While searching for job openings, I've been browsing the course offerings of English departments at various schools I think I might be interested in. In particular, I'm interested to see what kinds and how many (if any) electives departments offer, as I would very much like to continue teaching an sf&f course, or something similar, either by proposing and starting a new elective wherever I end up, or taking on a preexisting course.
One course I'm always happy to see offered is Mythology, or some such variation. I'd love to teach such a course, but even if I never get to, I'm happy about a school where kids can study myths and mythology in a dedicated class. What upsets me is the misleading, oversimplified, and imprecise definition of "myth" that I've seen in more than one course description:
"Myths are stories ancient people created to explain what they didn't understand."
Not really.
Here's what I imagine when I read that definition:
Ancient Man 1: Hmm... I wonder what that big, bright thing in the sky is?
Ancient Man 2: That's the sun.
Ancient Man 1: I know it's the sun. But what is the sun? How did it get there and what's it made of? Why does it move across the sky like that?
Ancient Man 2: Hmm.
Ancient Man 1: I know, right? I just don't understand. I'm not really sure there's any way of knowing from way down here.
Ancient Man 2: Oh, well. So what?
Ancient Man 1: Well, my kid was asking.
Ancient Man 2: Oh, well why don't you just make something up?
Ancient Man 1: Good idea! I can say it's a golden chariot pulled across the sky by a team of horses and a god named Apollo!
It's an okay definition for elementary school, but it really sounds to me more like a definition of fable (a story created to explain something). The crux of the issue is this: ancient man didn't know he didn't understand natural phenomena like the sun, or death, or earthquakes, or thunderstorms, or the inner workings of the human soul. Myths were how he understood these things, much in the way that science is how we now understand these things.
I mention science because the problematic definition is one that reeks of scientific egotism. It's a definition for a modern, scientifically educated American who likes feeling superior in intellect to countless preceding generations of humanity. ("Those poor ignorant fools!"). But it's utterly wrong to see myth as some infantile, ancient human predecessor to science, as if those pitiable ancients couldn't comprehend our science, so they had to settle for myth. On the contrary: they did not know myth as we know it. To them myth was as inevitable as the human impulse to wonder. That's what I mean when I say that myth is how they understood--it was not consciously constructed to fill a void of ignorance. It was their knowledge.
If one accepts such a conception of myth (I don't assume it's inevitable that you do), then something surprising happens: myth and science become quite closely related in the human psyche. They become analogous modes of understanding the universe. I love science. I love myths too. They each offer greater understanding and opportunity for wonder in their own ways. To me, an infinite, ever expanding universe is just as magical and marvelous as the notion of planets on musical spheres or a god driving a flaming chariot across the sky. On the other hand, myth is as ill-equipped to explain the atomic (and sub-atomic) nature of the material universe as science is to explain death.
I'm well aware that hard-core, religiously scientific thinkers will disagree with me on that last point--theirs is the view that there is nothing that science does not have the potential to explain. Who am I to say that they're wrong? Like the ancients, I cannot even perceive what I don't understand. But I will say this: on the day in the far-flung, mystical future when science becomes omniscient and explains all, it will not have replaced myth in our imaginations. It will have become one with it.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Blue Book Inspiration
Well, not quite. More like analytical essay grading inspiration. But it will do.
I've been finishing up a set of essays on quest stories that my sf&f class wrote. They had to generate a theory of a quest story based on The Hobbit and Star Wars: A New Hope. There's been some good thinking in these papers!
Some of the more common elements my students have been identifying are a journey that causes the hero to undergo some positive change, and a eucatastrophe that results in the quest's success. One young man, though, merely said that "the hero has to experience change," to which I commented, "What kind of change?" His analysis, as the others', suggests that it should be positive change, but it got me thinking. What about a quest that causes a negative change in the hero? An "anti-quest," if you will.
