"I will take the ring"; responsibility and maturity in modern fantasy fiction for children. With...

P a g e | 1

Susan Mary Jenkins

(Now Sue Bridgwater)

M. Phil Thesis: English.

“I will take the Ring”,

responsibility and maturity in

modern Fantasy fiction for children.

With particular reference to the

work of Joy Chant, Jane Louise

Curry, Alan Gardner and Ursula K

LeGuin.

Note; 2015

The thesis was submitted to the University of London and accepted in 1984. Some of its premises and conclusions may therefore have suffered due to the passage of time. This digital edition is in existence through the skilled transcription made by Jennie Linzell, whom I wholeheartedly thank for her professional work. Any textual errors are entirely my own.

I must also acknowledge the invaluable help of the late Humphrey Carpenter who, when the first submission of the thesis was referred, read it all and offeredsuggestions that helped me to turn it around.

P a g e | 2

Susan Mary Jenkins

Abstract of thesis to be submitted for the degree of M.Phil in English.

Title:

“I will take the ring”; responsibility and maturity inmodern Fantasy fiction for children. With particularreference to the work of Joy Chant, Jane Louise Curry, AlanGarner and Ursula K. LeGuin.

Abstract:

Introduction; stating the purpose and scope of thethesis and its imagined readership. The first chapterexamines the nature of literary Fantasy; how it seeks toaffect the reader and some of the techniques it employ todo so. In the second chapter the ways in which childrenrelate to fiction are examined, particularly the extent towhich fiction may interrelate with other experiences instimulating and supporting the child’s growth to self-awareness. Chapter three considers the nature of therelationship between literary Fantasy and children,discussing especially the idea that there is some specialquality of such fiction that makes it particularly suitablefor or palatable to children.

The fourth chapter is a bridge between the threegeneral chapters and the author studies which follow. Itdefines closely the definition for the purposes of thethesis for “children” and “Fantasy fiction”, explaining theconcentration of the study on the Quest theme and on growthin older children and adolescents. Reasons are given forthe selection of the four authors chosen for study.

Chapter five examines the work of Ursula LeGuin andher use of magical symbolism to describe the growth tomaturity and responsible adulthood of her protagonist.Chapter six notes the shift in the writings of Joy Chantfrom the externalising techniques of Fantasy to a blending

P a g e | 3

of these with the methods of realistic fiction. In chapterseven Jane Curry’s novels are examined in terms of theirtheme of identity and selfhood, related to the sense ofbeing in the right place or with the right people. Thelast chapter shows Alan Garner’s preoccupation in his earlynovels with the struggle of the merging self for a sense ofidentity.

In conclusion, the significance of the challenge isreiterated, and its relevance to the young reader’ssituation in his or her own life.

P a g e | 4

ContentsPAGE

Introduction 4

Chapter One; Fantasy and the Fantastic in fiction. 7

Chapter Two; Children and fiction. 42

Chapter Three; Children and Fantasy fiction. 62

Chapter Four; “What are you like?” 81

Chapter Five; The shadow; Ursula LeGuin and the far side ofself. 88

Chapter Six; Renunciation and sacrifice; Joy Chant and thedoom appointed. 108

Chapter Seven; The sense of belonging; Jane Louise Curry andthe misfit. 135

Chapter Eight; The beginning place; Alan Garner and thedeeps of Time. 159

Conclusions. 180

Bibliography. 184

P a g e | 5

Introduction

This thesis is intended as an introductory survey such

as might be useful to people who work with, or are training

to work with, young people and books. These include

teachers, librarians, students and parents. While the

thesis seeks to apply stringent literary critical

principles to the study of the particular authors chosen

for consideration, it should be noted that some emphasis

has been laid on an explanatory or apologist approach,

particularly in the first half of the thesis. As well as

seeking a definition of what Fantasy is and how it operates

on the reader, there is some attempt to explain that

Fantasy is a genre of “real” literature. It has seemed

necessary to adopt this explanatory tone to some extent

because of the widespread misconception that Fantasy is an

escapist and self-indulgent mode. In particular, such

stories as are considered here, that belong to the sub-

genres of Fantasy which draw on myth, legend and fairy-tale

as source material, are thought of by some adults as

unsuitable reading for young people. [1] It is hoped that

P a g e | 6

this approach may elucidate for people who have no natural

personal taste for Fantasy, how and why it appeal to those

who do enjoy it, and the senses in which it may be

stimulating and challenging reading rather than escapist.

The first half of the thesis examines the critical and

theoretical background of literary Fantasy, and the ways in

which young readers experience fiction in general and

Fantasy in particular. In the second half there is a

critical examination of the works of four selected Fantasy

authors of the later Twentieth Century, with close

consideration of how their work relates to the life-

experiences of the older child and adolescent on both the

Fantasy and the realistic levels of their fictions. The

studies focus particularly on the parallels between the

Quest motif in Fantasy and the experience of growth within

the individual. The chief contention of the thesis will be

that the appeal of this type of Fantasy lies in its

emphasis on the importance of choice, commitment and

decisive action. By this challenging approach, Fantasy may

provide some individual with ideas about possibly valid

ways into life, rather than any form of escape. Recognition

P a g e | 7

of possible routes for self-development, through the

observed experience of the Fantasy protagonist, is one way

of acquiring understandings and insights of the sort that

help people to grow up. The end result of reading Fantasy

is broadly the same as that of reading more realistic

fiction; both may lead to a broadening and deepening of

imaginative perception, which may be a valuable tool in the

job of gaining control over the social environment and over

the self. This at its lowest may, in Johnson’s words,

enable an individual “ ..... better to enjoy life, or

better to endure it.” [2] At best, it may enable a person

to develop awareness, confidence and responsiveness to a

degree that will significantly improve his or her chances

of establishing control over the circumstances and

developments of life. There are many contributory factors

in any person’s development of these qualities; this thesis

explores the idea that reading Fantasy fiction

constructively may be one among the many.

P a g e | 8

Notes and references; introduction

1. This conclusion is drawn from the author’s personal

experience as a librarian with a special interest in

children’s books and reading. There is widespread

suspicion among adults of all social classes and

educational backgrounds as regards books which are not

about “real life” and which waste children’s time or

“fill their heads with rubbish”. There is a lack of

understanding of the value of the imaginative and

intuitive levels of perception. Some interesting

arguments in support of the value of the imaginative

approach are included in; Ursula K LeGuin, The

language of the night; essays on Fantasy and science

fiction (New York: Putnam, 1980).

2. Samuel Johnson, Review of “A free enquiry into the

nature and origin of evil” in Works of Samuel Johnson

LL.D (London: Hawkins, 1787) Vol X p. 245.

P a g e | 9

Chapter 1; Fantasy and the Fantastic in fiction.

In 1978 Theodore Ziolkowski wrote;

“...........we can conclude that thefantastic is a mode whose effect is anepistemological perplexity stemming from themomentary irruption of the seeminglysupernatural into our world. In contrastfantasy is a literary genre whose effect isthe ethical insight stemming from ourcontemplation of an otherworld governed bysupernatural laws.” [1]

This neat definition unfortunately leaves open a good

deal that needs to be considered before we can look more

closely at the special topic of Fantasy in children’s

fiction. Only one year later Ruth Lynn published an

annotated list of Fantasy for children [2] which listed

thirteen categories of works as diverse as ghost stories,

time travel stories, and talking animal tales; many works

were listed under two or more of these headings; and many

of Lynn’s chosen headings were in themselves vague and

overlapping. “Travel to another world” is not very clearly

distinguishable from “alternative worlds and imaginary

lands”, nor is “Magic adventure” from “Witches, wizards,

P a g e | 10

sorcery and magicians”. Besides this, in an article

published in 1973 Jane Mobley attempted a “definition” of

Fantasy fiction which began from unquestioned and indeed

unarticulated assumptions about the nature of such fiction,

so limited that the article is in fact a description of the

sub-type or division of Fantasy labelled by some critics

“sword-and-sorcery”. [3] So narrow is Mobley’s view that

she even presents, as a given condition of the entire

Fantasy mode, the lack of literary merit she perceives as

characteristic of much of the sub-genre she discusses;

“The sturdy ability of myth to surviveeven mediocre retelling is a part of fantasyfiction and should be considered incriticism of fantasy. Perhaps our aestheticstandards must be altered somewhat to allowthe inclusion of “function”. In fantasyfiction the characters could often gonameless, and they sometimes speak in theworst grade-B Hollywood fashion, yet theyact out the essential mana or magic andthat is what fantasy and myth demand”.

It seems we must explore between the rigidly narrow view

represented by Mobley and the vaguely all-inclusive view of

P a g e | 11

Lynn, in order to satisfy ourselves that a bold definition,

such as Ziolkowski has been made, can indeed be justified.

Further, we must reach a clearer notation of the types of

Fantasy available to children today and the characteristics

of those types, especially of those to be given close

attention in the development of the argument of this

thesis.

In the [unattributed] Preface to the 1979 publication

Fantasy Literature; a core collection and reference guide,

there is a description of the diversity and confusion of

opinion in the field of Fantasy;

“Since the mid-1960’s there has been agreat rise of interest in fantasyliterature. The recent but widespreadpopularity of fantasy is evident in theproliferation of course offerings on thesubject in colleges and secondary schoolsand in the increase in the number of new andreprint titles published every year. Morecritical works are appearing devotedexclusively to fantasy. Major publishershave supplied the need for research tools byissuing reference works and special texts tomeet the demands of the scholar and theteacher. Along with this proliferation offantasy materials, both primary andsecondary, has arisen the need forbibliographical control of the literature.It was primarily with this point in mindthat the present volume was compiled”. [5]

P a g e | 12

The author’s point about the upsurge in every kind of

Fantasy writing since the early sixties is easily confirmed

by examining the indexes to periodical and monograph

publications, which regularly include several entries under

“Fantasy” and related headings in the period after about

1960, while the heading scarcely appears at all in earlier

lists. The rest of this section will examine some of the

major publications on Fantasy published in this period, as

well as one or two earlier works which are relevant to the

search for a definition or description of Fantasy.

One of the authors examined by Ziolkowski in the

article, whose concluding summary heads this section, is

Tzvetan Todorov. [6] Todorov describes his book as “a

structural approach to a literary genre”; but in

Ziolkowski’s view Todorov does not establish the existence

of a genre that can accurately be labelled “the fantastic”.

Ziolkowski speaks of “.....fantasy as a literary genre and

the fantastic as a mode of perception .......” [7] Todorov

indeed seems to assign to what he calls “the fantastic”

both as an ephemeral existence within the bounds of any

P a g e | 13

literary text in which it is employed, and a limited

historical existence.

“The fantastic is that hesitationexperienced by a person who knows only thelaws of nature, confronted by an apparentlysupernatural event”. [8]

Todorov sees this hesitation as affecting both character

and reader; and asserts that the resolution of the

ambiguity or hesitation is the end of the fantastic in that

particular work.

“At the story’s end the reader .......opts for one solution or the other, andthereby emerges from the fantastic. .......[which] seems to be located on the frontierof two genres, the marvellous and theuncanny, rather than to be an autonomousgenre”. [9]

Todorov’s terms marvellous and uncanny describe two of

the sorts of fiction more loosely labelled “Fantasy”. He

cites the works of Clara Reeve and Ann Radcliffe from the

Gothic horror genre as examples of the uncanny, since in

these the horrors are found to be attributable to human

machination and are to that extent naturalistic. For

examples of the marvellous he turns to the romances of

P a g e | 14

Horace Walpole, MG Lewis and Mathurin; in these writers the

supernatural is conceived of as literally present. The

distinction drawn here is an important one and recurs

throughout the Fantasy field, some Fantasy tales being

explained as dreams or imaginings of their protagonists,

and some as actual experience. At this point it is also

important to note Todorov’s emphasis on the reader’s

reaction to Fantasy, “..... that ambiguous

perception .....” [10] that the story later resolves. This

will be seen to be directly relevant to the question of

children’s relationship to Fantasy. Todorov feels there

are a few texts that can be considered purely fantastic in

the sense of sustaining their ambiguity up to and beyond

the end of the story. The example he suggests is James’

The turn of the Screw. [11] in which it is impossible to decide

whether the two “ghosts” are exactly that or rather some

kind of hallucination on the part of the governess, the two

children, or all three. These three elements – ambiguity,

hesitation, resolution – are important in Fantasy that is

intended for children. Todorov’s insight into the way the

fantastic disappears when the hesitation is resolved,

P a g e | 15

should be held in mind when considering the function and

value of Fantasy for children.

Meanwhile, it should not be forgotten that Todorov

also limited the fantastic to a specific period in

literature;

“It appeared in a systematic way aroundthe end of the eighteenth century ....... acentury later we find the last aestheticallysatisfying examples of the genre .....” [12]

Others of the writers considered in this section express

the opinion that the incidence of Fantasy and the fantastic

in literature is declining; this is in marked contrast to

what the author quoted (pp 9-10) above had to say about the

increase in the literature since the nineteen-sixties. The

contradiction may be explained by the failure of most

authors to give serious critical consideration to works

intended for children, and by the wide degree of variation

in individual opinions as to what may validly be considered

Fantasy, or indeed, what may validly be considered

literature. Todorov never seriously applied himself to the

question of what Fantasy is, although many of the points he

considers are in fact related closely to the search for

P a g e | 16

such a definition. Other critics in the field have

considered more directly the nature of Fantasy and have

sought specifically for ways of defining it.

Eric Rabkin, in The fantastic in literature, [13] is said by

Ziolkowski to attempt to close the gap between Fantasy and

the fantastic, in that he sees the fantastic manifesting

itself in several literary genres while occupying a central

place in Fantasy works. [14] Rabkin’s definition of the

fantastic has a different emphasis from Todorov’s;

“One of the distinguishing marks of thefantastic is that the perspectives enforcedby the ground rules of the narrative world [myitalics] must be diametricallycontradicted”. [15]

Todorov suggests that “hesitation” occurs when the reader

encounters something that does not accord with the ground

rules of the objective or extra-textual world. Rabkin’s

confinement of the fantastic to what happens within the

text, necessarily leads to his excluding from the

definition of Fantasy that he evolves, many kinds of

stories, most notably fairy-tales, that by other standards

would be adjudged to be Fantasies. For Rabkin the finest

example of a Fantasy is the Alice sequence by Lewis Carroll

P a g e | 17

[16], which “continues to reverse its ground rules time and

again”. This obviously does not hold true for works like

The lord of the Rings [17] or the Earthsea trilogy [18], in which

inner consistency of the imagined world is one of the

authors’ prime concerns. Yet these two works are among

those perhaps most likely to be named as Fantasies, by the

general reader. Rabkin himself partly qualifies his

definition when he says “..... a narrative world may itself

offer a diametric reversal of the ground-rules of the

extra-textural world .....” [19] He is here discussing what

he calls “escape literature”, which he sees as fantastic

but not quite Fantasy. Yet by carrying the concept of

“reversal” outside the textual world at all Rabkin shows

awareness of the need for a wider view than his original

definition allows.

“........ Fantasy, the genre whosecentre and concern, whose primaryenterprise, is to present and consider thefantastic. But in varying measure, everynarrative that uses the fantastic is markedby Fantasy, and offers us a fantasticworld”. [20]

P a g e | 18

A natural development from this definition is the

sliding scale or continuum of literary types to which

Rabkin constantly refers once he has introduced it. This

consists of a horizontal line at the extreme right of which

is placed “pure” Fantasy [according to Rabkin] and at the

extreme left of which is placed “realistic fiction”.

Rabkin takes realistic fiction to be narrative whose main

concern is to represent as accurately as possible the

condition of everyday life. Close to the Fantasy end of

the line Rabkin places detective fiction and science

fiction; but neither fairy-tale nor Romance comes close,

since Rabkin feels these offer “.....a stable world that

does not produce continuing astonishment and does not

reverse its own ground-rules ....”. [21] Yet he admits

elsewhere that the “.... fairy-tale operates by a kind of

clarity that is the diametric reversal of the shades and

nuances of the extra-textual world”. [22] Despite Rabkin’s

efforts towards tidying up the untidy area of the

definition of Fantasy, he still leaves much that is vague.

His conclusion that

P a g e | 19

“A real Fantasy uses the fantastic soessentially and so constantly that one neverescapes its grip into the security of afully tamed world for more than a moment”,[23]

is too purist to be wholly workable. Both it and the

continuum of more and less fantastic works that Rabkin

develops in order to sustain it are at odds with what the

publishers’ lists reveal of the reading public’s

expectations when the term “fantasy” is employed. The very

works of Romance and imitation fairy-tale that Rabkin

dismisses are dominant in the public imagination. And

Rabkin himself is constantly hinting at the possibility of

wider definitions, even noting towards the end of his book

that;

“A minimally fantastic work ofart ..... is still somewhat fantastic justbecause it is a work of art and thereforeoffers us a safe, controlled world in whichcaution is unnecessary and where we canafford to suspend disbelief”. [24]

But if fiction is by nature fantastic in that it offers

safety and control, what of Rabkin’s cherished concept of

P a g e | 20

the diametric reversal of ground rules, of constant

surprises and unexpectedness, as the chief characteristics

of the fantastic? This muddled thought and the

dogmatically narrow nature of Rabkin’s neatly-contrived

model, combine to make his study less than helpful in terms

of providing an authoritative and flexible guide to the

nature of the works currently being offered to children and

adolescents as “Fantasy”. Yet the following quotation from

his book will serve both as a statement towards an

assessment of the value of that fiction, and as an

introduction to the next critic to be considered, W R

Irwin;

“Although the dictionary may define thefantastic as “not real or based on reality”,the fantastic is important precisely becauseit is wholly dependent upon reality for itsexistence”. [25]

Irwin’s The Game of the Impossible [26] is subtitled “A

Rhetoric of Fantasy” and it is to the nature of literary

Fantasy, rather than to the related topic of the fantastic

in literature, that he directly addresses himself. His

P a g e | 21

characterisation of Fantasy as a game recalls W H Auden’s

description of poetry as “an ordered and meaningful game”

[27]; for Irwin does not imply that Fantasy is frivolous,

but that it achieves its serious purpose by deliberately

stepping outside or alongside the real and looking back at

it. To this extent it is like all games and make-believe.

He goes further than Rabkin (in 25 above) on the

relationship of Fantasy to reality;

“But until the reader has used thestory for some kind of critique of what itopposes, the experience that the fantasyenables is incomplete”.

Here Irwin refers us back also to Ziolkowski’s point

about “Ethical insight”. [29] Fantasy does have a serious

purpose; like realistic fiction it seeks to illuminate the

nature of the objective world, although it differs from

realism in its use of the objectively impossible, of

alternate worlds and weird social structures, alien beings

and imaginary situations, to achieve that illumination.

Indeed for Irwin, Rabkin’s suggestion that a story

“may ..... offer a diametric reversal of the real world”

[30] is the basic point about Fantasy, its chief

P a g e | 22

characteristic and the reason that it has anything of value

to say to readers. Irwin says;

“Fantasy can, I believe, be perceivedas a distinguishable mode in prose fiction,more than the infusion of certain kinds ofmaterial into a variety of narrative modes”.[31]

This allows the much wider definition of Fantasy,

evidenced in publisher’s lists and librarians’ shelf-

arrangements, to begin to operate in the critical

assessments of such works and in the attempt to define and

order them. To narrow the definition is not to ease the

task, but rather to leave a lot of vexed questions as to

how to define and evaluate any works left outside the

carefully evolved and neatly expressed definition. One

does not really begin to evaluate, for example, The Lord of

the Rings, simply by evolving, like Rabkin, a system

according to which it is not a Fantasy or, like Irwin, a

system according to which it may be.

However, both these authors and the others to be

considered here do concern themselves with function and

P a g e | 23

purpose of Fantasy as well as with the mechanics of

classification. Rabkin, referring to children although he

has not made them an important part of his study, has this

to say; “It is clear even to adults that at least for

children fantastic worlds are useful mirrors”. (My italics) [32]

This is in close accord with Irwin’s idea of Fantasy

as serious gaming, as a reaction against and comment upon

the real world that may help us more clearly to understand

reality. For Irwin, Fantasy relates to and comments upon

the deepest and most serious concerns of humanity;

“The propositions against which afantasist makes counter-demonstration arenot stereotypes of limited duration ........but rather general truths and conventions ofunderstanding reality so widely accepted asto be supra-historical”. [33]

Fantasy makes us look again at ourselves and at our

world. It also makes us look again at how we look at

ourselves sand at our world, and why. As Rabkin expresses

it “..... the problem of human knowing infects fantasies at

all levels .....”. [34]

P a g e | 24

Having begun to glimpse some of the ideas current

about the serious nature of Fantasy, it is appropriate to

turn to the long essay by J. R. R. Tolkien, On fairy-stories.

[35] In spite of his use of the very specific term “fairy-

story” (which Rabkin would not see as Fantasy even though

Irwin would), what Tolkien has to say is in fact directly

relevant to the question of the nature and value and

purpose of Fantasy writing.

“The definition of a fairy-story .....does not ..... depend on any definition orhistorical account of elf or Fairy, but uponthe nature of Faërie; the perilous realmitself and the air that blows in thatcountry”. [36]

Behind this admittedly esoteric terminology, and

behind the style which more closely resembles that of

Tolkien’s own fiction that it does the more usual language

of criticism, lies a concept akin to Irwin’s. This is the

concept of Fantasy as an establisher of alternative

possibilities of social organisation or moral structures;

in short, of Otherworlds, derived from, related to and

P a g e | 25

commenting upon the objective reality we live in. The

traditional Otherworld of Fairyland is merely one example

of the ability of humanity to imagine worlds other than our

own.

Tolkien firmly asserts the high seriousness of

Fantasy, emphasising the long endurance of the mode as a

narrative form that speaks deeply to humanity of individual

and social and spiritual concerns. He expounds this at

great length, articulating as central to the nature of

Fantasy things which the three later critics already

studied merely hint at.

