped their vision of Martin’s world.  Changes to their appearance are less significant insofar as they appear consistent with their characterization and place within the world; Tyrion should not have the body of a Dothraki or John Snow the appearance of a Targaryen (even if he is a unknowing member of their bloodline).  Changes to secondary characters are of secondary importance, but such changes can still be understandably upsetting to fans of them since they are characters to whom attachments and expectations are formed.             

With the world and its cast of characters following the precedent set in the book series more or less, the show characters can interact with one another and appropriately suffer fates that deviate significantly from their counter book counterparts.  Although their identities are fixed within the world, their actions could always be otherwise insofar as these actions are consistent with those identities.  This allows the show the greatest freedom to correct flawed characterization from the books but also runs the greatest risk of alienating fan expectations.  When Ser Barriston was apparently killed off in the last episode, it was upsetting because he has not (yet) died within the book series. However, the enjoyment of Martin’s world is derived from upsetting such expectations; the untimely death of a character or a character making a decision we did not predict from the books not only provides the show with unique content but also keeps it consistent with the torturous unpredictability that makes Martin’s writing so engaging.  The overall story-arcs of characters, especially major ones such as John Snow or Arya Stark, should remain consistent with the books overall but minor changes to them or major changes to minor character arcs provide new opportunities for drama.  Reading the books is no guarantee that one will not be surprised by the show, and that is necessary if the show is to be engaging on its own. 

The show is its own narrative of Martin’s work as it should be if it is to be entertaining on its own.  If it copied the books entirely it would merely be a substitute for one’s imagination and not an opportunity for (relatively) original story-telling.  One should not judge the show on the basis of its fidelity, or lack thereof, to Martin’s work but judge it according to its own self-respect and consistency.  Yes, Ser Barriston and Mance Rayder did not (yet) die in the books, but does it make sense for them to die in the storyline of the show? I think it might.  The books and show should be read side-by-side not one on top of the other; their consistencies should be considered complimentary and reflective of an overall unity of world and story.  The books provide a map for the show, with the same world and routes and destinations in story.  But what we encounter on our journey in the show may not match up exactly with what was written on the map of the books and we may deviate occasionally from the map as alternative routes in the story become available.          

The problem is that George RR Martin is still writing the map of books for the show to follow and the show is rapidly advancing on what he has written so far and may even surpass some of it.  It is convenient to say that the show should respect the canon of the books when that canon is closed and can be appreciated as a totality one can add to.  But when Martin is still adding to that body of literature, the liberties deemed legitimate for the show to take become complicated since they can possibly reveal the outcome of events in the books prior to the books reaching them or contradict the world-building of the books to come later.  Fans rightly fear that the death of Mance Rayder or the removal of Coldhands from the show render these characters insignificant to the future and overall plot of the book series or may influence Martin’s own writing by forcing him down paths taken by the show.  From what I have read, the show creators have been in communication with Martin and are aware of the overall and end vision he has for his series and they intend to respect that in the show, even if they get to it before him.  It is this communication that hopefully ensures that the show remains true to the canon of the word in Martin’s mind before he himself is able to put it into words upon a page.     

Speaking generally now, fantasy fiction derived from a predecessor, regardless of the media of either, should remain consistent with the world-building of its predecessor.  This is necessary if we are to believe that each reflects the same world.  If it is a matter of translation between media, television to book or vice versa, the characters should remain consistent across media as well.  If these are changed significantly from their original vision, then one is merely appriopriating the names and imagery of one media, making one’s own vision more appealing by exploiting the expectations of a pre-established fan base.  Although Martin himself has criticized fan-fiction, I believe that it can be a sign of respect fan’s have towards the world and characters established by the original creator.  It may be the honest desire to extend the horizon of the fantasy world further and see its beloved characters off on further adventures rather than a mere lazy exercise in creativity.  Fantasy literature is greatest when it presents the illusion of being a world of its own and is sustained by people writing and reading about it; the more people doing so, and the more the fictional world lives through them, transcending the limits of any single imagination.  What greater sign that people consider your world to be real than the desire of people to see it extended beyond one author and one form of representation.  It is only because people believe so deeply in Martin's world that they believe it can be envisioned on television or in videogames.                   