An anti-quest, it seems to me, would be a quest story in which the hero undergoes a gradual demise, from noble and virtuous, to ill-willed and selfish, prompted by the premature death of a mentor. The eucatastrophe is replaced by a catastrophe and tragic turn of events (which includes the loss of the goal and failure of the quest), but ultimately causes a catharsis that redeems the hero, even as he is permanently changed (or damaged) in some way. Essentially, it would be a quest story informed by the elements of tragedy rather than by the traditional elements of a fairy-story.
Add it to my "to-write" list. It's quite possible that it's a completely unoriginal idea, but I think this plot might work well with one of the fictional worlds I've already got floating around in my head and my idea notebook. One more grandiose personal project on the back burner.
I've been finishing up a set of essays on quest stories that my sf&f class wrote. They had to generate a theory of a quest story based on The Hobbit and Star Wars: A New Hope. There's been some good thinking in these papers!
Some of the more common elements my students have been identifying are a journey that causes the hero to undergo some positive change, and a eucatastrophe that results in the quest's success. One young man, though, merely said that "the hero has to experience change," to which I commented, "What kind of change?" His analysis, as the others', suggests that it should be positive change, but it got me thinking. What about a quest that causes a negative change in the hero? An "anti-quest," if you will.
An anti-quest, it seems to me, would be a quest story in which the hero undergoes a gradual demise, from noble and virtuous, to ill-willed and selfish, prompted by the premature death of a mentor. The eucatastrophe is replaced by a catastrophe and tragic turn of events (which includes the loss of the goal and failure of the quest), but ultimately causes a catharsis that redeems the hero, even as he is permanently changed (or damaged) in some way. Essentially, it would be a quest story informed by the elements of tragedy rather than by the traditional elements of a fairy-story.
Add it to my "to-write" list. It's quite possible that it's a completely unoriginal idea, but I think this plot might work well with one of the fictional worlds I've already got floating around in my head and my idea notebook. One more grandiose personal project on the back burner.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Blue Books
Have been grading exams this week... one of the least favorite parts of my job as a teacher.
Every now and then I remember the story about Tolkien coming up with the first line of The Hobbit, randomly, while he was grading exam papers and came upon a blank page, where he wrote, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit." (And later had to find out what that was all about).
I haven't yet been driven by the tedium of my blue books to compose any brilliant first lines. But I'm still hoping.
Every now and then I remember the story about Tolkien coming up with the first line of The Hobbit, randomly, while he was grading exam papers and came upon a blank page, where he wrote, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit." (And later had to find out what that was all about).
I haven't yet been driven by the tedium of my blue books to compose any brilliant first lines. But I'm still hoping.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Graceling
This weekend I finally finished Graceling, a novel by Kristin Cashore. I say "finally" because it became a chore at the end.
That's not to say I disliked it. Parts of the book were enjoyable, and some chapters were real page-turners. The problem was that the book outlasted the plot. Cashore resolves the most compelling of her conflicts about eighty percent through (alas, reading on Kindle forces me to talk in percentages rather than numbers of pages), and the remaining narrative lacks urgency. All that remains is the resolution of a conflicted romantic relationship between two of the main characters and some final character growth. Both of these aspects of the story were colorful, original, and interesting for most of the book but became mostly predictable (if not sappy) at the end, with the exception of one surprising twist. More twist, less sap would have been welcome.
If you don't mind following me backwards: the rest of the book (i.e. the first eighty percent) was great. The story follows a young woman, Katsa, who is a Graceling--one who has been "graced" with some special ability. Graces in the land of the Seven Kingdoms range from bread-baking to killing, the latter of which is Katsa's grace. Katsa grew up an orphan in the royal court of her uncle, King Randa of the Middluns, who uses her as his thug to threaten and punish unruly subjects. But Katsa, with her closest friends, is also member of the Council, a secret organization that works for justice, kindness, and generosity across the Seven Kingdoms, often contrary to the wishes of the seven kings. The story tells of her struggle to find her independence and live a self-determined life.