“To make a Secondary World inside whichthe green sun will be credible, commandingSecondary Belief, will probably requirelabour and thought, and will certainlydemand a special skill, a kind of Elvishcraft. Few attempt such difficult tasks.But when they are attempted and in anydegree accomplished then we have a rareachievement of art: indeed narrative art,story-making in its primary and most potentmode”. [37]

[And further]“Fantasy ...... is, I think, not a

lower but a higher form of art, indeed themost nearly pure form, and so (whenachieved) the most potent”. [38]

P a g e | 26

There is here a passionate commitment to Fantasy that

we have not found in the other critics. Tolkien is not

writing about a literary phenomenon observed from the

outside, but as a practitioner of the art of Fantasy

writing. (When On fairy-stories was first published only The

Hobbit [39] was extant, but an enormous body of the writings

already existed in manuscript). Besides this, Tolkien is

writing about things that relate to his own religious

beliefs; Fantasy is a high form of art because it re-enacts

the primal act of Creation. The creator of a secondary

world comes closest of all artists to imitating the act of

the Creator of the real world. Tolkien goes so far as to

say, “The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a

larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-

stories”. [40] Whereas Todorov, Rabkin and Irwin emphasised

the technical or methodological characteristics of Fantasy,

Tolkien goes more deeply into the experience of Fantasy for

both reader and creator, so broadening our view. The

effects of Fantasy are in practice inseparable from its

techniques; Todorov’s structural feature, hesitation and

resolution [41], links closely with Tolkien’s affective

P a g e | 27

concept of “Recovery, Escape, Consolation”. Tolkien

perceives Fantasy as supplying the corrective to the sense

of being lost, of not knowing the truth about reality, that

Todorov labels “hesitation”. “Recovery .....” says Tolkien

“..... is the regaining of a clear view”. [43] He suggests

that “.....Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-

stories .....” [44] Here escape is a matter not of evading

reality or shirking responsibility, but of stepping aside

for a short time in order to gain a wider perspective, to

remember that “..... there are more things in heaven and

earth .....” [45] than the merely concrete. Consolation I

believe to be closely parallel to Todorov’s “resolution of

hesitation”, but as an effect of Fantasy that may carry

over into the reader’s own life-experience, rather than as

a structural device effective only within the limits of the

reader’s experience of the story. Of this effect, which is

for him as much spiritual as aesthetic, Tolkien says;

“..... the joy of the happyending ..... is not essentially “escapist”or “fugitive”. ..... It does not deny thepossibility of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow andfailure: the possibility of these isnecessary to the joy of deliverance; itdenies (in the face of much evidence, if you

P a g e | 28

will) universal final defeat and in so faris evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse ofJoy, Joy beyond the walls of the world,poignant as grief”. [46]

In simpler language, Fantasy is encouraging or

exhortative, and can have an effect on the resolution of

actual doubts and fears in the reader’s life; the

resolution it achieves, in Tolkien’s view, thus going

deeper than the resolution of a problem set up by the

author of a text for the reader’s diversion or

mystification. The implication is of an underlying

positive or consoling tone to Fantasy which is not

suggested by the previous critics. Those who allow that

Fantasy involves some kind of judgement on the objective

world, have not gone so far as Tolkien does when he

suggests that the ultimate result of that stepping back and

looking, must be a strengthened resolve and a deeper hope.

But idiosyncratic as Tolkien’s view may at this stage

appear, there is evidence of agreement with it, implicitly

and explicitly expressed in both the theory and the

practice of the contemporary writers to be studied in later

sections of this thesis.

P a g e | 29

George MacDonald’s influence both on Tolkien and on

Tolkien’s friend C S Lewis was very strong, both as regards

the theory and practice of Fantasy and, in Lewis’ case at

least, in terms of religious belief. [47] Although he was

of a different religious tradition from Tolkien,

MacDonald’s emphasis on the spiritual gives him a shared

belief with Tolkien in the high seriousness and moral

purpose of Fantasy. His brief article The Fantastic Imagination

[48] reveals also an awareness of some of the points raised

by Rabkin and Irwin about the nature and characteristics

not only of traditional fairy-tales but of “..... products

of the imagination .....” [49] or Fantasy writings, in

general. MacDonald leans towards Irwin’s view that

Fantasy worlds derive from the objective world and are

consciously made to differ from it. He also holds that the

imagined world must be consistent to its own inner reality,

rather than reversing expectation as Rabkin suggests. [50]

On the meaning of fairy-tales, MacDonald states;

“It cannot help having some meaning; ifit have proportion and harmony it must havevitality, and vitality is truth. The beautymay be plainer in it than the truth, butwithout the truth the beauty could not be,

P a g e | 30

and the fairy-tale would give no delight”.[51]

MacDonald shares Tolkien’s conviction that Fantasy has

a moral purpose, one inextricably mixed with the functional

operation of the Fantasy in bringing pleasure to the reader

or listener. It is through the joy of the tale that the

“meaning” is conveyed. MacDonald feels the Fantasist’s aim

should be to “..... move by suggestion, to cause to

imagine”; there need be no direct statements of moral or

meaning. This is particularly relevant to the question of

children’s experience of Fantasy, and MacDonald refers

explicitly to the sharing of such tales by mother and

child. Both MacDonald and Tolkien agree with Irwin that

Fantasy has a moral purpose and further imply that the fact

of having something to say that is specifically “moral” is

an integral feature of the Fantasy mode.

C N Manlove’s Modern Fantasy; five studies [52] adds little

to the debate about the nature of Fantasy. In his

Introduction, Manlove supplies this definition;

“..... a fantasy is: a fiction evokingwonder and continuing a substantial and irreducible

P a g e | 31

element of the supernatural with which the mortalcharacters of the story or the readers become on at leastpartly familiar terms”. [53]

There is nothing here that the previous authors would

want to quarrel with very violently; although it is put

together in slightly different terms, using “supernatural”

where Rabkin might use “fantastic” and Tolkien perhaps

“sub-created”. Yet Manlove’s book does differ

substantially from those already considered, in several

ways. Firstly, it devotes only the very brief Introduction

and Conclusion to any general consideration of the nature

of Fantasy, being concerned with the exposition and

assessment of the work of the five authors chosen for

study. Secondly, it is very much writer-orientated, with

far less interest taken in the technical workings or

devices of Fantasy, or its effect upon the reader, than in

the psychological study of the authors. The book might

more accurately be entitled, “Modern Fantasists”. Thirdly,

Manlove does not seem particularly committed to Fantasy nor

particularly to enjoy it. In this he is marked off from

the previous authors— not just the deeply committed Tolkien

P a g e | 32

—for all of them accept the basic premise that Fantasy is a

valid literary mode and a valuable one. Manlove, after his

studies of Kingsley, MacDonald, C S Lewis, Tolkien and

Peake, decides “.....not one of the people we have looked

at sustains his original vision .....” [54], and suggests

that this is inevitable because of the nature of Fantasy.

He feels Fantasy will not work in the modern age, that its

aims and methods are as like anachronistic, relying upon a

system of beliefs and assumptions that are meaningless in a

contemporary context. This is an interesting point of

view; providing a valuable corrective in its assertion of

the irrelevance of Fantasy after several writers who accept

the basic assumption of its relevance. For Manlove,

Fantasy is escapist in the pejorative sense, a self-

indulgence by the author. He reaches this conclusion by

studying each man’s Fantasy in the context of his stated

aims and ideals for his writing. Much attention is given

to what is known of the life and character of each writer.

Manlove perceived in each author both failure to sustain

the imaginative vision, and failure to achieve integration

of the personality. In each he finds indecisiveness and

P a g e | 33

inconsistency at both professional and personal levels of

their lives, so that their Fantasies become for him a

record of their personal weaknesses and failings. It seems

that personalities of this type, and the Fantasy mode of

writing in itself, are hard for Manlove to relate to.

Tolkien suggests that either one has a taste for this kind

of fiction, or one has not. [55] Manlove’s personal taste

does not seem to incline in this direction. Yet no

critical assessment of literature can hope to be totally

objective, and Manlove’s subjective distaste does not

invalidate his conclusions. He has revealed the greatest

dangers inherent in the Fantasy mode. These are; self-

indulgence, escapism in the negative sense of the flight

from reality, and an idealised or oversimplified view of

the past. The major writers Manlove considers are

relatively free from these faults in comparison with some

who produce Fantasy intended for children today; though

perhaps no Fantasist can hope consistently to avoid all the

dangers.

Another critic who shares Manlove’s dissatisfaction

with Tolkien is Christine Brooke-Rose. [56] Her book is

P a g e | 34

rather muddled and rambling and she seems never to commit

herself to one particular view of what Fantasy is. Instead

she summarises the ideas of other critics, notably those of

structuralist persuasion. By far the clearest and most

useful part of A rhetoric of the unreal is her own analysis of The

turn of the screw. She displays very little sympathy for

Tolkien’s style of Fantasy, making several errors of fact

in her remarks on The Lord of the Rings. She seems to feel that

it would have been better if Tolkien had written a

different sort of book. To this extent she provides some

sort of support for Manlove, but her work fails to add

anything to the general definition of Fantasy.

Rosemary Jackson, in Fantasy; the literature of subversion

agrees broadly with Todorov, Rabkin and Irwin in terms of

definitions of Fantasy and the fantastic. Like Todorov,

she is particularly interested in the Gothic period, and

within it, in its dominant image of the double or other

self. On the wider question of what Fantasy does and how

it functions, she emphasises, as do both Rabkin and Irwin,

its essential dependence on the objective world;

P a g e | 35

“..... a literary fantasy is producedwithin, and determined by, its socialcontext. Though it might struggle againstthe limits of this context, often beingarticulated upon that very struggle, itcannot be understood in isolation from it”.[58]

It cannot be emphasised too strongly that, although

Irwin speaks of the fantasist getting outside the objective

world in order to comment upon it, this freedom is, as

Jackson emphasises, merely relative and totally dependent

upon the given contexts of the writer’s culture and

personality. The fantasist may say to the reader; “What if

we could escape the limits of everyday reality? Let us

imagine we have temporarily escaped those limits”. What

she or he cannot say is “Look; we have actually got away”.

Space exploration continues to lead to Mars, not to

Malacandra. [59] The critique of “reality” offered by

Fantasy fiction is no more objective than that offered by

socio-realistic fiction. Ursula LeGuin’s insight into the

human condition is not qualitatively different from Jane

Austen’s or George Eliot’s. The differences lie in the

techniques and devices of the literary modes used to

express those insights.

P a g e | 36

Jackson, although starting from a different set of

assumptions from the religiously-based ones of Tolkien and

MacDonald, holds almost as serious a view of the role of

Fantasy in life and culture as do the two Christian

thinkers. What she intends by her emphasis on “subversion”

in her title, is to bring out what she sees as a social

responsibility on the part of the Fantasist. To some

extent the Fantasist should be a revolutionary;

“The fantastic traces the unsaid andthe unseen of culture, that which has beensilenced, made invisible, covered over andmade “absent””. [60]

This is a highly purposeful approach, that expects

Fantasy to bring out into the open the repressions and

hypocrisies and self-deceptions of society, with a view to

ameliorating them. This emphasis leads Jackson to share

Manlove’s hesitation and doubt about the type of “.....

fantasy which is more properly described as faery or

romance literature”. [61] She sees in Tolkien and others

who write in this vein something of the attempt to retreat

P a g e | 37

from the difficulties of reality that Manlove hints at.

She quotes with approval Sartre’s remark;

“In a secular culture, fantasy .....does not invent supernatural religions, butpresents a natural world inverted intosomething strange, something “other” .....turning from transcendental exploration totranscriptions of a human condition”. [62]

Jackson shares Sartre’s implied apposition of

“transcendental” with “human condition”; she has earlier

used the term “transcendental” almost abusively, in her

discussion and rejection of the traditional mode of

critical writing on Fantasy. [63] Like Manlove, she has a

strong personal preference for certain forms of Fantasy and

fantastic literature, and finds it hard to allow any

validity to the modes chosen by authors who write according

to different priorities. She states;

“The moral and religious allegories,parables and fables informing the stories ofKingsley and Tolkien move away from theunsettling implications which are found atthe centre of the purely “fantastic”. Theiroriginal impulse may be similar, but theymove away from it, expelling their desireand frequently displacing it into religiouslongings and nostalgia. Thus they defuseany potentially disturbing, anti-socialdrives and retreat from any profound

P a g e | 38

confrontation with existential dis-ease”.[64]

In other words, these writers are self-indulgent and

irresponsible, failing to do what fantasists ought to be

doing. Jackson’s point of view can be understood and

agreed with up to a point; and certainly it is no adequate

answer to her objections simply to state bluntly, “I, for

one, have found that a confrontation with existential dis-

ease is exactly what (good) romance fantasy has provided”.

There is a gap here between the religious and non-religious

assumptions about life that must inevitably cause

misunderstandings in any area, not merely the literary. In

the light of this unease on Jackson’s part about romance,

it is ironical that I have seen in her earnestness towards

Fantasy a similarity with Tolkien’s and MacDonald’s

attitudes; yet it is there, though Jackson might not

perceive it. What needs to be said in defence of the

“transcendentalists” is that they are not writing in a

secular context and that for them the step into religion is

not a retreat but an engagement, not a way out of life but

a way in, not conservative but potentially revolutionary.

P a g e | 39

It all depends on how it takes you. Reactions to the

romance style of fiction are as deeply subjective as all

human reactions. From the first publication of The Lord of

the Rings, for example, the cries of acclaim and the cries of

“Rubbish!” have been equally loud. Edmund Wilson was

totally unable to perceive any good in it, W H Auden one of

the most notable of those who wrote in its praise. [65] All

one can conclude is that there are many different strands

of Fantasy writing, some more closely related to each other

than others; and that their aims and methods differ as

widely as do the reactions to them of both critics and

readers.

The last two decades have seen the publication of

hundreds of periodical articles on a wide range of general

and specific topics in Fantasy – too many for more than a

small selection to be considered here. Robert Branham’s

Principles of the imaginary milieu [66] contains some interesting

reflections on many of the points raised in the monographs

already considered. He is mainly interested in the nature

of the sub-created world and its relationship to the extra-

textual reality. One of his most relevant remarks,

P a g e | 40

especially as regards children’s relationship to Fantasy,

is that the landscapes and structures of the imagined world

are frequently made to embody moral and philosophical

argument. Also;

“Actions in Fantasy are the outgrowthsof characterised human motivation which,although not directly symbolic of earthlyconcerns, are universal in theirapplicability. The battle lines drawnwithin fantasy are indicative ofphilosophical division; represented materialmotivation is itself a value-set which infantasy must be recognised.

The mere physical make up of thefantastic genre thus provides an isolationof moral argument represented therein and aperceptual focus upon it once identified”.[67]

Branham here supports the view that fantasy has

something useful to say, some moral comment to make, about

the real world. He focuses upon the pervasiveness of the

moral objective within Fantasy, the way it conditions

landscape, plot and character. Examples that come to mind

are the expressive landscapes in Tolkien, the Desolation of

the Dragon and the barren approaches to Mordor; [68] and

Donaldson’s, expressive of the moral condition of its

inhabitants. [69] One should perhaps also refer back to

P a g e | 41

Jane Mobley’s reference to one of the potential weaknesses

of Fantasy; that characters may dwindle to mere symbols

under pressure of the author’s desire to embody in them a

moral vision. [70] This is a marked difference between

Fantasy and realistic fiction. The realist presents as

accurately as possible a carefully individualised

character, and guides the reader to draw from observation

of the character any general moral conclusions that may be

intended. The Fantasist is harder put to it to

individualise characters to any marked degree, as each

tends to embody some cluster of general characteristics or

moral principle. Thus Sauron embodies Evil and Gandalf,

Good; with the result that Sauron is not characterised or

individualised at all for fear of rendering him even in the

slightest degree “sympathetic”, while Gandalf has many

archetypal character-traits of the Merlin figure, of Odin,

and of the Wise Old Helper. [Admittedly these do combine into a

much more individualised character than Sauron! (2015)] [71]

Branham also supports Tolkien’s notion of “Recovery”

as an important function of Fantasy; the recovery of a

“clear view”. [72]

P a g e | 42

“The business of Fantasy is totransplant the idea intact to an aliensocio-cultural milieu, leaving its previousassociations behind”. [73]

Branham calls this process defamiliarisation, although it

might equally well be described as “familiarisation” or

“refamiliarisation”, since the aim is to confront the

reader directly with the idea, without the associations and

reservations that condition human response in the real

world. So we may see more clearly both the idea or ideal

and our own reaction or allegiance to it. As an

oversimplified example, if Gandalf = Good and Sauron = Evil,

then it is impossible to mistake which side we “ought” to

be on within the fictional world. This may carry over to

reinforce our sense of allegiance to “Good” in the

objective world. This is largely a question of reinforcing

learned patterns; we are not likely suddenly to decide that

Sauron is right after all, as the skill of the story-teller

has gone into weighting the balance in favour of “Good”.

If it is revolutionary at all, this particular Fantasy may

be so only in terms of strengthening or rendering more

forceful allegiances already held. Yet it may be possible

P a g e | 43

for this isolating function of Fantasy to cast a clearer

light upon an obscure moral area, to bring out into the

open and render less simplistic through the very act of

simplifying or polarising, some accepted tenant of everyday

morality. Such a story is The ones who walk away from Omelas by

Ursula K LeGuin. [74] There is no individualised

characterisation there and very little by way of plot; the

interest is in the imagined social structure of Omelas.

This fair and noble city is a haven for the arts, sports,

every cultural activity revered by humankind.

Unfortunately, LeGuin reveals, the continued existence of

this ideal city depends upon the confinement in isolation,

hunger, cold and neglect of one single child, one scapegoat

selected arbitrarily for a lifetime’s deprivation. Very

few people do walk away when they learn the basis upon

which their desirable life-style is maintained. Most

acquiesce for the sale of the status quo and its physical

and cultural delights. This isolation of an idea brings

alive in all its hypocritical complacence the acquiescence

of the majority within Western culture who know quite well

that their privileged life-style depends directly upon the

P a g e | 44

suffering and exploitation of millions in the less

developed parts of the world. Like the scape-goat child of

Omelas, these masses are pushed away out of sight, in areas

of our minds that are kept locked, like the child’s cellar.

Once this powerful story has forced the unlocking of the

mental door, it is hard to reassume the self-induced

blindness upon which depend complacency and equanimity in

the face of a real and enormous injustice. LeGuin has made

us admit to a moral double-think that we had hoped might

remain below the level of active thought. For some

readers, the shock of this self-confrontation is enough to

affect directly their awareness of conditions in the actual

sold around them and their reactions to those conditions.

A realistic writer would have striven to record for the

reader the minutiae of life in the Third World; the

Fantasist achieves her effect by encouraging in the reader

an imaginative leap into awareness of injustice by showing

the idea transplanted to the alien milieu, isolated and

bereft as far as is possible of the contextual associations

of everyday reality.

P a g e | 45

For certain people, though not for all, it is

precisely the imaginative approach that most deeply

stimulates thought. Marion Montgomery [75] writes of

“.....the imagination’s access to the deepest realities of

existence” [my italics]. She is referring to that ability

of Fantasy to isolate and make accessible to the reader

fundamental moral or spiritual issues that Branham

described. To some extent therefore, she is applying the

term “reality” to what is found in Fantasy rather than to

what is found outside it, applying something like the

Platonic idea of a higher or ideal reality beyond the

concrete or physical or social organism. Other writers

share this viewpoint, Helen Cresswell, herself a

distinguished writer of Fantasy for children, states;

“I have never been able to understandthe distinction that some people will insiston making between so-called fantasy and so-called reality. It seems to be that if weexperience something it is real and whetherit is fantasy or reality is beside thepoint”. [76]

P a g e | 46

This is very far removed from Todorov’s approach. His

concern was to analyse the effect and operation of a

transitory function within a literary text. Cresswell sees

the experience of Fantasy fiction as an integral part of

life-experience and therefore to be considered primarily in

those terms. Janet MacNeill, in an article recalling her

own childhood pleasure in the kinds of books that “.....

demanded not just a willing suspension of disbelief but an

appetite for it .....” [77], emphasises the same feelings

about the importance of Fantasy;

“Whatever else Fantasy is it isn’tescapism and it’s much tougher than whimsy.There must be in underlying truth whichjustifies it. Fantasy enriches fact: things thatare become much more solid when oneconsiders what they might be”. [my italics][78]

So Fantasy does not merely step outside “reality” and look

back at it; it interacts with reality and our perceptions

of reality, and may possibly affect at least our

perceptions; perhaps, through them, the structures of

reality. Katherine Stockholder, after showing that she

regards all fiction as to some extent fantastic, also

P a g e | 47

emphasises the function of Fantasy in the lives of

individuals;

“To read and involve ourselves inliterature, and to understand the nature ofour involvement, can be seen as a kind ofpractice in understanding ourselves”. [80]

It is in this area of understanding ourselves that

Ursula LeGuin, in her article “Fantasy, like poetry, speaks

the language of the night”, adds to the definition of

Fantasy a dimension we have not yet considered;

“..... written fantasy translates intoverbal images and coherent narrative formsthe intuitions and perceptions of theunconscious mind – body language,dreamstuff, primary process thinking. Thiswe all seem to share, whether we speakEnglish or Urdu, whether we’re five oreighty-five. The witch, the dragon, thehero; the night journey, the helpful animal,the hidden treasure ..... we all know them,we recognise them (because, if Jung isright, they represent profound and essentialmodes of thought). Modern fantasy attemptsto translate them into modern words”. [81]

So for LeGuin the Otherworlds of the Fantasists give a

pseudo-geographical, sociological and ideological location

to the contents of the subconscious; individual and

P a g e | 48

collective. This is why Fantasy is important and how it

works. When it steps away from the everyday, it steps into

the normally buried world of the unconscious, what is

denied and repressed in the individual and so, as Jackson

suggested, denied and repressed in society. What is

present to the senses is only one form of reality, one

aspect of human experience. Achieving and maintaining a

clear view necessitates taking account of the subconscious

dimensions of experience, and this is what Fantasy helps us

to do. Far from being isolated from reality, it serves to

bring out into the open a deeper reality whose vital role

in human psychic and social health or balance is not always

fully understood.