Fantasy, History and Authenticity

When medieval fantasies, such as the A Song of Ice and Fire series, are criticizes for being excessively violent, misogynistic and orientalist, fans of such stories tend to respond that the world simply was that way.  Far from being a criticism of the text, such questionable tendencies are seen by some fans as signs of realism and therefore deserve literary merit, not condemnation.  It is readily apparent however that this is a rather odd response in the face of such criticism.  When exactly was the world that way, and what world are they in fact referring to?  It is doubtful that they are referring to their own world history, since dragons, elves and wizards, and other fantasy tropes cannot seriously be considered historical phenomenon.  Even if one does believe in the existence of such beings to some extent, they can only ever be taken seriously as mythological, not historical, beings; their history is timeless and not subject to historical analysis or criticism. 

Only by subtracting away the fantasy elements of the story, could one possibly make a connection between the fantasy world of the text and our own world history.  Dragon slaying knights are historically accurate because they resemble the knights of medieval Europe in code and conduct, dragon slaying aside.  But our conception of past history is dubious and often ideologically constrained, limiting our view of the past.  Not only is it constrained by our present interest in the past but it is also limited by the source material through which we understand the past; if we only understand the medieval time period through European sources it is no wondering that it reflects and retains the prejudices of that place and time.  Yet if one is not referring to our own world, but the world of the fantasy story itself, the criticism of its world-building can always be pushed back further. 

No matter how deep the author builds the history of their world to justify its current condition, one can always ask why the world was built that particular way.  Merely giving the world a deeper history does not negate the justification for that world history in its entirety.  Like a God questioned about the nature of the world they created, an author is responsible for the form their world and story take; it cannot be excused as a projection of past history or as a mere creation of the imagination.  The former route ignores the way in which we imaginatively construct the past; the latter fails to recognize that we are ultimately responsible for the worlds we create, not matter the amount of explanation we pour into them, and that our literary worlds reflect our self.  No matter how much authors build their fictional worlds, they are not merely worlds unto themselves, but are stories that they have intended to focus on with a message threaded through the narrative.  Even if Westeros did exist, there would still be the question as to why it is worth writing about, why the stories of morally abominable individuals is worth giving voice to.  And if their stories are told, there is the further question of how such narratives reflect upon the image of their creator.

In fantasy, one is ultimately responsible for the fictional world one has created.  One cannot absolve one’s self through reliance upon faux historical authenticity since one is creating their own history for their fictional world.  But it is crucial to consider that fantasy worlds are not merely written into being but are also read into being.  After all, they are written to be read.  We as readers are responsible for the worlds we read about, and we must critically engage the genre as readers; if the author is not excused by merely saying that is the way this world or this people is, the reader is not permitted to accept the world as that way or its people as that way.  Literature, even and especially fantasy literature, is never simply about its own self contained world since it is written and read within the imaginative confines of this world that we live in.  Even though we may never be able to escape our world through fantasy, we are able to reflect back upon it from an imagined vantage point, unencumbered by the burden of our historically-mediated identities.  We can confront the injustices of violence, misogyny and orientalism when we are willing to break away from conformity to our prejudicial histories and to fantasize about the possibilities open to people.  

Through fantasy we can confront the injustices of our world precisely because we do not have to conform to the historical expectations of this world and the way it constrains our identity.  One writes and reads fantasy literature, not even pseudo-historic fantasy, in relation to our history but the history of the fantasy genre itself.  Each new work should be written and read in critical conversation with the genre’s history, not merely to improve upon the inherited flaws of the fantasy genre itself but to give us a fantastic perspective from which we can improve upon the flawed world we have inherited and inhabit.  One steps outside of our limited world through the literature of fantasy, not to escape this world, but to better perceive it. 

Fans of fantasy are criticized for not living in the real world and being deluded by their imaginations and not appreciating real history, but I think this only applies to immature members of the community.  Mature writers and readers of fantasy recognize that what we think of as real history is itself a fantasy written into our identities by various ideologies.  But if history is fantasy then perhaps the fantasy genre can, if not provide us with an alternative history, at least provide us with the means to understand how our historical narratives constrain our identities and prejudice us against others.  Fantasy might not conform to history but that hardly means it doesn’t appreciate or critically engage with history.  Fantasy fans are not inauthentic because they do not conform to history, they are authentic precisely because they make their identity for themselves and do not need it imposed upon them.  Fantasy fans know that their favorite fantasies are just stories; it is everyone else that is ignorant that they are living in the greatest fantasy of all, the delusional monolith of History.