Katsa is a strong, culturally relevant female protagonist. She's also a genuine bad ass. (Her performance in the opening scene puts her on par with the likes of Batman, Wolverine, and Jason Bourne). Cashore weaves these two elements of the character quite skillfully together. Katsa, despite her indomitable physical prowess and strong conscience, acquiesces to the wishes of her uncle and king. She lacks agency and meaningful human relationships, and the story is as much about her inner struggle to find these things as it is about her physical battle for survival on her journeys through the Seven Kingdoms.
The real strength of Cashore's novel is her premise. Katsa is not the only Graceling in the book; Cashore has a knack for inventing unique, symbolically weighty Graces for some of Katsa's friends and foes, and more often than not, these Graces are more than what they seem. The idea is a really fun one that is well-developed and convincing. Cashore says she does not fancy herself a "world-builder" like Tolkien or Pratchett (I had the fortune to hear her give a reading and a talk to some of our students--a very gracious and engaging speaker), and it sometimes shows in what seems like more of a facade than a convincing fantasy world, but when she devotes her attention to sub-creative elements like Graces, she shines. I hope she reconsiders her artistic self-perception. A little more world-building would have added depth and consistent interest to the novel.
Fire, released this past November, is the next book in the series, and a third is planned. They're on my to-read list.
That's not to say I disliked it. Parts of the book were enjoyable, and some chapters were real page-turners. The problem was that the book outlasted the plot. Cashore resolves the most compelling of her conflicts about eighty percent through (alas, reading on Kindle forces me to talk in percentages rather than numbers of pages), and the remaining narrative lacks urgency. All that remains is the resolution of a conflicted romantic relationship between two of the main characters and some final character growth. Both of these aspects of the story were colorful, original, and interesting for most of the book but became mostly predictable (if not sappy) at the end, with the exception of one surprising twist. More twist, less sap would have been welcome.
If you don't mind following me backwards: the rest of the book (i.e. the first eighty percent) was great. The story follows a young woman, Katsa, who is a Graceling--one who has been "graced" with some special ability. Graces in the land of the Seven Kingdoms range from bread-baking to killing, the latter of which is Katsa's grace. Katsa grew up an orphan in the royal court of her uncle, King Randa of the Middluns, who uses her as his thug to threaten and punish unruly subjects. But Katsa, with her closest friends, is also member of the Council, a secret organization that works for justice, kindness, and generosity across the Seven Kingdoms, often contrary to the wishes of the seven kings. The story tells of her struggle to find her independence and live a self-determined life.
Katsa is a strong, culturally relevant female protagonist. She's also a genuine bad ass. (Her performance in the opening scene puts her on par with the likes of Batman, Wolverine, and Jason Bourne). Cashore weaves these two elements of the character quite skillfully together. Katsa, despite her indomitable physical prowess and strong conscience, acquiesces to the wishes of her uncle and king. She lacks agency and meaningful human relationships, and the story is as much about her inner struggle to find these things as it is about her physical battle for survival on her journeys through the Seven Kingdoms.
The real strength of Cashore's novel is her premise. Katsa is not the only Graceling in the book; Cashore has a knack for inventing unique, symbolically weighty Graces for some of Katsa's friends and foes, and more often than not, these Graces are more than what they seem. The idea is a really fun one that is well-developed and convincing. Cashore says she does not fancy herself a "world-builder" like Tolkien or Pratchett (I had the fortune to hear her give a reading and a talk to some of our students--a very gracious and engaging speaker), and it sometimes shows in what seems like more of a facade than a convincing fantasy world, but when she devotes her attention to sub-creative elements like Graces, she shines. I hope she reconsiders her artistic self-perception. A little more world-building would have added depth and consistent interest to the novel.
Fire, released this past November, is the next book in the series, and a third is planned. They're on my to-read list.
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