Having looked at some of the available criticism of

contemporary Fantasy, some of it written by people who

themselves are currently producing Fantasy fiction, it

seems useful to ask why both Todorov and Rabkin recorded

their opinions that Fantasy is a dying form. [82] This is

partly due to Todorov’s very narrow definition of the

fantastic in fiction, and partly to the limitation these

critics have set on themselves of leaving out of

P a g e | 49

consideration the large body of Fantasy work intended for

children. But even this very limited survey has borne out

the claims of the unnamed author of the preface to Fantasy

literature; a core collection and reference guide [83] that Fantasy is in

fact a lively and growing area of literary activity. The

answer to this paradox may perhaps be found in Tolkien’s

common-sense point that Fantasy is largely a matter of

taste. [84] If Fantasy is not important to you, or if the

dominant mode of Fantasy in the current literary scene is

not to your taste, then you will not accord it much

significance on your personal literary map. It is

perfectly possible for critics not to notice or admit to

the existence of Fantasy as a serious literary genre at

all, (or those of Children’s fiction, Science Fiction,

Westerns, Romances written to formula for the supposed

average housewife, or detective fiction). What is the

highest form of art to one is rubbish to another. For some

of the writers we have studied, Fantasy is a permanent

feature not only of fiction but of the human condition and

human psychology. For others it is an interesting enough

literary phenomenon to which we feel no deep personal

P a g e | 50

commitment. One cannot imagine Rabkin, competent and

informed though his work is, arranging as Tolkien did to

have himself buried under the name of a Fantasy character

of his own creation. [85] Nor is it necessary that he

should. Out of the varied approaches and philosophies we

have studied it should be possible for us now to summarise

the nature and content and function of Fantasy in a way

that will form the basis for practical criticism of the

works chosen for study later in this thesis. We should be

able to see to what extent we have gone “There and back

again” [86] in terms of the quotation from Ziolkowski that

opened this section.

Fantasy fiction, then, introduces to the reader’s

awareness, through the awareness of a character or directly

through the narrative, something which is by the standards

of the reader’s everyday experience unreal, impossible,

against nature, supernatural. This is most frequently done

by the creation of an alternative reality or Otherworld

within which all or most of the action of the fiction takes

place. Sometimes the unreal elements may irrupt into an

otherwise realistic fictional setting, instead. The

P a g e | 51

alternative reality relates by comparison and contrast with

the objective world. This comparison and contrast may

directly or indirectly affect the reader’s understanding or

perception of reality. There is often a strong moral, and

in some cases religious or philosophical concern, in a

Fantasy. The reader’s attention is focused back onto the

objective reality with the intention that she or he may

more clearly perceive and evaluate the moral issues extant

in society. Although charges of escapism have been

levelled against Fantasy, its defenders argue that it

provides a way into the understanding of life and perhaps

towards coping more efficiently with life. Some assert

that Fantasy is in fact the most effective fictional form

in terms of enabling individual growth and through that,

potential changes in society. This is said to result from

Fantasy’s tendency to deal not with the minutely

particular, as realistic fiction does, but with general,

universal, and eternal verities. It may be argued that

Fantasy deals directly with the unconscious levels of human

knowledge and experience and that these are necessarily

universal in their applicability. The conflict between the

P a g e | 52

two views – that Fantasy is escapist, and that it is the

least escapists of literary forms – is a very subjective

one and cannot be resolved here. It is and must inevitably

remain a matter of taste. What matters is the definition

of Fantasy as a genre or sub-type of fiction that seeks to

illuminate the conditions of human society by stepping in

imagination outside that society into a world in which

events and beings will be encountered that have no

counterpart in actual physical reality; although they may

be expressive of psychic realities or moral truths. This

definition does indeed accord well enough with

Ziolkowski’s;

“..... literary genre whose effect isthe ethical insight stemming from ourcontemplation of an otherworld governed bysupernatural laws”. [87]

Yet there is still one matter to be resolved before we

have a sufficiently broad and deep working model to refer

to when assessing particular works of Fantasy fiction now

available. None of the writers we have referred to has

undertaken to delineate the sub-types or divisions within

the Fantasy genre itself, although each has made references

P a g e | 53

indicative of an awareness of the existence of such

subdivisions. I have already mentioned the unsatisfactory

nature of the subdivisions proposed by Ruth Lynn. [88]

Fortunately, the bibliography Fantasy literature; a core collection

and reference guide [89] provides in its section “On Fantasy”

an acceptable system of subdivision and labelling of the

types of Fantasy. This will provide a structural framework

within which to characterise and place the works to be

assessed.

Firstly, Fantasy is [at the time of writing (21015)] divided

into “High Fantasy” and “Low Fantasy”. These are not

qualitative but methodological distinctions. “High”

Fantasy is that which is set in some secondary world, a

world imagined by the author specifically to serve as the

setting for the action of the Fantasy. Examples are

Tolkien’s Middle Earth and LeGuin’s Earthsea. “Low”

Fantasy is set in the primary or objective world, our own

world, and the “non-rational phenomena” that characterise

Fantasy fiction irrupt into the everyday scene. A famous

example of this is James’ Turn of the Screw. The secondary

worlds of High Fantasy may exist in imagined isolation from

P a g e | 54

the primary world, as does Earthsea, or there may be

provision by the author for movement of characters between

the two worlds, as between C S Lewis’ Narnia and England.

“The secondary world, then, with itsdiscernible though nonrational causality, iswhat characterises high fantasy. Lowfantasy, on the contrary, featuresnonrational happenings that are withoutcausality or explanation because they occurin the rational world where such things arenot supposed to occur. This aspect of lowfantasy is what accounts for its ability toshock or surprise the reader into horror orlaughter. ...... we are not concerned inthis volume with the horrors or laughter orlearning of low fantasy; rather, we areintent upon experiencing the “awe andwonder” (Tolkien’s terms) afforded by highfantasy”. [90]

The distinction made here implies a preferential

assessment, although not a qualitative one; the authors

have limited the scope of their guide to High Fantasy

because some limitation is essential in the terms of space,

and, by implication, because “awe and wonder” seem to them

more worthy of consideration than horror or humour. The

emphasis of tis present work will fall upon High Fantasy as

defined above, and upon Low Fantasies hat are concerned

rather with awe and wonder than with humour and shock.

P a g e | 55

Preference is unquestionably one of the factors at work in

the choice of that emphasis. However, a further

examination of the characteristics of High Fantasy will

reveal two more objective reasons for interest in it. In

terms of its literary descent and its contemporary

relevance, High Fantasy stands out as a significant and

coherent literary phenomenon worthy of serious

investigation. Something will be said in the next two

sections of this thesis about the contemporary relevance of

High Fantasy fiction to the lives of young readers. Here

it should be noted that the authors of the guide have this

to say about the literary origins of the genre;

“....... the two classes of highfantasy, based on the type of non-rationalcausality present, are myth fantasy(supernatural causality) and faery-talefantasy (magical causality).”

As examples here we might choose Tolkien for myth

fantasy, since the events in Middle-Earth are watched and

guided by the Ainur under the sovereignty of Eru Iluvatar;

with LeGuin for faery-tale fantasy, since Earthsea is

governed by magical causality with no evidence for the

existence of divine beings, and with rule in the hands of

P a g e | 56

the Mages who can to some extent control the forces of the

world. This mode of writing evokes and is built upon the

traditional forms of literary expression with which it

shares its labels and much of its technique, notably the

isolating of moral ideas and the externalising or

personifying in individual characters of various states of

consciousness or personality traits. The guide refers back

[92] to epic and romance as well as to myth and to

traditional folk and fairy-tales, explicitly connecting

them as part of one literary bent, one way of writing, one

way of approaching the task of making sense of reality

through fiction. Epics and romances are referred to as

“two of the older kinds of high fantasy”; perhaps a less

partial literary judgement might express this in reverse

and emphasise the degree to which modern High Fantasy is a

continuation of an ancient tradition that has its origins

in oral literature. Some Low Fantasy also draws on these

sources for its themes and motifs. I hope later in this

thesis to draw together the two strands of ancestry and

relevance in a discussion of the part this type of fiction

might play in the growth to self-awareness of the young

P a g e | 57

reader; bringing out at that time both formal and thematic

emphases. Meanwhile a working model has been adopted which

will facilitate the description and assessment of the texts

to be examined later in the thesis.

P a g e | 58

Notes and references: Chapter 1; Fantasy and the Fantastic

in fiction.

1. Theodore Ziolkowski, “Otherworlds: fantasy and the

fantastic”. Sewanee Review 86 (1978) 121-129

(Hereafter referred to as “Otherworlds”) p (128).

2. Ruth Nadelman Lynn, Fantasy for children; an annotated checklist

(New York/London: Bowker, 1979)

3. Jane Mobley, “Toward a definition of fantasy

fiction”, Extrapolation 15 (May 1974) 117-128.

4. Jane Mobley, “Toward a definition of fantasy

fiction”, p (127).

5. Marshall B Tymn, Kenneth J. Zahorski and Robert H

Boyer, Fantasy literature; a core collection and reference guide (New

York/London: Bowker, 1979) p ix (Hereafter referred

to as Fantasy literature).

6. Tzvetan Todorov, The fantastic; a structural approach to a literary

genre (Cleveland/London: Case Western Reserve

University Press, 1973). (Hereafter referred to as

The Fantastic).

7. Theodore Ziolkowski, “Otherworlds”, p (124).

P a g e | 59

8. Tzvetan Todorov, The Fantastic, p 25.



11. Henry James, The turn of the screw (New York, 1898).


13. Eric S Rabkin, The fantastic in literature, (Princeton:

Princeton University Press, 1976).


15. Eric S Rabkin, The fantastic in literature, p 8.

16. Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson), Alice’s

adventures in Wonderland (London: MacMillan, 1865 (dated

1866) and Through the looking-glass and what Alice found there

(London: MacMillan, 1871 (dated 1872)).

17. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (London:

George Allen and Unwin, 1954 – 1955).

18. Ursula K LeGuin, The Earthsea Trilogy (London:

Gollancz, 1971 – 1973).


20. Eric S Rabkin, The fantastic in literature, p 41


22. Eric S Rabkin, The fantastic in literature, p 56 - 57.

P a g e | 60




26. W R Irwin, The Game of the Impossible; a rhetoric of fantasy

(Chicago : University of Illinois Press, 1976).

(Hereafter referred to as The game of the impossible.

27. W H Auden, Letter to the author, dated 5th

December 1969.

28. W R Irwin, The game of the impossible, p 76.


30. Eric S Rabkin, The fantastic in literature, P 42.

31. W R Irwin, The game of the impossible, P 58.


33. W R Irwin, The game of the impossible, p 189.


35. J. R. R. Tolkien, On fairy-stories in Essays presented toCharles Williams (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1947)Page references to Tree and Leaf (London: George Allenand Unwin, 1964). The work was originally composedas an Andrew Lang Lecture, and was – in a shorterform – delivered in the University of St. Andrews in1938.

36. J. R. R. Tolkien, On fairy-stories, p 16.


P a g e | 61


39. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit, or, There and Back Again

(London: George Allen and Unwin, 1937). (Hereafter

referred to as The Hobbit). Page references are to the

3rd edition (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1966).


41. See Chapter 1 (above) p 11.

42. J. R. R. Tolkien, On fairy-stories, p 50-61.



45. William Shakespeare, Hamlet Prince of Denmark in

Complete Works (London: Oxford University Press, 1905

(reset 1943)), Act II, Scene V, p 878.


47. Humphrey Carpenter, The Inklings (London: George

Allen and Unwin, 1978). Page references are to the

1981 Unwin Paperback edition. References to the

influence of MacDonald are on pages: 8, 13, 40, 65,

137, 158, and 234.

48. George McDonald, “The Fantastic Imagination”,

Signal 16 (January 1965) 26-32. First published as

the preface to an American edition of Dealings with the

fairies and reprinted in Signal from MacDonald’s

P a g e | 62

collection of essays A dish of orts; chiefly papers on the

imagination and Shakespeare (Edwin Dalton, 1908).

49. George MacDonald, “The fantastic imagination”, p

(28).


51. George MacDonald, “The fantastic in imagination”,

p (29).

52. C N Manlove, Modern fantasy: five studies (Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1975). (Hereafter

referred to as Modern fantasy).

53. C N Manlove, Modern Fantasy, p 1.

54. C N Manlove, Modern Fantasy, p 258.

55. J. R. R. Tolkien, On fairy-stories, p 33-43.

56. Christine Brooke-Rose, A rhetoric of the unreal: studies in

narrative and structure, especially of the fantastic (Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1981). (Hereafter

referred to as A rhetoric of the unreal.)

57. Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy: the literature of subversion

(London: Methuen, 1981). Hereafter referred to as

(Fantasy).

58. Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy, p 3.

P a g e | 63

59. C S Lewis, Out of the silent planet (London: John Lane

the Bodley Head Ltd., 1938). The name Lewis gives to

the planet Mars in this story is Malacandra.




63. Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy, p2.


65. Edmund Wilson, “Oo, those awful orcs” The nation

(14th April 1953) 214-314. W H Auden, “Good and Evil

in The Lord of the Rings” Critical Quarterly 10 (Spring-Summer

1968) 374-375.

66. R J Branham, “Principles of the Imaginary Milieu”

Extrapolation 21 (Winter 1980) 328-337.

67. R J Branham, “Principles of the Imaginary

Milieu”, p (331).

68. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit p 216-217.

And

J. R. R. Tolkien, The two towers; being the second part of the

Lord of the Rings (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1954).

(Hereafter referred to as The two towers). Page

P a g e | 64

references to the second (revised) edition (London:

George Allen and Unwin, 1966). The approach to

Mordor is described on pages 239-240.

69. Stephen Donaldson, The chronicles of Thomas Covenant the

unbeliever (New York: Holt, Rhinehart and Winston, 1977

- ).

70. Jane Mobley, “Notes toward a definition of

fantasy fiction’ p (127).

71. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings.

72. J. R. R. Tolkien, On Fairy-stories, p 52.

73. R J Branham, “Principles of the imaginary

milieu”, p (333).

74. Ursula K LeGuin, The ones who walk away from Omelas in

The wind’s twelve quarters (New York: Harper and Row, 1975).

75. Marion Montgomery, “Prophetic poet and the loss

of Middle-Earth” Georgia Review 33 (Spring 1979) 66-83,

p (78).

76. Helen Cresswell, “If it’s someone from Porlock

don’t answer the door” Children’s literature in Education 4

(March 1971) 32-40, p (33).

P a g e | 65

77. Janet MacNeill, “Enter fairies through a hole in

the hedge” Junior Bookshelf 31 (February 1967) 23-27.

78. Janet MacNeill, “Enter fairies through a hole in

the hedge” p (27).

79. Katherine Stockholder, “Fictions, phantasies and

reality; a re-evaluation” Literature and psychology vol 26

no 1 (1976) 17-30.

80. Katherine Stockholder, “Fictions, phantasies and

reality; a re-evaluation” p (21).

81. Ursula K LeGuin, “Fantasy, like poetry, speaks

the language of the night” World (21st November,

1976).

82. Tzvetan Todorov, The Fantastic, p 166 and Eric S

Rabkin, The fantastic in literature, chapter 11 and

Introduction p x.

83. See note 5 above.

84. J. R. R. Tolkien, On fairy-stories pp 33-43. Tolkien

argues that the response to the fantastic mode is

related to personal taste or inclination, and not to

age.

85. Humphrey Carpenter, J. R. R. Tolkien; a biography, p 159.

P a g e | 66

86. The subtitle of The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien.


88. Ruth Nadelman Lynn, Fantasy for children; an annotated

checklist.

89. Marshall S Tymn, Kenneth J Zahorski and Robert H

Boyer, Fantasy literature (See note 5 above).


Boyer, Fantasy literature pp 6-7


Boyer, Fantasy literature p 12.


Boyer, Fantasy literature p7, 13, 14.

P a g e | 67

Chapter 2: Children and fiction

This section opens with some general remarks on the

process of reading fiction, what happens when someone reads

a fictional work, how it happens and what the significance

of it is. The source for these remarks is an article by D

W Harding (1) whose main argument is a rejection of the

notion of “identification” as an adequate explanation of

what readers do when they experience fiction. Harding sees

the reader as an onlooker, observer and evaluator of the

imagined experience presented in a fiction, just as the

individual is an observer and evaluator of experiences from

the lives of others that may be reported in gossip or

conversation, or that may be directly observed. He allows

that there are four processes involved in reader response

that may be seen as related to the idea of

“identification”. These are; empathy, imitation,

admiration and recognition of similarities. Harding

rejects the view, which he finds over-simplistic, that the

reader “escapes into” or experiences vicariously, the life

imagined in the fiction, as a kind of alternative to direct

experience. He argues that fiction is a direct experience

P a g e | 68

but that, like the observation of the experience of others,

it is of a different kind from the experiences in which an

individual engages personally.

“The process of looking on at andentering into other people’s activity, orrepresentations of it, does enlarge therange, not of the onlooker’s experience butof his quasi-experience and partialunderstanding. For it has to be rememberedthat the subtlest and most empathic insightinto the experience of another person issomething far different from having theexperience oneself”. [2]

What is so exciting about Harding’s approach to

fiction is that it provides an escape route from the well-

worn paths of argument about children; should children read

fiction at all? Does it affect them? Does it affect them

adversely? Is it escapist, a wish-fulfilling avoidance of

“real” life? Harding assumes the relationship between life

and art captured in Barbara Hardy’s telling phrase; “.....

life of which art forms a part rather than an imitation”.

[4] Too many writers have adopted an apologetic tone when

writing about children’s fiction, with the air of making

excuses on the children’s behalf and of justifying to

anxious adults the curious habits of the child who likes to

P a g e | 69

read. This debate has been carried on for centuries in the

terms in which Plato and Aristotle first defined it. Plato

argued that art was a poor thing since it rendered only

pale imitation of life, which itself was a pale imitation

of ideal forms. Aristotle replied that art deserved a

higher valuation than that, insofar as it strove to

represent to humankind, for its contemplation and hopefully

its moral improvement, the ideal forms themselves. [5] Both

Harding and Hardy cut across this system of high-flown

oppositions to suggest, far more simply, that the

representation of remembered events is an aspect of

everyday human activity. It may range from the simple and

unselfconscious (gossip and holiday snaps) to the elaborate

and highly conscious (War and Peace and the ceiling of the

Sistine Chapel).

The monographs and articles I shall use in the rest of

this section, therefore, will be those that have more to

say about children and fiction than the mere recycling of

that old, anxious debate. I hope to draw out positive

conclusions about the relationship between children and

their books, and to reveal the experience of fiction as a

P a g e | 70

valuable and integral part of human experience rather than

some kind of optional extra which may suit some children

but must not be allowed to interfere with “real” life.

This means that many of the extant – and renowned –

monographs on children’s fiction are disqualified from

consideration here because of their approach to the

subject. Some are historical surveys [6] or discuss the

availability of “suitable” works for various age-groups [7]

or even undertake the serious literary criticism of junior

fiction [8]. None of these is quite relevant to this

section, which hopes to elucidate the interaction between

children and their books, or, more plainly, the effect upon

children of the experience of fiction. This will lay the

groundwork both for the succeeding section on children and

Fantasy fiction, and more generally for the whole thesis.

I will examine the notion of responsibility and maturity as

they are represented in certain kinds of modern Fantasy

fiction and the interaction of those representations with

the actual development of growing individuals. My main

emphasis will be upon two recent works. Nicholas Tucker’s

The child and the book [9] is a deepened and broadened summary

P a g e | 71

of his periodical writings on the subject; Fred Inglis’ The

promise of happiness [10] is an idiosyncratic but profound

study of the ways in which books operate upon children.

Tucker adopts a developmental approach. He looks at

“….. the more typical ways in which children seem to

approach and make us of their stories at various ages …..”.

[11] To this end he follows closely throughout the book

Piaget’s theory of developmental stages, although he states

his awareness of the reservations expressed by some other

psychologists as to the soundness of Piaget’s initial

research techniques. Tucker’s emphasis is always on how

books may affect children at certain ages, not on which

books should be offered to then or what responses we should

ideally prefer them to have. His method is meticulous,

careful, never over-assertive, above all emphasising that

the adult trying to judge children’s’ experience of fiction

is doing so from the outside, and can never be dogmatic as

to how a particular book affects a particular reader, nor

why it does so.

Tucker believes [12] that from the earliest time at

which a child can be interested in representative arts, in

P a g e | 72

the combination of words and pictures in books for those

aged one to three, these books serve a dual purpose.

Firstly they are confirmatory and reassuring, showing

imagined equivalents of objects, creatures and situations

that the child has actually met. This helps the child in

the important task of making sense of the impressions of

the world that crowd in upon its developing consciousness.

Secondly, books are challenging, presenting images of

possibilities and exotica that have not been met in direct

experience, and may not be for some time. For example,

many early picture books include pictures of cats. These

are familiar to many young readers in the European culture

group from the domestic scene. Another favourite inclusion

is the elephant, which may well not be seen, even at the

zoo, until the child is older. Thus the book experience

may help to engender in the child a more assured and

confident response to reality, an increased curiosity and

anticipation about life. There is no suggestion that books

lead the child away from life, no hint of escapism or

evasiveness; rather, that books interact with direct

experience, and help the child to grasp the accepted ways

P a g e | 73

of experiencing and interpreting events within the culture-

group. Even picture-books are fiction, the experience of

them is Harding’s “quasi-experience”, but it has a valid

role to play in the fullness of the child’s life. So

Tucker supports the theory that observation of and

reflection upon imagined scenes is indeed a normal human

activity and contributes to the development of the

individual from the earliest days.

As the child grows and begins to have some

understanding of cause and effect, of the sequence of

events, then it will be able to understand stories,

fictions in the everyday sense of the word. [13] Children

from three to seven also enjoy both stories that show the

familiar world around them and stories that stretch the

imagination and ask them to step into different situations.

Tucker reveals at this point his acquiescence in the idea

of vicarious experience. He suggests that fiction helps

children to cope with their own emotions, fears and wishes

by showing them acted out in a safely distanced world and

in a format which renders them non-threatening. He cites

[14] the death of Babar’s mother in Brunhoff’s first book

P a g e | 74

about the little elephant, as an instance of fiction

allowing the child to indulge its own hostility towards the

mother. Harding’s rejection of the idea of vicarious

experience or “identification” in fiction suggests a

reservation on this. [15] It seems more likely that the

child’s observation is at work on the fictional event as

upon the phenomena met in everyday life and that the

growing mind absorbs useful date from both sources. The

child learning about death, indeed, is more likely to do so

from a combination of fictional images such as this with

overheard memories from a parent’s experience or gossip

over the garden fence, than from direct observation of

death itself. All these observed quasi-experiences feed

into and are subordinate to the direct experience of the

young individual; there is no need to posit, as Tucker

does, such a deep personal investment in the events of the

story. Harding would perhaps argue here that the young

reader may well be led by the contemplation of this

fictional death to the realisation that mothers do in fact

die. What the deeper responses of any particular child may

be – from relief to terror- we cannot dogmatically state.

P a g e | 75

Tucker himself, in praising the work of Beatrix Potter

as some of the finest extant for this age-group, makes much

of her lack of sentimentality and refusal to leave out of

her books the “nasty” facts above life. Peter Rabbit

experiences real terror because he knows that Mr McGregor

will kill him if he can, and that his own father was eaten

by the McGregors. Tucker states;

“Moments of fear have their place instories for the young ….. so long as theyare successfully contained by a plot thatends on a reassuring, consoling note. Foryoung readers, the expression of some oftheir own nameless, common anxieties on theprinted page may help to render them morecontrollable, though as always not allchildren will react in the same way”. [16]

If the observation of imagined characters and

situations is to add in a constructive way to the

development of the young, it must be the case that the

imagined scenes should not falsify in the sense of trying

to suggest that only good and pleasant things will be met

with in life. While needless and exaggerated violence in

children’s books is objectionable and weighs the balance

too heavily on the side of pessimism and despair, denial of

the truth of such plain facts as that people eat rabbits,

P a g e | 76

is also wrong. Indeed, such a denial constitutes true

escapism, and fiction of that kind is to be avoided where

possible by those concerned with providing books for young

children.

Tucker’s next step on the developmental path is to

consider the relationships between young readers from seven

– eleven and their fiction. [17] This is the age at which

most children begin to read fiction for themselves, with

lessening intervention from adults. Tucker mentions the

“early need for the safe and predictable” [18] in this age-

group, as children learn to cope with the structure and

behaviour of stories, characters and language, to find

their own way into fictional worlds. He discerns among

children of this age a preference for what he describes as

“the heady world of domestic adventure”, which he explains

as “daydreams of independence”. [19] In developmental terms

this is the stage of “cognitive conceit”, of the child’s

inner conviction that children are superior to adults

“really”, even though in actual family life adults have an

irritating way of getting the upper hand. Harding would

support this, claiming that it is not negative or sterile

P a g e | 77

escapism that children find in adventure fiction but that;

“What is sometimes called wish-fulfilment in novels and

plays can …… more plausibly be described as wish-

formulation or the definition of desires”. [20] In other

words, the contemplation in fiction of a state in which

children have more control over what happens to them than

the reader has, helps to shape and define in the reader the

inbuilt aspiration towards the adult and responsible state.

Although the privileges of adult status may be far more

apparent to the child than its duties and burdens, the

desire is a wholesome one. The striving towards greater

independence and self-reliance, and the struggle that may

involve, is a major component of the later parts of this

study.

Other characteristic features of fiction with a strong

appeal to this age-group are; a strong emphasis on action

and a concern with issues of good and evil. The latter is

usually presented in fairly simplistic or black–and–white

terms, with good characters readily distinguishable from

bad. The two characteristics are interlinked, for children

of this age have little comprehension of motivation or

P a g e | 78

psychology, and judge the characters by their actions. Yet

there is no need for fiction for this age-group to be

stereotyped or dull.

“….. there will still be opportunityhere to start broadening concepts andintroducing more subtle ways of thinking atthe same time. Literature at any age canalways both confirm immature patterns ofthought and feeling and also suggest thatthese patterns may not always be sufficientand in themselves. Young readers, faced bythis choice, often choose stories that moreor less confirm them in what they think orfeel, but there is always the possibilitythat more subtle forms of writing may alsobe read or listened to from time to time”.[21]

Here Tucker refers again to the dual role of fiction

as both confirmation and challenge.

Turning to the early adolescent reader, aged eleven to

fourteen, Tucker suggests that there will be an increased

interest in more complex and subtle fictions, in accordance

with the individual’s own increased awareness of and

ability to reflect on, the complexities of personality,

circumstance and motivation in the world around. [22] The

questions of identity and self-awareness now appear, and

Tucker feels these to be the major preoccupations— although

P a g e | 79

not always conscious or articulated— of this age-group.

What am I like? What are people like, and why? There is

an increased “realism” in books for this group, in the

sense of an increased verisimilitude, a greater number of

unresolved endings to stories, and an increasing tendency

to depict adults as manipulated by their circumstances and

environment rather than wholly powerful or wholly

contemptible.

The familiar pattern Tucker has established reappears;

fiction as confirmation and as stimulation. He quotes C S

Lewis on the excitement of one kind of fictional

confirmation;

“Nothing, I suspect, is moreastonishing in any man’s life than thediscovery that there do exist people very,very like himself”. [23]

Tucker then goes on to speak of exploration, of how

fiction enables the young reader to explore other times,

other places, the lives of people of other ages, classes,

or sex. He qualifies his remarks – as habitually

throughout this book – with the caution that reactions and

attitudes may possibly become fixed in very young children,

P a g e | 80

and that possibly neither may be affected by direct or

observed experience by the time the child is into the late

teens. However, he does go this far;

“It does seem possible, therefore, thatreactions to literature can sometimes extendan individual’s habitual way of perceivingand assessing imaginative experience,…..[though] this is not to say that those whohave such experiences necessarily make useof their experiences in everyday life.While some psychologists have claimed tofind a connection between general“decentration” skills and practicalaltruism, factors governing everydaybehaviour may still be quite different fromthose other factors which help determinesensitive, widely embracing reactions toliterature. …..Even so, the possibleenlargement of the self still remains one ofthe most valuation potential gifts availablefrom books”. [24]

Any less non-committal assertion as to the effects of

fiction would have to be heavily subjective, and Tucker is

attempting to present possibilities and ideas as

objectively as possible. I may say that I “know” that

reading actively broadens my own children’s minds, or that

I “know” that most of the lovers of fiction with whom I am

acquainted are broadly humanitarian in outlook; I cannot

demonstrate this to be true. Still, Tucker’s book adds up

P a g e | 81

to a convincing argument that children relate to fiction

not only in terms of “enjoyment”, but because there is a

meaningful interaction between the observations they make

through fiction and the direct experiences of their own

lives. The close correlation Tucker demonstrates between

the broad developmental stages and the preoccupations of

the fictions popular with each age-group, comes as near an

objective demonstration of the point as one can hope to

come. Tucker’s reluctance to adopt a dogmatic tone, the

reasonableness of his suggestions, is in itself subtly

persuasive, and leave the reader with the feeling that

there is probably something in it.

Fred Inglis, by contrast with Tucker, adopts a

resolutely assertive and consciously subjective tone. He

takes it for granted that fiction affects the attitudes and

character of the children who read it and that that is why

adults expose children to it in the first place.

“It is the ancient, properjustification of reading and reachingliterature that it helps you to live well.No-one can be sure it will do this; no-onecan be sure his or her child will grow up tobe an excellent or happy person. But they

P a g e | 82

want it, more or less passionately, and theydo what they can to make it possible.” [25]

The realistic stance must fall somewhere between

Inglis’ certainty and Tucker’s politic and deferential

caution. It must always be remembered that it is very

nearly impossible to prove or demonstrate what effect, if

any, the experience of fiction has on any individual, child

or adult. Tucker is perfectly justified in sounding the

note of caution throughout his book. It is important to

apply that caution as a corrective; but one may still allow

oneself to be inspired by the zeal shown by Inglis, that

produces a strong positive response in this reader at

least, even though that response is recognisably in great

part emotional and subjective and even though there are

plenty of areas of disagreement. Inglis should not be

considered more likely to be “wrong” simply because he is

more passionate and persuasive a writer. Enthusiasm may

have as valid a point to make as careful detachment.

So; Tucker allows that books very probably do affect

the children who read them, while Inglis insists that they

P a g e | 83

do and that there would be very little point in exposing

children to them if they did not.

“The best we can do by way of acreative environment is to fill the shelveswith the best books and persuade children toread them”. [26]

It is obvious that Inglis, though not unaware of the

confirmatory aspect of fiction vis-a-vie direct experience,

emphasises far more in his book the challenging or growth-

inducing aspects of the reading experience. What does he

expect the effects of reading fiction to be?

“It sounds circular, as though I weresaying—as indeed I am—that to study what isexcellent helps towards excellence, butquite without my being able at any point tointerrupt the circle with a definition ofexcellence”. [27]

But as his argument develops, Inglis does clarify this

idea of growth towards excellence and the function of

literature in the moral development of the individual.

Before doing this, he echoes Harding’s theory of the

experience of fiction as an observational one, not a

vicarious or substitute one;

“…..novels are contiguous with everyday life.They are extensions of our conversations aboutthe world with our friends and neighbours”. [28]

P a g e | 84

This confirms the basic premium that fiction is a part

of life and not a mysterious, possibly undesirable, adjunct

to it. On this basis, Inglis’ idea that fiction affects

children is more acceptable, for the notion of a child

using fiction to deepen its understanding of life is much

less worrying than the picture of the child brainwashed or

manipulated by an overdose of “escapism”.

As Inglis begins to develop his theme, he starts to

use the term “identity” along with his chosen terms

“excellence” and “happiness”. He quotes neither Bettelheim

nor Piaget (some of whose theory is alluded to and

corroborated in Bettelheim’s work), and only refers briefly

to Piaget in passing. Nevertheless, much of what Inglis

concludes about self-development is strikingly borne out in

Bettelheim. The question of right and wrong, the moral

questions, the whole business of the expectation and

promise of happiness that Inglis takes as his title, is

bound up for him with the question of self-development. He

quotes a passage from Simone Weil which is obviously of

P a g e | 85

profound significance for him, and which also links up with

what Bettelheim has to say;

“In a remarkable passage, Simone Weilsimply affirms a psychological frame of mindand an ethical truth. The corroborationrests in everyone’s experience:

‘At the bottom of the heart of everyhuman being, from earliest infancy until thetomb, there is something that goes onindomitably expecting, in the teeth of allthe experience of crimes committed, sufferedand witnessed, that good and not evil willbe done to him. It is this above all thatis sacred in every human being.

The good is the only source of thesacred. There is nothing sacred except thegood and what pertains to it.’

Faced with this corroboration, there isno need to become knotted up in very muchmoral or political philosophy. Nor does thematter rest in its being asserted by SimoneWeil that we expect, in some passive way,good to be done to us, and that thereforethis sacredness is another version of self-interest. Insofar as we expect good to bedone to us, we know we shall recognise itfor what it is (and will recognise thejustice of harm done to us if it is just).By the same token, if we do harm to otherswe shall know it and, somewhere inourselves, be deeply ashamed. This doesn’tmake ethics simply into the business ofidentifying motivation, and approving orcondemning it accordingly. \it is apeculiarity of the times that we are moreinterested in admired states of feeling thanin good and effective action. But Simone

P a g e | 86

Weil is not commending a state of feeling;she is saying, nakedly, that we know whatthe good is when we see it, and are outragedwhen it is not done to us.

This is for her, and for this book, afixed point of experience. Indeed, it makesthe point at which morality and identitycross, first and last”. [29]

This crucial passage conditions much of what Inglis

has to say about fiction; for he contends that one of the

things fiction does for children is to confirm and expand

this expectation of and ability to identify what is true,

lovely and of good report. Also, the ideas given here

about identity are strikingly similar to Bettelheim’s in

his work about childhood autism, The empty fortress. [30] For

Bettelheim the very source of autonomy, of the self-

concept, is in the infant’s relationship with the mother or

other primary carer and its growing awareness of the

existence of the carer as a separate entity. This

awareness precedes and leads into the awareness of the

infant’s own separateness. Bettelheim shows how the

infant’s experience of care normally leads to the

expectation that “good” will be done to it, and to the

first ideas of what “good” is; namely the relief of hunger,

P a g e | 87

distress and discomfort. It is when this profound, basic

expectation is consistently thwarted, for whatever reason,

that the autistic infant begins to reject or try to unmake

itself as a reaction to the impression it receives that its

self is “bad” and deserves only bad to be done to it. The

things that happen to use create ourselves in the first

place; the things that happen to us— among them

observations we make, and among those the reading of

fiction— go on shaping those selves. As Bettelheim says;

“….. to say that the self consists ofwhat one knows and can do must suffice.Certainly selfhood is not a state but aprocess of becoming. And when the struggleto realise the self is concluded, so isone’s life”. [31]

The process of becoming the self, bound up as it is

with the constant extension and redefinition of our

concepts of good and evil, is what Inglis sees as the basic

process of human life. This process is directly aided, in

Inglis’ view, by reading fiction and confronting the

situations presented in it.

P a g e | 88

How does fiction help in the process of becoming?

Tucker has spoken of the child seeing in fiction both

confirmation of what is experienced directly, and

suggestions that there are different possibilities beyond

the familiar. Inglis carries this a little further when he

says;

“….. fictions stand to life asmetaphors to reality. They are an image ofalternatives and possibility. …… Thestories we tell are intended to make life inthe future”. [32]

But how can the experience of fiction help to make

life? How does it bring about its effect on the readers?

In his further study of children’s books and writers

Inglis confirms the usefulness of Harding’s suggested

explanation of how fiction operates. The terms Harding

chose to replace “identification” were; empathy; imitation;

admiration; recognition of similarities. Drawing partly on

his own memories of childhood reading and partly on

observation of his own children, Inglis perceives all these

responses at work in the young reader. Empathy with the

characters of fiction he believes to occur most readily for

children when the characters themselves are children. This

P a g e | 89

is linked to and deepened by the awareness of similarities.

Admiration and imitation, although they may be inspired by

child characters, may well provide the child’s first way in

to the enjoyment of adult characters in fiction.

Remembering the comics he read in his youth, Inglis

remarks; “….. the hero remains consistently and

unselfconsciously admirable”. [33] He goes on;

“The essential structure is assertive –the hero tensed against the events. Inhimself he is finite and circumscribed –unconscious, so to speak, but all-powerful.He stands in the line of the chivalrous andknightly men who have embodied the centralvirtues of the West in its stories since theProvencal troubadours first took to theroad”. [34]

Admitting to aesthetic delight of this and of his more

serious childhood reading, Inglis insists that for him and

for other young readers there is also a moral and social

dimension to the response to fiction. The heroes and the

situations in which the reader observed them serve as both

example and exhortation, and as sounding-boards for the

conscious and unconscious growth of the individual’s own

attitudes. This belief also underlies many of the articles

in the periodical literature about children’s fiction.

P a g e | 90

Relatively few of the hundreds of periodical articles

published each year on various topics within the general

field of children’s fiction are concerned with the question

of how fiction affects children, if it does so at all. Of

those that do attempt this topic, some are lamentably still

caught up in answering the perceived objections to the

reading of fiction that seem to float, as it were, in the

air of society. The writers of such articles adopt an

apologetic and explanatory tone. Further, such apologies

remain fixed in the terms of the Platonic/Aristotelian

debate. To objections that fiction is “untrue” they return

the high-sounding but less than explicit reply that it is

“truer” than fact. This line of defence, however

attractive to the committed reader or litterateur, is

merely exasperating to the adult seeing reassurance that

fiction is not going to incapacitate her or his children in

some way. The following brief survey concentrates upon

articles which accept that fiction does affect readers; and

particularly upon those that emphasise the

developmental/self-discovery aspects discussed by Tucker

and Inglis.

P a g e | 91

Eric Kimmel [35] sounds a warning note about the basic

theme of this section, echoing Tucker;

“Most ideas about the affectivepotential of children’s books are based onassumptions which have not yet been proven.Ironically, it appears to be a commonpattern that the amount of objectiveevidence cited in an article seems to be ininverse proportion to the degree ofcertitude expressed by the author thatchildren’s books can or do mould a child’scharacter”. [36]

After surveying some of the—very scanty—existing

research into reader response and attitude changes, Kimmel

concludes that there may be very little permanent effect on

readers. He quotes J W Schneyer;

“One important element which needsfurther explanation is the influence of thehome, community and peer group inreinforcing or opposing the originalattitude”. [37]

This is in accord with Harding and Hardy; literature

is a part of life. As the sugar substitute only

contributes to weight-loss as ‘part of a calorie controlled

diet’, reading affects individual development only in

alliance with other environmental factors. This should not

be lost sight of, even if it cannot conveniently be

P a g e | 92

constantly reiterated in a thesis primarily concerned with

books and reading. There is an important link here with

the critical conclusions in Section 1, that Fantasy is only

valid and valuable insofar as it interacts with the real

world. [NOTE (21015) An important investigation into the

question of how and whether reading affects readers is to

be found in Going home: an intuitive inquiry into the experience of reading

fantasy literature; Sheree Meyers Campbell, 2010]

Donal Biskin and Kenneth Hoskisson [38], in their

article on moral development, fall into the trap of taking

‘as read’ the effect upon children of reading;

“Since children’s thinking isinfluenced by the activities in which theyare engaged, the use of children’sliterature to stimulate moral thinking andmoral development has great potential”. [39]

Later in the article the authors support the

“observation” theory of fiction, although there is a

depressingly utilitarian tone to their suggestion that

“Children’s literature provides a richsource of examples of moral decisions forchildren to discuss. In discussions ofmoral dilemmas children can examinealternatives to moral judgements made bycharacters in the story”. [40]

P a g e | 93

Behind this mechanistic approach can be seen some

understanding that fiction has to do in some ways with

morality and personal growth. One might wish to see

children and stories left to get on with the process with

less interference from adults, however well-meaning.

Roger Lewis [41] supports Tucker’s theory that

literature at once reinforces a child’s experiences and

encourages or stimulates the imagination into the

contemplation of things beyond what has already been

experienced. He speaks up for the validity of the

imaginative experience, suggesting that “….. feelings as a

way of knowledge are ignored…..” [42], and that fiction

extends knowledge partly through its operation upon the

feelings.

One of Aiden Chamber’s main points in The reader in the

book; notes on work in progress [43] is that an author can acquire

and deliberately make use of a certain degree of power over

the chid reader;

“Once an author has forged an allianceand a point of view that engages a child, hecan then manipulate that alliance as a

P a g e | 94

device to guide the reader towards themeanings he wishes to negotiate”. [44]

This goes along with Inglis’ firm conviction that the

only reason adults have for writing books for children and

persuading them to read them, is to have an effect upon the

mind of the child, further than the surface effect of

enjoyment. Penelope Lively also shows us that the child

may, however unconsciously, find itself having to confront

and respond to the meaning in a story.

“…. That step toward maturity a childtakes when it ceases to see people asstatic, frozen at a moment in time, but seesthem as changing and developing creatures….. it is a step aside from self, a step outof the child’s self-preoccupation, and,therefore, a step toward maturity. And itis a step that might come as often fromreading as from observation”. [45]

To accord more strictly with Harding, we might alter

Lively’s wording to read; “….. from reading as from direct

observation”. Yet the important idea is there, of

confronting something about reality in fictional form.

Lively does not push her case very hard. She says “Perhaps

books can help, just a little”. [46] Indeed. And in the

tumultuous process of growing up and away from childhood,

P a g e | 95

anything that offers even a little help must surely be

desirable?

P a g e | 96

Notes and references: Chapter 2; Children and Fiction

1. D W Harding, “Psychological processes in the reading

of fiction” British Journal of Aesthetics Vol 2, No. 2 (1962)

133-147.


of fiction”, p (145).


of fiction”, p (136).

4. Barbara Hardy, Tellers and listeners; the narrative imagination

(London: The Athlone Press, 1975) p 3.

5. David Daiches, Critical approaches to literature (London:

Longmans, 1956). Chapter 1: “The Platonic dilemma”

and Chapter 2: “The Aristotelian solution”.

6. a) Marcus Crouch, The Nesbit tradition; the children’s novel in

England 1940-1970 (London: Benn, 1972).

b) Frank Eyre, British children’s books in the Twentieth century

(London: Longmans, 1971).

c) Mary Thwaite, From primary to pleasure: an introduction to the

history of children’s books in England, from the invention of printing to

1900 (London: The Library Association, 1963).

P a g e | 97

d) F J Harvey Darton, Children’s books in England: five centuries

of social life (3rd Edition revised by Brian Alderson)

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982).

(First published 1932. Second edition 1958).

7. a) Wallace Hildick, Children and fiction (London: Evans

Brothers, 1970).

b) Marjorie Fisher, Intent upon reading; a critical appraisal of

modern fiction for children 2nd Edition. (Leicester:

Brockhampton, 1964). (First published 1961).

8. a) Eleanor Cameron, The green and burning tree (Boston,

Massachusetts: Little, Brown and Company, 1962.

b) John Rowe Townsend, A sense of story; essays on

contemporary writers for children (London: Longmans, 1971).

9. Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book; a psychological and

literary exploration (Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 1981). (Hereafter referred to as The child and

the book).

10. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness; values and meaning in

children’s fiction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

P a g e | 98

1981). (Hereafter referred to as The promise of

happiness).

11. Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book. Pg 7.

12. Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book. Chapter 1.


14. a) Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book. P56.

b) Jean de Brunhoff, Babar the elephant (London:

Methuen, 1934).

15. See page 58 above.

16. Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book. P 62.


18. Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book. p 97.


20. D W Harding, “Psychological processes in the

reading of fiction”, p (144).




24. Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book. p 187-188.

P a g e | 99

25. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness, p 4.

26. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness, p 6

27. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness, p16

28. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness, p17

29. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness, p 23.

Quotation from; Simone Weil, La personne et la sacré; écrits de

Londres (Privately published, 1951).

30. Bruno Bettelheim, The empty fortress; infantile autism and

the growth of the self (New York: Collier MacMillan, 1967).

Page references to the 1972 paperback edition (New

York: The Free Press, 1972. (Hereafter referred to

as The empty fortress.

31. Bruno Bettelheim, The empty fortress, p 37.

32. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness, p 31-32



35. Eric Kimmel, “Can children’s books change

children’s values?” Educational Leadership (28 November

1978) 209-214.


children’s values?”, p (209)

P a g e | 100


children’s values?” p (213).

38. Donald Biskin and Kenneth Hoskisson, “Moral

development through children’s literature” Elementary

School Journal 75 (December 1974) 152-157.


development through children’s literature” p (155).


development through children’s literature” p (156).

41. Roger Lewis, “Fiction and the imagination”

Children’s literature in education 19 (Winter 1975) 172-178.

42. Roger Lewis, “Fiction and the imagination” p

(174)

43. Aidan Chambers, “The reader in the book; a report

on work in progress”, p (75).

44. Aidan Chambers, “The reader in the book; a report

on work in progress”, p (75).

45. Penelope Lively, “children and memory” Horn Book

XLIX, No 4 (August 1973) 400-407, p (400).

46. Penelope Lively, “children and memory”, p (407).

P a g e | 101

Chapter 3; Children and Fantasy Fiction

“Actually, the association of childrenand fairy-stories is an accident of ourdomestic history. Fairy-stories have in themodern lettered world been relegated to the“nursery”, as shabby or old-fashionedfurniture is relegated to the play-room,primarily because the adults do not want itand do not mind if it is misused. It is notthe choice of the children which decidesthis. Children as a class – except in acommon lack of experience they are not one –neither like fairy-stories more, norunderstand them better than adults do; andno more than they like many other things.They are young and growing, and normallyhave keen appetites, so the fairy-stories asa rule go down well enough. But in factonly some children, and some adults, haveany special taste for them; and when theyhave it, it is not exclusive, nor evennecessarily dominant. It is a taste, too,that would not appear, I think, very earlyin childhood without artificial stimulus; itis certainly one that does not decrease butincreases with age, if it is innate”. [1].

Tolkien clearly feels the need to counter, in this

passage, what he sees as a widely-held assumption that

there is a special link between children and fairy-stories

and the related mode of Fantasy fiction. He argues that

this is a misassumption of recent origin in our society,

and that a taste for this sort of fiction, as for any other

P a g e | 102

sort, should be seen as purely a matter of personal

preference and not related to age at all. That this

misconception is widespread is evident insofar as histories

and criticisms of children’s literature tend to include in

their surveys an assessment of fairy-tales and their place

in children’s reading [2]. Such assessments usually take

as given the suitability for most children of most fairy-

tales, and it is fashionable to pour scorn on those earlier

periods in which fairy-tales and other forms of Fantasy

were thought unsuitable for children because they were

“untrue” or escapist [3]. So the attitude Tolkien discerns

and deplores in society has a complex history, involving a

remarkable mixture of contempt and fear. Some adults seem

to argue that fairy-tales are “kid’s stuff”, childish,

beneath the serious consideration of adult readers; some,

that they are dangerous and pernicious and not to be given

to children without a good deal of bowdlerising to render

them harmless; and some, that they are ideal fictional

material for children, charming and delightful and somehow

specially suited to the requirements of the immature

individual. This mixed reaction suggests some

P a g e | 103

irrationality in the adult response to fairy-tale and

Fantasy, which will be explored in a little more detail as

this section progresses.

Meanwhile, are fairy-tales and Fantasy fiction

especially good for children? Especially bad for them? Or

is there in fact, as Tolkien argues, no special link

between Fantasy and age? Is it possible that Tolkien has

overemphasised the lack of any special role for Fantasy

fiction in the child’s life, out of concern to defend

himself and other adult devotees of the genre from the

ridicule that may be met with from other adults. What

really concerns Tolkien is that the association with

children implies, in most adult minds, an assumption of

interiority in terms of literary seriousness, quality and

value. It is important to clarify this, with support from

other sources besides Tolkien, before proceeding. If there

is any special relationship between children and fairy or

Fantasy tales, that relationship has not grown up because

fairy-tale and Fantasy are easy, simple, lightweight or

cute, The strong adult reaction against them at certain

periods is itself evidence that Fantasy is powerful and

P a g e | 104

effective. The strong liking for them on the part of

certain adults is further evidence that they are not

childish, whatever we may want to say later about their being

childlike. As Tolkien himself says;

“A real taste for fairy-stories waswakened by philology on the threshold ofmanhood, and quickened to full life by war.”[4].

C S Lewis supports his friend’s position in the essay On

juvenile tastes, in which he actually refers briefly to the

quotation that opens this section [5]. Lewis insists that

“….. juvenile taste is simply human taste, going on from

age to age …..”; but is forced to concede that certain

kinds of fiction have become associated in the public mind

with children when he adds;

“The right sort [of writers forchildren] work from the common, universallyhuman ground they share with the children,and indeed with countless adults. Theylabel their books “For Children” becausechildren are the only market now recognisedfor the books they, anyway, want to write.”[6]

P a g e | 105

This recognition of a constraint in the market-place

compares interestingly with Lewis’s famous and much-quoted

remarks;

“……I wrote fairy tales because theFairy Tale seemed the ideal form for thestuff I had to say.” [7]

And“The third way (of writing for

children), which is the only one I couldever use myself, consists in writing achildren’s story because a children’s storyis the best art-form for something you haveto say.” [8]

Taken together, these three statements suggest that

while Lewis wrote fairy stories because he wanted to for formal

and artistic reasons, it was the publishing world that saw

them as children’s books. Whereas his Space trilogy [9] could

be published for adults under the acceptable Science

Fiction label, the Tales of Narnia [10] were slotted

irrevocably into the children’s book world. Although some

adults do read them, it must be the case that many would

never consider the possibility of doing so, which renders

slightly ironic Lewis’s;

“I was therefore writing “for children”only in the sense that I excluded what Ithought they would not like or understand;

P a g e | 106

not in the sense of writing what I intendedto be below adult attention.” [11]

Intention on the author’s part is clearly not enough;

what is suitable for children and therefore probably “below

adult attention” may well be decided by outside pressures.

Tolkien’s own case further illustrates this. Both he and

Allen and Unwin thought of The Hobbit as a children’s story

as well as a fairy-tale or Fantasy [12]; the case of The

Lord of the Rings was less clear. Humphrey Carpenter [13]

devotes a great deal of space in his biography of Tolkien

to the long tale of this work’s writing and publication,

and it is obvious from his account that Rayner Unwin

perceived the book as somehow “odd”, not easily fitted into

a category, not readily definable as either an adult or a

juvenile fiction. It is also clear that there was a sense

in Unwin’s mind that he was taking a risk in publishing at

all, what in the event turned out to be a phenomenal

success, as much with adult readers as with children. So

the picture is evidently less simple than Tolkien’s first-

quoted remark would have us believe. Obviously he is right

to say that many adults like Fantasy – millions have

P a g e | 107

enjoyed his own. Yet the association in the public mind of

such works primarily with children, persists.

Boyer and suggest [14] a practical approach to this

problem; a category of Fantasy literature to be labelled

“all-ages fantasy”. They point out that “….. adults have

begun to learn what children instinctively knew – that high

fantasy, when written well, is both entertaining and

serious literature”. [15] They hope that such a

categorisation by publishers, while not exactly reducing

problems of shelving and display in libraries or bookshops,

would help to root out “the still-lingering assumption that

if it’s fantasy, it is probably for children.” [16]

Gratifying though all this assertion of the seriousness and

importance of Fantasy may be, it still leaves certain

questions aside. The major one is this; given that any

special relationship between children and Fantasy is not

due to some inherent lack of value or seriousness in

Fantasy – to what may it be attributed? What is there

about Fantasy, and about children, to suggest that there is

more to it than Tolkien’s “They ….. normally have keen

P a g e | 108

appetites, so the fairy-stories as a rule go down well

enough.” [17] would allow?

The idea that Fantasy is somehow specially suited to

children, that children may derive special benefits from

reading myth or fairy-tale, is shown by Ted Hughes [18] to

have a long and respectable history. His article begins

with Plato’s assertion that the ideal education for

children would consist in their studying the traditional

myths and tales of Greece, and not formal “subjects” at

all. This is a startling suggestion, and Hughes points out

that later philosophers, rejecting mythology itself as

fantastic nonsense, have avoided the question of why this

great thinker should feel as he did about it. [19] Hughes

himself then attempts some explanations of Plato’s idea,

discussing the power of story and the nature of the

imagination.

“…… stories think for themselves, oncewe know them. They not only attract andlight up everything relevant in our ownexperience, they are also continual privatemeditation, as it were, on their ownimplications. They are little factories ofunderstanding. New revelations of meaningopen out of their images and patterns

P a g e | 109

continually, stirred into reach by our owngrowth and changing circumstances.” [20]

It will be obvious from this quotation that Hughes

does not look on story as mere entertainment or diversion,

but as a serious activity. He sees the mind that is

stocked with stories as having a distinct advantage in

coping with life, as the interaction between direct

experience and the pseudo-experience of the story-world

both enables the individual’s growth and explains it to

itself, makes it more self-conscious. The child with a

grasp of its culture’s stock of stories has a grasp of the

way things are perceived and evaluated by most individuals

within the culture group. This is a kind of learning that

operates entirely differently from the dogged acquisition

of facts about things. Hughes feels it to be neglected in

current educational theory, feels that imagination is

undervalued just as fiction in general and Fantasy in

particular are undervalued. Yet, he argues,

“This basic type of imagination ….. isour most valuable piece of practicalequipment. ….. Yet whoever spent half anhour in any classroom trying to strengthenit is any way? ….. Sharpness, clarity and

P a g e | 110

scope of the mental eye are all-important inour dealings with the outer world ….. Butthe outer world is only one of the worlds welive in. For better or worse we haveanother, and that is the inner world of ourbodies and everything pertaining. It iscloser than the outer world, more decisiveand utterly different. ….. But ….. whyisn’t the sharp, clear, objective eye of themind as adequate for this world as it is forthe other more obviously outer world? …..[Because] the inner world is indescribable,impenetrable, and invisible. We try tograpple with it, and all we meet is oneprovisional dream after another. ….. Wesolve the problem by never lookinginward.”[21]

Hughes feels Plato’s position must have been an

awareness of the importance of individuals being able to

cope with the inner world of the self as well as with the

outer world. The imagination, stocked with stories and

images that carry and evolve meaning for the individual, is

the tool that must be developed in order to cope with the

inner world. But the inner world of the self is an

alarming place, irrational and quirky and frequently

avoided. Ursula K LeGuin points out in her article “Why

are Americans afraid of dragons?” [22]

P a g e | 111

“….. fantasy is true, of course. Itisn’t factual, but it is true. Childrenknow that. Adults know it too, and that isprecisely why many of them are afraid offantasy. They know that its truthchallenges, even threatens, all that isfalse, all that is phony, unnecessary, andtrivial in the life they have let themselvesbe forced into living. They are afraid ofdragons, because they are afraid offreedom.” [23]

Plato, Hughes and LeGuin assign tremendous value to

the imagination, to the need for its development. And

because of this, they assert that there should be a major

part played in the life of the growing child, by

imaginative works of the kind usually labelled myth,

Fantasy, or imaginative fiction. Teaching a child only

material facts about the material world will not actually

help the grown individual to be fully adjusted to itself,

to the outer world, or to other people. The quality of

imagination gives insight into the self, into what it might

be like to be in the position of another person, into what

consequences are likely to follow from one’s actions. It

enhances awareness and flexibility of response. It is a

P a g e | 112

catalyst in the drive towards maturity. Hughes goes on to

say;

“The inner world, separated from theouter world, is a place of meaninglessobjects and machines. The faculty thatmakes the human being out of these twoworlds is called divine. That is only a wayof saying that it is the faculty withoutwhich humanity cannot really exist. It canbe called religious or visionary. Moreessentially, it is imagination whichembraces both outer and inner worlds in acreative spirit.

Laying down blueprints for imagination of that sort is a

matter of education, as Plato divined.

“The myths and legends, which Platoproposed as the ideal educational materialfor his young citizens, can be seen aslarge-scale accounts of negotiations betweenthe powers of the inner world and thestubborn conditions of the outer world,under which ordinary men and women have tolive. They are immense and highly detailedsketches for the possibilities ofunderstanding and reconciling the who. Theyare, in other words, an archive of draftplans for the kind of imagination we havebeen discussing.” [24]

Hughes here draws together much that we have elicited

from Inglis, Harding and others as to the role of

imaginative fiction or Fantasy in the lives of individuals.

P a g e | 113

He presents Fantasy as a powerful force for development of

individual human beings, more than adequately explaining

the fear and suspicion of Fantasy that we have seen

operating in some adult responses to fairy-tales and

mythology. If Fantasy gives us the means of self-

knowledge, then it also challenges us, and we may well

respond fearfully to the imperative request that we face up

to ourselves and deepen our responses to the outer world.

While mindful of all the reservations we have seen

expressed as to the actual effectiveness of the fictional

experience, we may yet reach the conclusion that there is

probably some sense in the suggestion that there are

certain stages of development at which most fairy-tales

will be appealing to and functional for most children,

irrespective of taste. Sharing Tolkien’s concern that the

suitability of such tales for children should not be

construed as a matter of their inferiority to “real”

literature, we may yet allow that Plato’s startling idea in

many respects holds true. Nicholas Tucker, in a chapter

written with his usual scrupulous fairness and caution,

with as many views as possible presented and weighed

P a g e | 114

against one another, concludes “…..fairy-stories act as a

mirror wherein different members of an audience can see a

vivid reflection of some of their deepest and most

important areas of the imagination.” [25] With this image

of the mirror into the self in mind, we turn to the work of

Bruno Bettelheim.

Bettelheim’s classic study of fairy-tales [26] takes

much of its tone from his psychological background,

especially his work with autistic children. His

professional concern is with the growth and development of

the Self, with the healing of the damaged self-image or

self-awareness of the fugitive mind. Yet in spite of this

bias in his emphases, his book has much to say that is

valuable for our understanding of just what the experience

of fairy-tale and Fantasy fiction based on the fairy-tale

tradition might be expected to give to children.

Bettelheim’s developmental theory is based on Piaget’s, and

ultimately on Freud’s. He speaks of Oedipal conflicts, the

Ego and the Id, in his descriptions of the individual’s

growth towards maturity and integration. At various stages

in the individual child’s development, he argues, different

P a g e | 115

fairy-tales or stories will best serve the needs of the

emerging Self. He says;

“For a story truly to hold the child’sattention, it must entertain him and arousehis curiosity. But to enrich his life, itmust stimulate his intellect and to clarifyhis emotions; be attuned to his anxietiesand aspirations; give full recognition tohis difficulties, while at the same timesuggesting solutions to the problems whichperturb him. In short, it must at one andthe same time relate to all aspects of hispersonality – and this without everbelittling but, on the contrary, giving fullcredence to the seriousness of the child’spredicaments, while simultaneously promotingconfidence in himself and his future.” [27]

Bettelheim feels that the fairy-tale mode is the one

that most consistently meets these requirements for most

children. This is because these stories, employing

universal symbols and carrying messages to the subconscious

as well as to the conscious mind, “…..start from where the

child really is in his psychological and emotional being.”

[28] They do not deny the “dark” or negative side of

experience, the inner conflict the child experiences

between the expectations of the outer world and the drives

of the inner. As LeGuin expresses it; “Fantasy, like

P a g e | 116

poetry, speaks the language of the night.” [29] In other

words, the concern of these tales is directly with the

inner, subconscious life of human beings, and, says

Bettelheim, “ ……the unconscious is a powerful determinant

of behaviour.” [30] So any effect Fantasy may have on the

individual’s ability to cope with her own subconscious,

will have a corresponding effect on actions and

relationships; upon the outer life of the individual.

Bettelheim devotes most of his book to analysing and

explaining particular fairy-tales, according to this view

of their important function in the self-development or “ego

integration”. (p41) Space does not permit a detailed

account of all these analyses, but some of his most

important points should be noted. One of the most

important functions Bettelheim sees fairy-tales and fantasy

performing for children is what he calls “Bringing order

out of chaos”. [31] For the very young child, both observed

and direct experience of the external world is often

contradictory or confusing. Also, there are conflicting

impulses and feelings within the child. The drive towards

greater autonomy conflicts with the need for security. The

P a g e | 117

strong impulse to love parents and siblings conflicts with

jealousy and resentment. Bettelheim suggests; “The manner

in which the child can bring some order into his world view

is by dividing everything into opposites”. [32] This is

exactly what the fairy-tale convention of Good and Evil

characters does for the child. Impulses from within that

are perceived as good and bad may be externalised and

projected onto the character. Aspects of other people –

such as the angry parent and the loving parent – which seem

to conflict, may similarly be distanced by being embodied

in Fantasy characters or motifs. As these disparate

elements are brought into harmonious relationship through

the moves of the story, the child perceives subliminally

the possibility of resolution in his or her own life.

Thus, the successful co-operation between the hero and the

insects in Grimm’s The queen bee signifies integration

between the selfish (id) desires of the hero and his

“higher (superego) impulses. [33] Or, to take an example

from modern literary Fantasy, Frodo’s acceptance of and

care for the maimed hobbit Gollum, signify his awareness of

and control over his own baser instincts. [34]

P a g e | 118

In the struggle for inner integration and adjustment

to the conditions of the outer world that Bettelheim sees

as constituting maturity, fairy-tales may speak to specific

areas of experience. Jack and the beanstalk, for example, “……

tells mothers what little boys need to solve their oedipal

problems: …..” [35], while “Snow White’s story teaches that

just because one has reached physical maturity, one is by

no means intellectually and emotionally ready for

adulthood, as represented by marriage.” [36] Such clear-cut

parallels are seen by Bettelheim between almost every stage

of human development and some tale or other; although he

does stress that the operation of the story is through the

subconscious, and is not in any sense bleakly utilitarian

in his approach. He cites evidence of support for his view

of the efficacy of story as an aid to personality

integration;

“In a fairy tale, internal processesare externalised and become comprehensibleas represented by the figures of the storyand its events. This is the reason why intraditional Hindu medicine a fairy talegiving form to his particular problem wasoffered to a psychically disoriented person,for his meditation. It was expected thatthrough contemplating the story the

P a g e | 119

disturbed person would be led to visualiseboth the nature of the impasse in livingfrom which he suffered, and the possibilityof tis resolution. From what a particulartale implied about man’s despair, hopes andmethods of overcoming tribulations, thepatient could discover not only a way out ofhis distress but also a way to find himself,as the hero of the story did.” [37]

This passage reveals Bettelheim’s understandable

preoccupation with healing and wholeness as they apply to

damaged or vulnerable individuals. Nevertheless, in the

book as a whole, he argues convincingly for the positive

effect of fairy-tale and Fantasy in all individuals’

growth. He emphasises that

“Fairy-tale motifs are not neuroticsymptoms, something one is better offunderstanding so that one can rid oneself ofthem. Such motifs are experienced aswondrous because the child feels understoodand appreciated deep down in his feelings,hopes and anxieties, without these allhaving to be dragged up and investigated inthe harsh light of a rationality that isstill beyond him. Fairy tales enrich thechild’s life and give it an enchantedquality just because he does not quite knowhow the stories have worked their wonder onhim.” [38]

Acting on Bettelheim’s suggestions, we may look

briefly at some of the common motifs of Fairy-tale and

P a g e | 120

Fantasy and speculate on some of the meanings some of them

might carry into the experience of the reader or listener.

There are many tales in which two older siblings fail at a

task before the hero succeeds at it. We may perceive two

levels of thought here. In terms of relationship to the

outer world, this may help a child to cope with jealous

feelings towards siblings, by imagining a scenario in which

the inconsidered youngest is cleverer than the elders. In

terms of inner integration, the leaving behind of less

mature states of being may be reflected. A simple folk

version of this tale is The three little pigs; a refined literary

version is Ruskin’s King of the golden river. In both simple and

elaborated versions, the possible psychological

applications can be traced. [39]

From the earliest times, since the slaying by Marduk

of the she-dragon Tiamat [40], dragons have appeared in

Fantasy. Later dragons have symbolised the power of rain,

fire or whatever is powerful and barbarous in nature. [41]

Sigurd, Beowulf, Earendil, Bilbo Baggins, Ged the

Sparrowhawk; these and many others have measured themselves

against dragons. [42] It is noteworthy that the first

P a g e | 121

three of these heroes engaged in physical combat with their

dragons, while the two last both employed cunning and

conversation (in Ged’s case with the addition of Magic).

Dragons are depicted, too, with ambivalence. They are at

once terrifying and magnificent. It seems likely that the

complex symbolism that has evolved over the years involves

both inner and outer meanings. Victory over a dragon may

stand equally well for control over some new tract of

wilderness or a new skill as for knowledge of and power

over the tumultuous impulses within the self, with their

potential for destructiveness as well as creativity.

The use of Magic in Fantasy is also linked with power

and control. The wish-fulfilling magic that would allow

its owner to do and be anything at all, without regard to

the demands of the outer world or the claims of other

individuals, is eschewed in High Fantasy. There is a great

emphasis on responsibility and the necessary limitations

the magician must impose on the use of power, and on the

“mixed blessings” that may result even when the mage is

carrying out his allotted tasks. Merlin, for example, was

fulfilling his duty when he put upon Uther Pendragon the

P a g e | 122

outer semblance of Gorlois of Cornwall. From that act came

the birth of Arthur and the glories of the Round Table.

From it came also the “…… grete angur and unhapp<e> that

stynted nat tylle the floure of chyvalry of [all] the

worlde was destroyed and slayne.” [43] Gandalf was deputed

by high powers beyond the world to strip Saruman the White

of his Wizard’s staff and status. From this came Gandalf’s

assumption of leadership of the White Council and hope of

victory for the opponents of the Dark Lord. From it came

also the despoliation of the Shire at the hands of the

embittered Saruman. [44] And Ged is told explicitly, “To

light a candle is to cast a shadow …….. you must not change

one thing, one pebble, one grain of sand, until you know

what good and evil will follow on the act.” [45] All these

show the hazards and responsibilities of power as well as

its benefits; again, we may see reflected here the need for

integration between the desires of the id and the altruism

of the superego, as Freud’s terminology would put it.

To summaries the main points of our position; Fantasy

fiction is a fictional mode that employees the unreal or

impossible, that creates alternative worlds, in order to

P a g e | 123

carry its themes or ideas into the readers experience.

There is some reason to suppose that it operates

successfully, for those readers who respond to it, because

it employs symbolism and structural conventions that

subliminally address the subconscious of the reader and in

this way feed into and reinforce the conclusions and ideas

the individual has gained from more direct experience or

from experience reported in more direct narrative modes.

Possibly at certain stages in life, particularly the more

intensive growth-points during childhood and adolescence—

although the possibility of or need for growth is in no way

confined to the years between childhood and adulthood— the

peculiar features of Fantasy and its way of operating may

make it a particularly appropriate way of helping growing

individuals to make sense both of their own inner

development and of the outer world. It is on the

assumption that there is at least some core of truth in

this notion, as attested by the various writers whose

opinions have been examined, that this thesis will proceed.

P a g e | 124

Notes and references; Chapter 3; Children and Fantasy

Fiction

1. J. R. R. Tolkien, On Fairy-stories in Tree and Leaf (London:

George Allen and Unwin, 1964) pp 34 -35.

2. For example;

Nicholas Tucker, The Child and the Book; a Psychological and

Literary Exploration (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

1981). Hereafter referred to as The Child and the Book.

Mary Thwaite, From Primer to Pleasure (London: The Library

Association, 1963. Second Edition 1972). (Page

reference to 1st Edition).

3. Mary Thwaite, From Primer to Pleasure. See pages 31-32 and

pages 63-64, where Thwaite records respectively the

attitudes of Locke and those of Rousseau, to fairy-tale

and Fantasy. She sets these within a history who

structure and thesis depends on the notion of the

gradual triumph of “enlightened” attitudes towards the

imagination, over such “negative assumptions” as those

of the two philosophers.

4. J. R. R. Tolkien, On Fairy-stories, p 40.

P a g e | 125

5. C S Lewis, Of other worlds; essays and stories (London: Geoffrey

Bles, 1966) (Hereafter referred to as Of other worlds). P

40.

6. C S Lewis, Of other worlds, p 41.



9. C S Lewis; Out of the silent planet (London: John Lane the

Bodley Head, 1938)

Perelandra (London: John Lane the Bodley Head, 1943).

That Hideous strength (London: John Lane and the Bodley

Head, 1945).

10. C W Lewis;

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (London: Geoffrey Bles,

1950).

Prince Caspian (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1951).

The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1952).

The Silver Chair (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1953)

The Horse and his boy (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1954)

The Magician’s Nephew (London: The Bodley Head, 1955)

The Last Battle (London: The Bodley Head, 1956)

11. C S Lewis, Of other worlds, p 37-38.

P a g e | 126

12. Humphrey Carpenter, J. R. R. Tolkien; a biography (London:

George Allen and Unwin, 1977). (Page references to the

paperback edition (London: George Allen and Unwin,

1978) p183-186.

13. Humphrey Carpenter, J. R. R. Tolkien; a biography p187-234.

14. Marshall B Tymn, Kenneth J Zahorski and Robert H Boyer,

Fantasy literature; a core collection and reference guide (New

York/London: Bowker, 1979). (hereafter referred to as

Fantasy literature) p24-29.


Fantasy literature, p24.


Fantasy literature, p25.

17. J. R. R. Tolkien, On Fairy-stories, p34-35.

18. Ted Hughes, “Myth and education” in Writers, critics and

children; articles from “Children’s literature in education” (London:

Heinemann Educational, 1976) p77-94. First published

in Children’s literature in education 1 (March 1970). Original

source in; Plato The republic II. In; Edith Hamilton and

Huntington Cairns (Editors) The collected dialogues of Plato

(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961), p623-

P a g e | 127

624; “….. we begin by telling children fables, and the

fable is, taken as a whole, false, but there is truth

in it also …..”. It should be noted that Plato goes on

to advocate strict censorship and control by adults as

to which fables children are to be allowed to hear; so

that Hughes’ enthusiastic assertion of the positive

value of all fable and imaginative story for children,

takes on a rather different emphasis from that of his

source.

19. Ted Hughes, “Myth and education”.

20. Ted Hughes, “Myth and education”, p (82)

21. Ted Hughes, “Myth and education”, p (84-87)

22. Ursula K LeGuin, The language of the night; essays on Fantasy and

Science Fiction (New York: G P Putnam’s Sons, 1979).

(Hereafter referred to as The Language of the night). “Why

are Americans afraid of dragons? Is on p 39-45.

23. Ursula K LeGuin, The language of the night, p 44.

24. Ted Hughes, “Myth and Education”, p (92-93).

25. Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book, chapter 3.

26. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment; the meaning and

importance of fairy tales (London: Thames and Hudson, 1976).

P a g e | 128

(Hereafter referred to as The uses of enchantment). Page

references to the paperback edition (Harmondsworth ;

Penguin, 1978)

27. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment, p 5.



30. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment, p7.

31. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment, p 74


33. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment, p76-78

34. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the rings (London: George

Allen and Unwin, 1954-1955.




38. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment, 19.

39. John Ruskin, The king of the golden river (London: Hamish

Hamilton, 1978). (I have not been able to trace the

date of the first edition; the earliest in the British

Museum Catalogue is the 2nd. Edition published in 1851)

P a g e | 129

See also The water of life in The complete Grimm’s fairy tales, 2nd

Edition (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1975), p

449-445.

40. New Larousse encyclopaedia of mythology 2nd Edition (London:

Hamlyn, 1968) p49-54.

41. G Elliott Smith, The Evolution of the Dragon (Manchester:

Longmans Green, 1911). And Peter Hogarth with Val

Cleary, Dragons (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1979).

42. Sigurd slew the dragon Fafnir. See; Kevin Crossley-

Holland, The Faber book of northern legends (London: Faber,

1977) p 97.

Beowulf was killed by a dragon. See; Fr. Klaeber

(Editor), Beowulf 3rd. edition (Boston: D C Heath and Co,

1950) lines 2538-2711.

Earendil slew Ancalagon the Black. See; J. R. R.

Tolkien, The Silmarillion (London: George Allen and Unwin,

1977) p 252.

Ged bound with magic the dragon of Pendor, Yevaud.

See; Ursula K LeGuin, A Wizard of Earthsea (London:

Gollancz, 1973). First published in the USA in 1968.

P a g e | 130

This reference on pages 103-107 of the paperback

edition (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971).

Bilbo conversed invisibly with Smaug the chiefest of

calamities. See; J. R. R. Tolkien, The hobbit; or, there and

back again, 3rd Edition (London: George Allen and Unwin,

1966). Chapter 12.

43. Thomas Malory, Works edited by Eugene Vinaver (London:

Oxford University Press, 1954) p 4 and p 818.

44. J. R. R. Tolkien, The two towers, being the second part of the Lord

of the Rings 2nd edition (London: George Allen and Unwin,

1966), p 183-189.

The return of the king; being the third part of the Lord of the Rings 2nd

Edition (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1966), Chapter

8.

45. Ursula K LeGuin, A wizard of Earthsea, p 56.

46.

P a g e | 131

Chapter 4: What are you like?

This chapter is intended to serve as a bridge between

the general discussions about children and Fantasy fiction

that precede it, and the studies of specific authors that

form the second half of the thesis. I intend to specify

here the particular age-group of children, and the

particular kinds of Fantasy, that are to be the joint foci

of the assessment and exploration of these authors’ works.

The question that heads the section – “What are you

like” – is relevant to both these areas of concern. [1] It

its original application it referred to the

quest/adventure/testing motif prevalent in Mediaeval

literature. The implication was that although within that

tradition the tests set for a knight were mainly in the

area of physical prowess, that motif stood for a testing of

the whole nature of the person – “Who are you, and why?”

[2] Later, more refined examples of the genre such as Sir

Gawain and the green knight [3] show an awareness by the author

of the deeper dimensions of the quest theme, and articulate

moral and spiritual concerns quite consciously.

P a g e | 132

Turning to Bettelheim, we find the same theme of self-

assessment and testing brought out in connection with

adolescent children;

“Adolescence is a period of great andrapid change, characterised by periods ofutter passivity and lethargy alternatingwith frantic activity, even dangerous behaviourto “prove oneself” or discharge inner tensions(my italics). This back and forthadolescent behaviour finds expression insome fairy tales by the hero’s rushing afteradventure ….. Many fairy tales stress greatdeeds the heroes must do to becomethemselves ….. Adolescents ….. Try to provetheir young manhood or womanhood, oftenthrough dangerous adventures.” [4]

So a parallel may be drawn between the quest of the

Fantasy hero – the journey undertaken and the task achieved

– and the search for self-development and self-

understanding by the adolescent. In both spheres the

concern is with proving the quality of the self, with self-

definition, with expanding the boundaries of the self.

Derek Brewer supports this view in his book on symbolic

story;

“A very large number of traditionalstories, though by no means all, are centredon the basic human experience of growing up.

P a g e | 133

….. The male protagonist always has to leavehome. He goes on a quest …..”[5]

The quest motif is extremely ancient. The journey and

desire of Gilgamesh, which “antedate Homeric epic by at

least one and a half thousand years”, follow a pattern that

recurs in later literature. [6] Gilgamesh undertakes a

hazardous journey, and feels himself bound to seek the

answer to a particular question – what is death? Orpheus

seeks to rescue Eurydice from the realms of death, and his

mediaeval counterpart Oreo travels into fairyland to redeem

Herodias. [7] Beowulf travels to Hrothgar’s court to take

upon himself the struggle against Grendel. [8] The Knights

of the Round Table seek the Holy Grail in a spiritualised

version of the old testing motif. [9] Sir Gawain rides

towards what seems certain death and in the trial of his

faith achieves deep self-knowledge. [10] None of these

quests is in any sense a treasure hunt, or a game for the

sake of the game. Each has a high and an unselfish

purpose. They have common features hat survive into modern

Fantasy writing; the crossing of water, wandering in barren

lands, venturing into dark places underground in what may

P a g e | 134

well be an echo of ritualistic death and rebirth

ceremonies. [11] Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, for example,

displays all these features; the Fellowship of the Ring

endures horror in the mines of Moria, and then comes to

haven in Lorien by crossing water. [12] Frodo and Same

cross the barren wastes of Mordor as Gawain wandered

through the hostile winter landscape on his way to find the

Green Knight. [13] The passage through adolescence, as

through any difficult or painful stage of life, may be

likened to a fearful passage through an unknown place in

the dark, and the acquiring of an integrated self may seem

to involve an experience like death and rebirth. Crossing

water may stand for a ritual cleansing away of the old

life; even Alice crosses water each time she enters a new

phase of her adventures beyond the looking glass [14].

So the selection of authors for particular study in

this thesis has been governed by these two factors.

Firstly, that the authors are addressing themselves to

adolescent or immediately pre-adolescent people; and

secondly, that the quest theme, reflecting the journey or

P a g e | 135

struggle towards responsibility and maturity, should

structure or by implication underlie the fiction. Some of

the works chosen are High Fantasy, their action taking

place in an imagined Otherworld; some are Low Fantasy and

show magical causality operating within our primary world.

A few partake of characteristics of both kinds. What they

have in common is above all the making of a demand upon one

or more of the main protagonists; a demand that a quest

and its concomitant journey be undertaken; a demand that a

responsibility be accepted for something or someone other

than oneself or perhaps even antagonistic to one’s own

interests; a demand that the concepts of duty and

commitment be faced up to; or perhaps a compulsion of a

basically unwilling individual to the acting out of some

necessary ritual or duty in order to bring about a

specified end. It is for this reason that the commitment

of Frodo –“I will take the Ring” – has been chosen as a

title for the present study. [15] Frodo sees himself as too

small and weak for this heavy duty (i.e., too young for

it). He fears the consequences for himself, not only in

terms of physical danger, but increasingly as the quest

P a g e | 136

proceeds, in terms of the irreversible changes in his

personality and attitudes that must result from the

experience. Yet the only possible response is “I will”,

because the overwhelming imperative is that the task shall

be performed. If the Ring is not destroyed, then a whole

culture will perish. It is an act of maturity, of

responsibility, of unselfishness such as the self-absorbed

child finds almost unbearably difficult, that carries Frodo

forward at this point. The act of commitment is itself a

step into maturity, one of many that he will make before

the quest is over. “What am I like?” is his question – can

I do this or not? The answer is; “I must, even though I do

not want to, do not want this to be the only solution to

the problem. I must strive to become a strong enough

person to bear this burden” – these are conclusions to

which many Fantasy heroes and heroines are forced to come.

And if Bettelheim is right, a similar experience comes to

each adolescent striving to become strong enough to take on

autonomous responsibility for his or her own life. Those

adolescent readers who respond to Fantasy may well be

finding there some confirmation and support for their own

P a g e | 137

experience as they struggle to balance the demands of the

self for recognition and care, with the imperative need to

fit that self harmoniously and constructively into the

patterns and expectations of the outer world. Safety and

challenge; confirmation and suggestion of new possibilities

– these aspects of the experience of fiction are as vital

to the adolescent as to the smallest child reader. [16]

If these writers are alike in terms of their potential

audience and in their similarities of theme and structure,

they are also in many ways very different. Faced with the

impossibility of adequately surveying the whole field of

modern Fantasy for children, it is necessary to select

several writers who will hopefully illuminate some of the

many possibilities of the genre, and do so at once though

their likenesses and their differences. So, for example,

Jane Curry and Alan Garner write predominately in the Low

Fantasy mode, LeGuin and Chant in the High mode. Curry

writes for the lowest end of the age-range, LeGuin for the

oldest, while the other two show a steady progression in

their writing from the interests of the younger to those of

P a g e | 138

the older adolescent. LeGuin and Chant reproduce

faithfully the ancient quest motifs of journeying, battles

both physical and magical, crossing rivers and enduring the

dark. Curry and Gardner by contrast show responsibility

and duty pressing in upon the individuals in their everyday

environment, just as magic breaks into the everyday world

in these low Fantasy texts. But for all the protagonists,

there is something that must be done; “Look if you like,

but you will have to leap”. [17] They cannot avoid the

events that will lead them into maturity.

P a g e | 139

Notes and references; Chapter 4; What are you like?

1. D M Hill, Lecture on Mediaeval Romances given at

Bedford College in the Autumn Term of 1968.

2. W H Auden, “Under Sirius”, Collected Shorter poems (London:

Faber, 1966), p 345.

3. J. R. R. Tolkien and E V Gordon (Editors), Sir Gawain and

the Green Knight. 2nd edition revised by Norman Davis

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967).


importance of fairy-tales (London: Thames and Hudson 1976).

Hereafter referred to as The uses of enchantment. (Page

references to the paperback edition (Harmondsworth :

Penguin, 1978), p 225-226.

5. Derek Brewer, Symbolic stories; traditional narratives of the family

drama in English literature (Cambridge: D W Brewer, 1980), p

7-9.

6. N K Sanders (Editor), The epic of Gilgamesh (Harmondsworth:

Penguin, 1964).

7. New Larousse encyclopaedia of mythology, p 198.

And

P a g e | 140

Sir Orfeo, in Donald B Sands, Middle English verse romances (New

York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966) p 185-200.

8. Fr Klaeber (Editor), Beowulf, 3rd Edition (Boston: D C

Heath & Co, 1950).

9. Thomas Malory, Works (London: Oxford University Press,

1954), p 625-741.

10. J. R. R. Tolkien and E V Gordon (Editors), Sir Gawain and

the green knight, 2nd Edition revised by Norman Davis

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967).

11. Some ceremonies of initiation into adulthood involve a

ritual burial and rebirth. One example is the wuwuchin

rite of the Hopi Indians. See; Frank Waters, The book of

the Hopi (New York: The Viking Press, 1963) p24, p137-

153.

12. J. R. R. Tolkien, The fellowship of the Ring; being the first part of

the Lord of the Rings 2nd Edition (London: George Allen and

Unwin, 1966), Book II, Chapters 4 and 5.

13. J. R. R. Tolkien and E V Gordon, Sir Gawain and the Green

Knight.

P a g e | 141

14. Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson), Through the

looking-glass; and what Alice found there (London: MacMillan,

1871 (Dated 1872)).

15. J. R. R. Tolkien, The fellowship of the Ring, p 284.

16. Nicholas Tucker, The child and the book; a psychological and literary

exploration (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

1981), Chapter 6.

17. W H Auden, “Leap before you look” Collected shorter poems p

200.

P a g e | 142

Chapter 5; The other half of Self; Ursula K LeGuin and the

Shadow

“Who sees the other half of Self, sees

Truth”. [1]

Ursula K LeGuin is a science fiction author of

international repute, and has published several novels,

collections of short stories, poems and essays, besides the

trilogy for adolescent readers which will be considered

here. [2] There is also a considerable body of critical

writing about her in the periodical literature, some of

which has been gathered into book form. [3] Her own

assessment and interpretation of her work is intelligent

and articulate and emphasises several important themes that

underlie both the science fiction and the junior Fantasy.

Two important strands in her ideology are the Jungian

concept of universal archetypes and the Taoist idea of

balance or equilibrium between complementary forces

throughout creation. These are interwoven in complex and

subtle ways that condition both the structures and themes

of her fiction. The Earthsea trilogy in particular

embodies her peculiar vision or awareness of the processes

P a g e | 143

of human maturation in terms derived from these two systems

of thought. [4]

The Earthsea Trilogy is High Fantasy; that is, the

actions depicted in the stories take place in a Secondary

world of the author’s invention, and involve an irreducible

element of the “impossible” or “unreal”. Causality in

Earthsea is Magical causality, and the most powerful and

important members of that society, in the absence of an

heir to the throne, are those who wield the Art Magic. [5]

LeGuin asserts the importance of the Equilibrium at an

early stage in the trilogy, and is concerned to re-

emphasise it in the closing stages;

“The world is in balance, inEquilibrium. A wizard’s power of Changingand of Summoning can shake the balance ofthe world. It is dangerous, that power. Itis most perilous. It must follow knowledgeand serve need.” [6]

And;

“The word must heard in silence. Theremust be darkness to see the stars. Thedance is always danced above the hollowplace, above the terrible abyss.” [7]

P a g e | 144

The similarities and differences between these two

quotations are important both thematically and structurally

in the Earthsea stories. In so far as they both assert the

same philosophy, the idea of balance, they state the

underlying philosophical or moral background against which

the development of the individual protagonists is worked

out. The first statement is made to the young Ged, when,

in his teens, he is too impetuous and self-willed to accept

or fully to understand what he sees as a restriction on

individuality and self-fulfilment. The second is made by

him many years later, for the instruction of the younger

Arren and as an expression of how completely the

Equilibrium and its imperatives have become part of his

personal growth and awareness. To this extent the two

quotations show how thoroughly bound up with each other are

the two concepts of maturity of the individual and the

maintenance or sustaining of the Equilibrium of Creation,

in LeGuin’s imagined world. On one level the whole Trilogy

could be seen as an illustration of how, in Inglis’ words,

“morality and identity cross”. [8] There is a profound

sense in which the identification of oneself as on the side

P a g e | 145

of, as a supporter of, “good” or Light and through these of

Equilibrium, is equivalent to growing up, becoming mature,

autonomous, responsible. Although it seems to be the

immature and arrogant Ged that he is merely being asked to

fit his individual abilities and potential into a pre-

existing system without consideration for his personal

need; the mature Ged, the Archmage, can see the free-will

decision to fit into that system as a valid way into

maturity and freedom. He is able to embrace and contain

the paradoxes inherent in that notion. Superficially it

may seem that he has only consented to “behave well”

according to a preconceived and conventional system of

belief. The same might be said of Sir Gawain’s avoidance

of adultery or Frodo’s acceptance of the Ring. [9] But what

in fact the authors are trying to show in all three cases

is that the making real and vital and active within the

self of a value-system is a way to maturity, not

necessarily a “selling-out” to the system or a capitulation

on the part of energetic, revolutionary and reforming

youth. Both the value-system and the individual are

validated and revitalised by the meeting of identity and

P a g e | 146

morality. Each individual’s insight and realisation

changes the system; the system provides the measure and

sounding-board for the emerging individual. There is a

close parallel and an unbreakable link between the two

decisions which LeGuin sees the merging individual

consciousness making. In the outer, social sphere, the

maturing person has to decide on his or her commitment to

the Light, and though that to the sustaining of the

Equilibrium. This, like the choices of the folk-tale or

epic hero, will involve a denial of self-interest and a

dedication to some quest or task of importance to others,

possibly to the whole society. Thus Gilgamesh seeks the

answer to the riddle of death because of his concern for

his people and his sorrow at his friend’s death. [10] Frodo

strives to destroy the Ring because the safety of all the

free Kindreds of Middle-Earth depends on that destruction.

[11] A closer examination of the Earthsea stories will show

this working itself out in the lives of the characters

depicted there. In the inner or psychic dimension too, the

themes of light and darkness emerge. LeGuin states clearly

in one of her essays, discussing Hans Andersen’s The Shadow;

P a g e | 147

“The man is all that is civilised –learned, kindly, idealistic, decent. Theshadow is all that gets suppressed …..thwarted selfishness, his unadmitteddesires, the swearwords he never spoke, andthe murders he didn’t commit. The shadow isthe dark side of his soul, the unadmitted,the inadmissible. And what Andersen issaying is that this monster is an integralpart of the man and cannot be denied …..”.[12]

So within the individual there must also be an

Equilibrium; the dark, or in Jungian terms the shadow side

of the individual, must be in an active and constructive

balance with the light or conscious side. “Identity and

morality cross”; successful integration with society,

positive response to the moral or social imperatives

outside oneself, cannot be reached without integration

between the apparently opposed elements within the self.

The story of Earthsea is the story of the acquisition of

that balance and integration by three different

individuals. It also shows, in the personal stories and in

the wider adventures and descriptions of society, how the

balance may be threatened or disturbed and what the

consequences of that disturbance might be.

P a g e | 148

LeGuin was expressly asked to write for younger

readers when she produced the Earthsea books. [13] She

records in the essay Dreams must explain themselves her own view

of what the trilogy is about and why its themes are

important for older adolescent readers. [14] She feels the

dominant theme of the first novel, A wizard of Earthsea, to be

that of coming of age, growing up. In The tombs of Atuan the

theme is more specifically the adolescent’s need to come to

terms with sexuality, while the third book, The farthest shore,

deals with acceptance of death. These themes are

undeniably important and will be discussed in due course.

But there are other patterns of theme and structure running

through Earthsea which should be considered alongside those

LeGuin has stated.

Firstly, the whole trilogy could be considered to be

the record of the life and deeds of Ged, a hero-epic

recording the three greatest turning-points in the inner

and outer growth of one who became the most powerful and

renowned human-being in his society. John R Pfeiffer has

argued this case most convincingly, and has indeed seen

many parallels between the larger story-of-Ged in the

P a g e | 149

trilogy and the epic of Beowulf. [15] He cites specifically

the dominance in both works of the word “bright”; the force

of Wyrd in both; the setting by the sea and the dragon-

fights in both; and the alliterative and poetic prose

LeGuin employs which reminds him of the Anglo-Saxon poetic

technique. One might push much further the structural

parallel in the “triple essay” of Ged and Beowulf. Ged’s

dragon-quest in A Wizard of Earthsea, a doublet of his Shadow-

quest in the same book, stands with Beowulf’s fight with

Grendel. His descent, in The tombs of Atuan, into a dark

region associated with female forces, stands with Beowulf’s

confrontation with Grendel’s mother. And for both heroes

the last battle – Ged against Cob, Beowulf against the

dragon – is the inevitable confrontation with death.

But the Earthsea trilogy is not only “The deed of

Ged”. [16] In another sense all three novels are about

coming-of-age. The growth to self-awareness, inner

integration, and commitment to “something outside itself,

beyond itself, bigger than itself” [17], is delineated

three times; once in the story of Ged’s struggle with his

shadow, once in Tenar’s fight to regain her true self, and

P a g e | 150

again in the story of Arren’s quest to the dark land where

he grows sufficiently in stature to fit the throne he is

heir to. In each case there is an imbalance or lack of

awareness in the protagonist that reflects or threatens to

contribute to an imbalance in the outer world. In each

case the protagonist must take positive steps to correct

both the outer and inner imbalances; by going on a quest,

by making a new commitment, by broadening his or her

awareness.

In the first story, Ged is too fiercely proud of his

undeniably great magical power; his could be said to be an

imbalance on the side of too much light. He cannot see the

need to wait and learn control and caution;

“…..surely a wizard, one who had gonepast these childish tricks or illusion tothe true art of Summoning and Change, waspowerful enough to do what he pleased, andbalance the world as seemed beast to him, and drive backdarkness with his own light.” (my italics) [18]

In a Christian context this might be seen as the

“ofermod” which was the sin of Lucifer and the downfall of

heroes in the Anglo-Saxon tradition. [19] LeGuin’s Taoist

system has its own answer to this urge to impetuous and

individualistic action;

P a g e | 151

“……wu wei …… ‘refraining from activitycontrary to nature’, that is, from insistingon going against the grain of things, fromtrying to make materials perform functionsfrom which they are unsuitable, fromexerting force in human affairs when the manof insight could see that it would be doomedto failure, and that subtler methods ofpersuasion, or simply letting things alongto take their own course, would bring aboutthe desired result.” [20]

Ged’s quest for his shadow teaches him the futility of

over-violent action and self-assertion. He learns to

accept the dark side of himself, the destructive

possibilities that can only be effectively controlled by

humble acceptance of them and their integration into the

total personality. In the wider sphere of relationships

with the rest of creation, he learns the value of restraint

and of balancing the needs and desires and rights of others

with one’s own impulses. Clearly LeGuin feels that this is

a vital step in self-awareness for the adolescent to take.

The first stirrings of a real sense of the individual self,

of its potential power for effective action in society,

join with the energy and enthusiasm of youth to plunge

young people into what may be violent, aggressive and

rebellious activity. There is frequently a rejection of

P a g e | 152

the values associated with tradition, such as Ged directs

towards his teacher. LeGuin tries to express for the young

reader the sense in which true maturity involves

establishing a sense of proportion, and in which discipline

and self-control are not self-repressive but self-

developing. Awareness of a sensitivity to the lives of

others, the attitudes of others, is a vital part of this.

The loyal friendship of Vetch and the way in which Ged

grows up sufficiently to allow himself to lean on that

friendship, gives moving expression to that idea. LeGuin

shows deep compassion for the suffering of Ged, but makes

it clear that he brings it on himself by his refusal to

cultivate these qualities of awareness and responsiveness.

She evidently feels that youth cannot be allowed to go on

being an excuse for the wilful abuse of power in a way that

brings harm to the young individual himself and threatens

harm to the rest of society. The Archmage Gensher sternly

tells Ged that he is in danger of being possessed by the

shadow [21]; of becoming a servant of evil. So Ged learns

that power – adulthood – carries with it responsibility and

duty, and that freedom itself is shaped by the necessary

P a g e | 153

limitations each must impose upon his or her actions. The

Master Summoner puts this into words for him;

“ ….. the truth is that as a man’s realpower grows and his knowledge widens, everthe way he can follow grows narrower andnarrower; until at last he chooses nothing,but does only and wholly what he must do ……”[22]

Ged is still only nineteen years old at the end of A

wizard of Earthsea; but has come through his first battle for

identity and integration;

“…… Ged had neither lost nor won but,naming the shadow of his death with his ownname, had made himself whole; a man; who,knowing his whole true self, cannot be usedor possessed by any power other thanhimself, and whose life therefore is livedfor life’s sake and never in the service ofruin, or pain, or hatred, or the dark.” [23]

The story of The tombs of Atuan is the story of Tenar’s

escape from the service of the dark. Tenar is priestess of

the Nameless Ones, and is believed to be the reincarnation

of the One Priestess who has served these dark forces for

thousands of year. Her willing service to this cause,

which subsumes her to such an extent that she loses her

individual name and identity, becoming Arha, the Eaten One,

P a g e | 154

shows that the imbalance in her nature is the opposite of

Ged’s. There is too great a dominance of the dark, the

negative, the passive. She is like the fairy-tale

protagonists described by Bettelheim, in an enchanted sleep

of paralysis of the will and loss of purpose. She is

Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. [24] Applying Bettelheim’s

schema, Tenar and Ged can be seen as embodying the two

characteristic features of adolescent experience, “……

periods of utter passivity and lethargy alternating with

frantic activity ……” [25] Her journey to adulthood is a

journey towards the light and towards accepting the

necessity of integrating the light with the dark; the

mirror image of Ged’s progress. In Taoist terms he is yin

and she is yang; he is the active, light, forward reaching

principle traditionally called masculine but present within

both male and female. She is the dark, passive, conserving

force traditionally called female but also present within

both females and males. The balance of these two forces is

the Equilibrium. Tenar lacks all confidence in herself,

all true sense of her own identity, and hides in the

darkness and apparent security of the only place she knows.

P a g e | 155

Ged, who has never known these lacks in his own psyche,

breaks into her private world and literally takes her out

of herself, out of the dark, out of the Place of the Tombs,

to experience the fuller possibilities of life. So she has

help that Ged did not have; he is the only one of the three

Earthsea protagonists who is forced to learn though the

bitter pain of his own mistakes – which is perhaps what

gives him the authority and the strength to help in turn at

the emergence of adulthood of Tenar and Arren.

The imbalance within Tenar is linked with an imbalance

in society, the existence of which brings Ged to Atuan and

motivates the story. In Tenar’s keeping in the Treasury of

the Tombs is one half of the Ring of Erreth-Akbe. This

arm-ring, missing for many years, is broken in such a way

that the Lost Rune, the Rune of Peace, is also broken where

it is engraved on the ring. Ged, having retrieved the

first half in a side-adventure during the Quest of the

Shadow, comes to try and retrieve the second and bring

peace to the lands of Earthsea. So at the climactic point

where Tenar willingly surrenders her half of the Ring to

Ged and helps him to re-join the Rune, there are many

P a g e | 156

levels of symbolism coming into play. [26] Ged’s words

have many applications; “It is whole now as if it had never

been broken.”

On an obvious, surface level this refers to the

physical mending of the Ring itself; in terms of the wider

society, it is peace that has been restored to wholeness;

but in terms of the personal maturation of Tenar, it is her

identity that has been mended, restored, healed. Although

LeGuin does not describe or hint at any physical

relationship between Tenar and Ged, it is presumably the

sense in which Tenar’s healing is dependent upon her

response to Ged, that leads the author to assert that the

novel is “about” sexuality. It is essential that Tenar

trust Ged, that she respond warmly and positively to him,

if they are to escape from the Tombs and really give Tenar

the chance of a new life and the Ring a chance to function

properly as a force for peace and Equilibrium. [27] She

cannot imagine any other possibilities for herself; all

hinges on her being moved by her personal response to Ged,

as Sleeping Beauty is moved by the Prince’s kiss. In the

person of Ged Tenar confronts everything that is outside

P a g e | 157

herself, bigger than herself, more important than herself.

It does not seem appropriate to speak of her as “falling in

love” with Ged. Nevertheless there is deep significance in

their relationship in terms of her personal growth to

maturity. A turning point comes shortly before they escape

from Atuan in Ged’s boat Lookfar. Tenar is assailed by fears

and misgivings and in a temporary revulsion against Ged,

prepares to kill him as he meditates. [28] This negative

reaction to her new freedom is psychologically accurate

according to the studies of Erich Neumann;

“In reality we are dealing with theexistential fact that the ego and individualthat emerge from a phase of containment,whether in a gradual and imperceptibleprocess of development or in sudden “birth”,experience the situation as rejection.Consequently we find a subjective experienceof distress, suffering and helplessness inevery crucial transition to a new sphere ofexistence.” [29]

Tenar is momentarily aware only that she has lost the

security of the familiar world of her childhood, and turns

on the person she sees as the instrument of that loss. The

next step for her is to learn the double nature of freedom

and maturity – the burden of responsibility for the self.

P a g e | 158

“A dark hand had let go its lifelonghold upon her heart. But she did not feeljoy ….. She put her head down in her armsand cried …… she cried for the waste of heryears in bondage to a useless evil. She weptin pain, because she was free.

What she had begun to learn was theweight of liberty. Freedom is a heavy load,a great and strange burden for the spirit toundertake. It is not easy. It is not agift given, but a choice made, and the choicemay be a hard one. The road goes upwardtowards the light; but the laden travellermay never reach the end of it.” (my italics)[30]

“A choice made”; a choice in which morality and

identity cross; a choice in which Tenar, by committing

herself to another person, and through him to the supra-

personal cause that he serves, forges another link in the

chain of her developing self, takes another step along the

road to maturity.

Tenar’s story takes the form of what I would label the

“quest-like” task. This is to say that she makes a

spiritual and moral journey within one physical location,

rather than a long physical journey such as Ged makes in

pursuit of his Shadow. By the time Tenar travels away from

Atuan, her significant journey from childhood into dawning

P a g e | 159

maturity has already been made. This inner journey is

quest-like insofar as it involves commitment and a move

away from self-centredness. In The Farthest Shore, LeGuin

reverts to the structure of an actual physical journey, the

course of which reflects the growth to maturity of Ged’s

companion Arren.

Arren’s story is not one of the correction of an

imbalance; at the beginning of the book he is a pleasant

and attractive adolescent, warm and impulsive – he is moved

to swear fealty to Ged during their first conversation [31]

– open and sociable. LeGuin says of him;

“Arren was an active boy, delighting ingames, taking pride and pleasure in theskills of body and mind, apt at his dutiesof ceremony and governing, which wereneither light nor simple. Yet he had never givenhimself entirely to anything (my italics). [32]

The story of Arren’s growth is to be the story of

dormant potential released and developed. At the end the

boy becomes, as Ged in his wisdom foresees, the King. This

is significant on two levels. In order to restore lasting

peace on the outer or social level, there must be a king to

fill the throne that has been empty for eight hundred

P a g e | 160

years. Identity and duty cross; in order to fill the

throne adequately, Arren must grow up – must give himself.

On the inner or psychic level, the business of becoming a

King in a fairy-tale or Fantasy stands for becoming adult,

integrated, for fulfilling one’s potential. Bettelheim

says;

“There are so many kinds and queens infairy tales because their rank signifiesabsolute power, such as the parent seems tohold over his child.” [33]

Arren is at first content to think of himself as a

servant or assistant to Ged in his quest to restore the

disturbed Equilibrium that threatens the existence of

Earthsea. He has, naturally, no awareness of the deeper

implications of the quest for himself in terms of personal

growth; and remains delightfully unaware of his public

destiny until the closing scenes of the story when Ged

kneels to him before the people. The reader is given an

early clue when a student at the school for Wizards on Roke

quotes the prophecy of Maharion, the last King; “He shall

inherit my throne who has crossed the dark land living and come to the far

shores of the day.” LeGuin packs into the story of the

P a g e | 161

crossing of the land of the dead, both the meanings of her

tale. To cross the dark land living is to come to terms

with the knowledge of one’s own mortality. To inherit the

throne is to achieve maturity as well as to become king in

the literal, political sense. Balance is restored to

Earthsea by the same series of acts that establish for

Arren his understanding of the balance between life and

death and his own role in the unending cyclical pattern of

growth and decay.

This series of events, the story of the novel, serves

to carry forward both tales at once. On one level LeGuin

traces God’s quest to re-establish the balance that the

evil mage Cob has destroyed. This theme in itself is a

complex one and reveals how far from simplistic is LeGuin’s

understanding of psychology. For within this strand of the

story, Ged himself is seen to be still learning, still

failing, still striving towards the elusive maturity and

growth that Arren assumes so great a man must have achieved

long ago. In fact, the imbalance in the Equilibrium must

be said to be Ged’s responsibility. It was he who, in a

fit of resurgence of the arrogant pride that in his youth

P a g e | 162

released the Shadow, punished Cob for summoning the spirits

of the dead by driving him into the place of the dead. [34]

Cob’s resultant terror of death is what leads him to open

the gap between the lands of the living and the dead in his

desperate search for immortality. So it is Ged’s personal

quest to restore the imbalance Cob has created.

For Arren, as for Tenar, growth is stimulated and

developed in terms of a deep personal response to Ged.

Indeed, all three young protagonists could be said to grow

through love for Ged. Ged learns, in subsuming his

negative shadow into himself, the vital importance of self-

acceptance, of self-love. Tenar is initially attracted

more to Ged himself than to the idea of freedom from her

enclosed life in the dark. Arren passionately devotes

himself to Ged; and the story of the evolving love he feels

for the mage, of its maturing, is the story of his own

developing awareness. There are several stages in this

love-story. Arren, like Tenar, goes through a period of

disillusionment during which he rejects Ged and feels let

down or cheated by him. He has to face up to the human

limitations of his hero, and learn to accept him as he is.

P a g e | 163

This rejection episode is much more strongly developed than

is the corresponding one in Tenar’s story. Arren’s misery

and sense of loss are very deep. In both episodes Ged is

lying helpless, at risk because of his companion’s hostile

attitude. Whereas Tenar almost stabs Ged while he is in

meditation, Arren leaves him unattended and feverishly ill

from a wound sustained in the course of the quest. [35]

This is an example of LeGuin’s use of the folktale

technique of externalising aspects of one personality in

various characters. She blends this with the realistic

novelist’s method of representing distinctive individual

characters, but at times the externalising is obvious.

Ged’s helplessness while the two young people go through

their periods of darkness and despair strongly suggests

that Ged here stands for the positive and growth-seeing

principle within them which is paralysed by fear of the

unexpected turn of events that has laid on them the awful

duty of taking responsibility for themselves. [36]

There are three key moments in Arren’s relationship

with Ged that express clearly his growth and development.

P a g e | 164

When he first swears allegiance to Ged on Roke, LeGuin

records;

“But now the depths of him werewakened, not by a game or a dream but byhonour, danger, wisdom, by a scarred faceand a quiet voice and a dark hand holding,careless of its power, the staff of yew thatbore near the grip, in silver set in blackwood, the Lost Rune of the Kings.” [37]

This is genuine emotional response, but along with the

fervour of adolescence it displays the idealisation, the

loading onto the individual person of all kinds of symbols

of impersonal concepts like honour and wisdom, that typify

hero-worship. Ged is a great man; but at this stage he

seems to Arren to be greatness embodied, to be perfection.

To follow him will be enough. Arren has to unlearn this

and the process is painful.

“He looked at his companion.Sparrowhawk, breathed uneasily, as when painmoves under the surface of sleep not quitebreaking it. His face was lined and old inthe cold shadowless light. Arren looking athim saw a man with no power left in him, nowizardry, no strength, not even youth,nothing. He had not saved Sopli, nor turnedaway the spear from himself. He had broughtthem into peril, and had not saved them.Now Sopli was dead, and he dying, and Arren

P a g e | 165

would die. Though this man’s fault; and invain, for nothing.

So Arren looked at him with the cleareyes of despair, and saw nothing.” [38]

But there comes a third time when Arren looks at his

friend, and this time he sees a good deal;

“He stopped, but in his eyes as helooked at Arren and at the sunlit hillsthere was a great, wordless, grieving love.And Arren saw that, and seeing it saw him,saw him for the first time whole, as he was.

“I cannot say what I mean,” Ged saidunhappily.

But Arren thought of that first hour inthe Fountain Court, of the man who had kneltby the running water of the fountain; andthe joy, as clear as that remembered water,welled up in him. He looked at hiscompanion and said, “I have given my love towhat is worthy of love. Is that not thekingdom, and the unperishing spring?” [39]

Arren’s new understanding of his friend, like his

eventual accession to the throne, is seen as a restoration;

he recalls the first moment of his love for Ged, and feels

again what he felt then. But now he is more self-aware,

and his love is more balanced. He feels for Ged as he

really is, not for the idealised Ged he first saw. And the

whole of this moment of insight is charged with Arren’s new

P a g e | 166

awareness, learned from Ged, of the inevitability of death,

of its part in the Equilibrium as the opposite pole to

life. Learning that the two can only exist in and through

each other, he learns to transcend them, moving beyond

despair at the thought of mortality to an informed and

conscious alignment of himself with optimism and growth.

He has learned to give himself to something, and in so

doing has achieved self-knowledge and self-control.

Ged spends himself, spends the last of his magic

power, in restoring the balance to Earthsea and the King to

his throne. His return to his homeland of Gont at the end

of the trilogy completes the overall pattern of balance and

equilibrium that LeGuin has written into the structure of

the novels. The tombs of Atuan forms a still centre to two

tales of arduous journeying. In the first novel Ged

travels into the uttermost East to confront the shadow, and

Manlove points out that the shape of this journey is a

figure Nine, a significant figure in Earthsea where power

is in the hands of the Nine Mages and bound up in the Nine

Runes. Conversely, the final journey is to the farthest

West to battle with death, and the shape of this journey is

P a g e | 167

a figure Six, an unwinding of Nine and so suitable to the

spending of the power that the young Ged was developing in

A Wizard of Earthsea. Manlove finds many other interesting

points of balance and contrast between the two “active”

novels and their stance on either side of the “passive”

Tombs of Atuan. [40] All these serve to reinforce the message

that the prime need in both individual and societal growth

is for balance and integration. The path to maturity is

not represented by LeGuin as easy; but the ultimately

triumphant note of the trilogy sets it forth as inspiring

and attractive, and for some adolescents may provide

encouragement during a turbulent period of life;

“….. Ged had neither lost nor won, butnaming the shadow of his death with his ownname had made himself whole …..”[41]

“Who sees the other half of self seestruth”. [42]

P a g e | 168

Notes and references; Chapter 5; The other half of

self

1. Ann Cameron, Daughters of Copper Woman (Vancouver:

Press Gang Publishers, 1981) p45.

2. Fiction (other than the Earthsea Trilogy) by Ursula

K LeGuin:

City of Illusions (Berkley: Parnassus Press, 1967.

The compass rose; short stories (New York: Harper and Row,

1982)

The dispossessed (New York: Harper and Row, 1974)

The eye of the heron (London: Gollancz, 1982)

The lathe of heaven (New York: Scribner, 1971)

Leese Webster (New York: Athenaeum, 1979)

The left hand of darkness (New York: Walker, 1969)

Malafrena (London: Gollancz, 1977)

Orsinian Tales (London: Gollancz, 1977)

Planet of exile (New York: Ace Books, 1966)

Threshold (London: Gollancz, 1980) – published in New

York in the same year under the title The beginning

place

P a g e | 169

Rocannon’s World (New York: Ace Books, 1966)

A very long way from anywhere else (London: Gollancz, 1976)

Published earlier in the USA by Athenaeum Press,

New York, as Very far away from anywhere else

The Wind’s twelve quarters; short stories (New York: Harper

and Row, 1975)

The word for world is forest (New York: Berkley-Putnam,

1976)

Poetry and Criticism by Ursula K LeGuin

The language of the night; essays on fantasy and science fiction (New

York: Putnam, 1980)

Hard words and other poems (New York: Harper and Row, 1981)

Wild angels: poems (New York: Capra Press, 1975)

3. The two most significant collections of criticism that

I have seen are in the volume Ursula K LeGuin; voyager to inner

lands and outer space, edited by Joe de Bolt (New York:

Kennikat Press, 1979) and the journal Extrapolation, no

21, Fall 1980, which is completely devoted to articles

on LeGuin.

P a g e | 170

4. The Earthsea Trilogy consists of;

A wizard of Earthsea (New York: Parnassus Press, 1968)

References to the 1971 paperback edition

(Harmondsworth: Penguin).

The tombs of Atuan (London: Gollancz, 1972) References to

the 1974 paperback edition (Harmondsworth: Penguin).

The farthest shore (London: Gollancz, 1973) References to

the 1974 paperback edition (Harmondsworth: Penguin).

5. Ursula K LeGuin, The farthest shore, p 9.



8. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness; meaning and value in

children’s books (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

1981) p 23.

9. J. R. R. Tolkien and E V Gordon (editors), Sir Gawain and

the green knight, 2nd edition revised by Norman Davis

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967) Part 3.

J. R. R. Tolkien, The fellowship of the ring; being the first part of

the Lord of the Rings, 2nd edition (London: George Allen and

Unwin, 1966) p 284 (Hereafter referred to as The

fellowship of the Ring).

P a g e | 171

10. N K Sanders, The epic of Gilgamesh (Harmondsworth: Penguin,

1964) p 94-104.

11. J. R. R. Tolkien, The fellowship of the Ring, Book 2, Chapter

2.

12. Ursula K LeGuin, The language of the night p 60-61.

Hans Christian Anderson, The Shadow, in Fairy tales and other

stories (London: Oxford University Press, 1914) p297-310.



15. John R Pfeiffer, ‘But dragons have keen ears; on

hearing “Earthsea” with recollections of “Beowulf”, in,

Joe de Bolt, Ursula K LeGuin; voyager in inner lands and outer space,

p115-127.


17. Ursula K LeGuin, The language of the night, p63.


19. The fall of the angels, line 262.

The battle of Maldon, line 89.

Both in Sweet's Anglo-Saxon reader, 15th edition edited by

Dorothy Whitelock (Oxford: Oxford University Press,

1967).

P a g e | 172

20. Elizabeth Cummins Cogell, ‘Taoist configurations’, in,

Joe de Bolt, Ursula K LeGuin; voyager into inner lands and outer

space p 153-179. This quotation on page 166 taken by

Cogell from Joseph Needham, Science and civilisation in China, 5

Vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1954-173),

Volume 2, p 68.





importance of fairy-tales (London: Thames and Hudson, 1976).

(Hereafter referred to as The uses of enchantment). Page

reference to the paperback edition (Harmondsworth:

Penguin, 1978) p 225-236.

25. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment, p 201-214.

26. Ursula K LeGuin, The tombs of Atuan, p 121-123.

27. Ursula K LeGuin, The tombs of Atuan, p 128

28. Ursula K LeGuin, The tombs of Atuan, p 147.

29. Erich Neumann, The great mother; an analysis of the archetype, 2nd

Edition (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963

P a g e | 173

(1st edition 1955)). Reference to the 1972 paperback

edition. (Princeton: University Press) p 67.

30. Ursula K LeGuin, The tombs of Atuan, p 149.



33. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment, 205.


35. Ursula K LeGuin, The tombs of Atuan, p 147-148 and The

farthest shore, p 118-124.

36. Ann Wilson, Magical thought in creative writing; the distinctive roles of

fantasy and imagination in fiction (Stroud: The Thimble Press,

1983). Discussion of externalisation is found

throughout this book, and the chapter (2) on Jane Eyre

is particularly interesting in this respect.



39. Ursula K LeGuin, The farthest shore, p 181-182.

40. C N Manlove, ‘Conservatism in the Fantasy of LeGuin’

Extrapolation 21 (Fall 1980) p 287-297.

41. Ursula K LeGuin, A wizard of Earthsea, p199.

42. Ann Cameron, Daughters of Copper Woman, p 45.

P a g e | 174

P a g e | 175

Chapter 6; Renunciation and sacrifice; Joy Chant and the

doom appointed.

Joy Chant is an experienced librarian with a

professional and academic interest in children’s books and

in folklore and legend. Her thesis for the College of

Librarianship, Wales, published in 1971, reflects this

background; its theme is Fantasy and allegory in literature for young

readers. [1] The thesis is slight, disappointingly so by

contrast with the vigour and power of her first Fantasy

novel, Red moon and Black Mountain, published in the previous

year. [2] The novel itself, despite its virtues, is

distinctly flawed in execution; and the study of Joy

Chant’s work is the study of a steady – and recently

accelerated – development in both the theory and practice

of her art. Joy Chant’s publishers now describe her as a

writer and mother; and many of the changes in emphasis

between her early and her later work reveal a deeper

insight and experience in Chant herself. [3] Identity and

growth are constant themes in her work, persisting through

P a g e | 176

quite considerable changes of style and worked out in terms

of steadily evolving ideas which show a growing interest in

the process of change and self-development in older

adolescents and young adults.

The title for this section is taken from an article by

Chant, about Tolkien. [4] Chant’s work is in many ways

comparable to Tolkien’s, although it is independently

conceived, not derivative. She has created an imaginary

world, Khendiol, in which all her novels are set, as

Tolkien created Middle-Earth. After Red moon and black

mountain Chant abandons even the pretence of a “frame”

story, and instead of bringing characters from our world by

magic into Khendiol, concerns herself directly with the

indigenous peoples of the imagined world. There is textual

evidence for a Christian background to her work, to its

moral thrust, which is in fact more obviously present in

the texts than is Tolkien’s. Like Tolkien – and like

LeGuin – Chant knows all about what Inglis called “the

point at which morality and identity cross”. [5] To each of

her main characters there comes a crucial point of

P a g e | 177

decision, a point at which the needs of society impinge

inextricably upon their own needs and desires, and which

can only be resolved by their growing to meet the need.

Should they not be capable of that response, then at least

one other person, and possibly the whole of society, will

clearly suffer. Each decision leads the character to enter

upon a quest or upon the fulfilment of what I have

designated a ‘quest related task’ [6], a kind of inner

journey or duty. And this is what Joy Chant has to say

about the quest theme in Fantasy;

“…… the duty of characters in a Questis not action, but suffering. They respondto events, they may precipitate them, butthey do not form them, for they areundergoing an ordeal, a testing and ajudgement, and much of the dramatic tensionarises from that fact. Their strugglerefines or destroys them, but it does notessentially change them.” [7]

However relevant or irrelevant this may be to a

consideration of Tolkien, it is certainly vital in

considering Chant’s own work. This hint of passivity or

fatalism, of the individual predoomed to fulfil a certain

role in events, dominates her early work. Indeed, her

characters in the first two novels seem much more pressured

P a g e | 178

by the force of circumstance than do Tolkien’s. The reader

is less aware of their having any real choice in the

matter, despite explicit statements from the author that

they have. Kiron, for example, makes much of the value of

Oliver’s commitment (he is using Oliver’s adopted name);

“…… someone like you, Li’vanh, someonewho offers himself freely and without need,who has everything to lose and nothing togain – he is immeasurably stronger.” [8]

Oliver is never wholly convinced of this, and his own

reflections just before his battle with Fendarl are far

more fatalistic;

“He had talked himself into completestillness; what would be would be, and therewas no more for him to do but play hispart.” [9]

Consciousness of the importance of the individual’s

decision to follow a particular course is written into

every line of LeGuin’s trilogy. In Chant’s case, this

realisation evolves in and through her writing and comes

fully into prominence only in the third novel, When Voiha

wakes. It seems likely that the reason for this difficulty

Chant experiences lies in what she herself calls “…… the

P a g e | 179

motifs of struggle and doom latent in all nurtured by our

North European culture and Judaeo-Christian beliefs ……”

[10]. Wyrd, fate, the doom appointed, can dehumanise

characters in Fantasy fiction; an extreme example of this

is Penny in Red moon and black mountain, whose blue eyes make

her “the doom appointed” for the evil Kunnil-Bannoth, [11]

but who is indeed totally passive and dependent here and

throughout the book. She truly is unchanged by her

experience. Yet despite Chant’s assertion, her other

characters are changed – caused to grow in awareness and

strength – by their experiences, as in fact are Tolkien’s.

All the Hobbits “grow”, even Bilbo … “…you are not the

hobbit that you were”. [12] Merry and Pippin even become

physically taller. [13] Sam grows enough to carry Frodo

physically and morally to success and to govern the Shire;

Frodo grows beyond Middle-Earth entirely. [14] In Chant’s

works, Oliver, Mor’anh, Rahike and to a lesser extent

Nicholas and Mairilek, are plainly wiser, more mature, more

aware of themselves and others, more firmly settled into

and in control of their own identities, at the end of their

stories.

P a g e | 180

Before examining more closely these stories of

growing, some general remarks on religion and the

supernatural should be made. Religion, organised and

personal and as the understructure of morality, is of

supreme importance throughout Chant’s work. There is a

perceptible shift, however, from book to book, in the

manner of its presentation and expression; and this runs

parallel to the shift in Chant’s handling of character and

maturation. In Red moon and black mountain there is a

superfluity of supernatural vehicles; the High Gods, who

are equivalent to Jehovah and the Archangels; the Star-Born

and their Magic; the Wild Magic; the Earth Magic; the

Mother Goddess; Vir'Vachel her daughter; Iranani the

Dancing Boy and other Gods of the Khentors (and of other

peoples too); the Niamhurh (elves); the Terhaimurh (sea-

sprites); the Borderer, a kind of nature-spirit-cum-Father

Christmas figure reminiscent of Tom Bombadil and Borrobil

[15]; a moon-Goddess linked with the white moon, an evil

power linked with the red Moon, a race of talking Eagles

allied to the Star-Born; many of these are beautifully and

powerfully evoked, but not all are strictly necessary to

P a g e | 181

the plot or the ideas of the novel, and Chant abandons much

of this machinery in the next book.

In The grey mane of morning, [16] the Gods of the Khentors

are powerfully present, but there is no cluttering up of

the symbolism with other belief-systems. Kem’nanh, the

chief God of the Khentors, appears in a physical embodiment

on one occasion, and is expressly the guiding force of

Mor’anh’s life throughout, but there is no sense of a

multitude of spiritual and magic forces pressing in on the

human action and working out in a vastly complex

interweaving of strands and plans. The Moon Goddess Nadiv,

guide of Mor’anh’s sister Nai, is a supportive influence,

confirming Mor’anh in his sense of destiny.

When Voiha wakes [17], the third novel, presents a

community with a strongly organised religion and

individuals to whom faith in the Gods is a natural part of

life. But in this book the Gods do not appear directly, and

the struggles for moral direction and purpose, the

struggles for identity, are wholly internalised. The

religious sense of right and wrong is a strong factor in

P a g e | 182

the struggle, and the wider sense of the need or demands of

society and other individuals interlinks with the personal.

Yet there is a refining away of the outer trappings of

Otherworld or High Fantasy so extreme as to lead to the

question – how far is this book a Fantasy at all?

Turning now to Red moon and Black Mountain; there can be

no question but that this is High Fantasy of great power

and beauty, carrying embodied in its symbols and incidents

and characters a deep moral and spiritual meaning. It has

the flaws one might expect of a first novel; it is

indisciplined and overwritten, suffering not only from the

overabundance of mythological figures described above but

from an inconvenient splitting of the action between three

protagonists; a fondness for elaborate set-pieces such as

the battle of the eagles [18] and the encounters between

Nicholas and various other world beings [19], which are

magnificent but tend to delay the action; and a too

persistent use of elaborately poetic phraseology which

distracts by its very virtuosity. All these faults are

corrected by Chant in her later work; and even in this

P a g e | 183

first novel they do not seriously detract from her

achievement.

To begin with the crux of the novel; Oliver’s

commitment to the cause of Good;

“But the oracle said only ‘by the youngtiger shall your death come’. So moreenchantments he made, with more hard-wonpower, and armoured himself against all thatis under sun or moon, against every creatureof Khendiol, and went again to the oracle –but this time it was silent. So he can beslain by no creature of Khendiol. None ofyou could face him; do not try. It would beuseless.”

And Li’vanh [Oliver] was taken from the world, and for

him all grew still. The talk went on, but he no longer

heard. He felt himself to be the pivot of a vast wheel,

the focus of the attention of the universe. He stood

alone, face to face with a knowledge he did not want,

hearing the beginning of a call he wished to flee.

“The young tiger. No creature ofKhendiol.” And then another voice. “Awarrior in ten thousand”.

No, he thought. No. No!

But he had heard, and he knew, and wasalone in a moment grown deep and ringing, asif echoing to a great gong-note. He did not

P a g e | 184

see the Council; he did not hear the voices.He saw only the choice before him and heardonly the unmistakeable summons.

He stood up.

“Kiron!” he said loudly, interruptingin a voice hardly his own.

“I am no creature of Khendiol, and mencall me the Young Tiger. I think”, he said,his throat grown tight and dry, “that thisfight is mine”. [20]

“The point where identity and morality cross”. There

are many other references that may be listed here as

parallel moments of commitment, symbolic of an increase in

stature and ability, a growth to maturity;

Frodo; “I will take the Ring.” [21]

Tenar; “I will come with you.” [22]

Gilgamesh; “……. I will go as best I can tofind Utnapishtim ……” [23]

Gawain; “I wyl to đe chapel, for chance đatmay falle;” [24]

Ged; “Master; I go hunting.” [25]

Beowulf; “……cwaeo, he guocyning oferswanrade secean wolde, ……” [26]

All of these incidents serve to reinforce the

implication behind Oliver’s personal moment of truth; that

the outer pressure of society’s need, the mere existence of

a task that must be done, can evoke the sense of identity,

P a g e | 185

the realisation of one’s power to make moral choices, the

realisation of one Self.

What use does Joy Chant make of the methodology of

Fantasy in her presentation of morality, and of identity?

The adventures that befall Oliver embody in symbolic

form and on a contracted time-scale the progress of an

adolescent through a crucial period in the development of

self-awareness and self-confidence. His being snatched

away from Earth into Khendiol stands for his departure from

the secure conditions of childhood, his entry into an

unknown region where he can scarcely remember his parents

or his home or any of the familiar features of his life.

[27] His training in weapons and warfare stands for the

internal re-equipping of the self to cope with the demands

of adulthood. The combat with Fendarl, like Ged’s with

Yevaud and the Shadow, symbolises his coming to terms with

weaknesses – here represented by fear – and negative or

potentially evil impulses – here embodied in Fendarl

himself – within his own psyche. The return to our world,

preceded by a clear recalling of his parents on the night

P a g e | 186

before the battle [28], signifies a re-emergence into

normal life, but on new terms. Bettelheim shows that this

patter is common in folk-tales that are concerned with the

adolescent experience;

“…… this development is fraught withdangers; an adolescent must leave thesecurity of childhood, which is representedby getting lost in the dangerous forest;learnt to face up to his violent tendenciesand anxieties, symbolised by encounters withwild animals or dragons; get to knowhimself, which is implied in meeting strangefigures and experiences.” [29]

Having passed through all these stages, Oliver is

oppressed with a sense of loss, of failure mingled with the

success. He feels cheated and despairing;

“The ache of loss became a pain andtears burned his eyes. Yet in his shame andgrief there was a seed of anger, for itseemed to him that in some way he could notunderstand he had been cheated. He had beenready to make an offering of his fear, andmaybe even of his life; but something hadbeen taken which he had not offered,something which could not be regained andwould be missed forever. He felt anoppression, as if part of his life hadended.

So he went at last to his rest, whereinlay the only healing for him. But the thingwhich he had lost he never did regain,

P a g e | 187

though what it was he never would have said.Perhaps it was his youth. For Li-vanh wasone who had looked upon the darkness in hisown heart, and he must henceforth live hislife in the knowledge of that darkness andin the fear of himself.”[30]

This seems a pessimistic conclusion, contrasting

markedly with LeGuin’s triumphant celebration of Ged’s

achievement in facing “the darkness in his own heart” and

thereby reaching the fullness of his strength and self-

awareness. [31] It is a clear example of the syndrome

described by Neumann, whereby each emergence into a new

stage of life is characterised by a sense of loss, even of

abandonment and betrayal, for the growing individual. [32]

At this stage in the story it seems that Oliver has

suffered for others but has gained little for himself that

is worth the suffering and loss.

Chant, however, allows a relief and a transcendence to

enter the story in a coda in which the Christian ideology

behind it comes more clearly to the fore and through which

one is made forcefully aware that there is a deep

significance in the fact that the novel begins with the

word “Easter”. [33] Oliver goes on to take a step which

P a g e | 188

only his mature, tempered self would have the strength to

take, and the Christian story of death and rebirth is acted

out within a context of the worship of the Mother Goddess.

Vir’Vachel, Earth-Goddess daughter of The Mother, is

angered by the destruction of the natural world that

results from the war of the Star-Born and their allies,

against Fendarl. She demands reparation in the form of the

sacrifice of a young man from each of the wandering tribes

of the Khentorei, Oliver’s adopted people. This means that

fifty youths will die, and one likely candidate is Oliver’s

foster-brother Mnorh, an especially gifted and beautiful

boy. [34]

Oliver, meanwhile, is tormented by his sense of no

longer belonging in Khendiol, now that his task is

fulfilled, and puzzled as to how he is to get home. His

brother and sister have already been returned by the God

Iranani who called them into Khendiol; he is told he must

find his own way back. [35] The shock of realising how the

pattern of events is shaping, is even greater for him than

the original realisation that it was his Quest to meet

P a g e | 189

Fendarl in battle. “…… someone had to go, and he could not

stay.” “He knew that he was not being called to this; that

even the High Lords did not ask it of him. But it was there to

be done by someone.” (my italics) [36] On the surface this is

still rather fatalistic, as if Oliver is being manipulated

into the right position to solve the problem as he was in

the case of Fendarl. Then Chant makes it clear that this

is a conscious act of a mature individual; Oliver, having

decided to offer himself as the required sacrifice,

reflects;

“He would do it. Whether fromdefiance, or love of his people, he did notknow, but he would do it. He would do morethan had been required of him; and spent andweary though he was, somehow that made himthe winner.” [37]

This is not fear of the self, but mastery of the self

and triumph over the fear of death. The echoes are not

only of Ged’s victory, but of the Christian original that

inspires Chant here. The three most relevant quotations

from the words of Christ are probably these;

“Whoever tries to gain his own lifewill lose it; but whoever loses his life formy sake will gain it.” [38]

P a g e | 190

“The greatest love a person can havefor his friends is to give his life forthem.” [39]

“The Father loves me, because I amwilling to give up my life, in order that Imay receive it back again. No-one takes mylife away from me. I give it up of my ownfree will. I have the right to give it up,and I have the right to take it back.” [40]

Here Chant has come via the Christian tradition to a

conclusion about self-hood and growth that is in essence

the same as that to which LeGuin came within the Taoist

system. Both assert that there is a paradoxical sense in

which the commitment of the self to something outside the

self is at once the means of achieving self-knowledge and

control; and a sign that this step into maturity has taken

place. Autonomy is linked with duty and responsibility; on

his way to death, Oliver thinks – “No one was compelling

him to do this. He could go back, and let the other die.

The choice was his.” [41] In fact there is no real choice

for the newly matured, caring, self-denying Oliver; he

“cannot” allow the others to suffer. Yet his own strength

of will is what has brought him to this deliberate

renunciation of his will.

P a g e | 191

Oliver is clearly here a Christ-like figure, and also

recalls the Young King, the Corn-King sacrificed for the

people. [42] And in some systems of belief, there have also

been rituals which have consciously embodied the

subconscious parallels between the emergence into

adulthood, and the dying into rebirth and new life. Young

people on the brink of adulthood undergo ritual seclusion

and re-emergence in token that the old self has died and

the new, mature person has been born. [43] The final scenes

of the book bring out the significance for Oliver himself

of all that he has undergone to win self-knowledge and

strength.

In a brief time spent with the God Iranani, before

returning to his own world, Oliver learns what he has

gained as well as what he has lost;

“All that you have lost shall berestored, and all that you have gainedremain untouched.”

Then Oliver met his eyes steadfastly,and said “Young Lord, your words aregracious. But I have gained knowledge thatwill not leave me, and I know that you speakyour truths too easily. There is something

P a g e | 192

I have lost which you cannot restore, andthat is innocence.”

There was an appreciative leap oflaughter in the young one’s eyes, but heanswer gravely, ‘And have men sunk so far,that the best they can hope for isinnocence? Do they no longer strive forvirtue? For virtue lies not in ignorance ofevil, but in resistance to it.’

Oliver bowed his head. ‘And what haveI gained?’ he asked.

‘What does silver gain in the fire, andiron in the forging?’ [44]

Chant can hardly claim that Oliver’s Quest and

achievement have not essentially changed him. The God’s

words proclaim that he has changed, by growing into greater

strength and knowledge. Insofar as a fictional character

may be said to have a “future” when the end of the work is

at hand, Oliver has a bright one. Chant implies that he

goes back into the world especially blessed and prepared

for the adult life he is entering upon. Iranani promises

him “…… new life, and heart to enjoy it.” [45] So confident

is Oliver that he refuses the drink that will bring

forgetfulness, realising that the pain of loss is

outweighed by the joy of gain. He walks clear-eyed back

into his own world; “There was no return. He had come

P a g e | 193

through a door which only opened one way.” [46] This is the

door out of childhood. Chant shows what a triumph the

passage through this door can be. A Christian hymn

appropriately exhorts its hearers to; “Lay hold on life,

and it shall be/Thy joy and crown eternally.” [47] Chant

has shown Oliver growing up to the point where he can do

so. Beneath the exciting adventure story that lies on the

surface of this subtle and complex work, are levels of

encouragement for the adolescent reader that may well help

more than a little; for Joy Chant has the power to inspire

and uplift, without overt preaching or moralising. She has

presented in action Bettelheim’s statement; “The only way

to come into one’s own is through one’s own doing.” [48]

The external, moral problem of the operation of good

and evil impulses in society is presented by Chant

according to the traditional Fantasy mode described by

Mobley and Branham in the articles discussed in Chapter 1

of this thesis. [49] Moral abstractions are personified

and concretised; conflict in war is the conflict of

principles. Fendarl is dehumanised, impersonal like

P a g e | 194

Tolkien’s Sauron; he is the principle of evil as it

operates at this point in the history of Khendiol. Chant,

like Tolkien, carries over into her sub-creation some of

the traditional figures of Judaeo-Christian mythology under

other names. Lucifer, called by Tolkien, Melkor and then,

in his fallen state, Morgoth, appears in Khendiol as Ranid,

He Whose Name Is Taken Away. Marenkalion the Defender, who

stand against Ranid, is Michael the Archangel. How far

this specifically Christian underlaying will be

comprehensible to readers is impossible to ascertain. What

is certain is that Chant makes Oliver clearly aware of it,

clearly aware of the nature of the Allegiance he claims;

“And in a single moment of rendinghorror he knew whom it was he saw. Fendarl’smaster; the great enemy; He Whose Name Is TakenAway, that Prince of Heaven whom he had alwayscalled Lucifer, Star of the Morning.”[50]

So Chant suggests that the battles the adolescent

fights within the self – that self-signified in Oliver’s

case by the whole world of Khendiol – are the same battles

all individuals and societies fight, however private and

unique they may seem to each new soul that learns to fight

them.

P a g e | 195

In her next novel, The grey mane of morning, Chant again

takes up this theme of the struggle of individuals and

societies for identity, purpose, and moral direction. The

novel records events in the early history of one of the

tribes of the plains people, the Khentors, who in Red Moon

and black mountain became Oliver’s adopted people. Mor’anh,

the hero of the second novel, is priest and Lord’s son of

the tribe called the Alnei. He is destined to lead his

people into new way of living and of relating to other

peoples; and to the Khentors of later times, the Hurnei who

adopt Oliver, he is a great hero of legend and his very

name is used as an exclamation or oath. Besides being

priest, Mor’anh is Har’enh of the God Kem’nanh, protector

of the tribe – he is the one to whom the God speaks. Later

in the book, he is told by Kem’nanh that he is the God’s

own son, begotten by him in human form upon his mother, the

priestess Ranuvai. The pattern of Mor’anh’s life is the

pattern described by Lord Raglan in 1934 as the typical

pattern for the traditional hero. [51] He does not, in the

course of the story, pass through all the twenty-two stages

elaborated by Raglan, but as the story ends in his young

P a g e | 196

manhood and with his triumph, this is not possible. Those

points to which he does conform, or nearly conform, are:

1. Mother; Raglan says the hero’s mother is a Royal

virgin; Mor’anh’s is

Priestess of the Moon Goddess and wife to the chief

of the tribe.

2. His father is a king; Mor’anh’s earthly “father” is

chief.

4 & 5. He is reputed to be the son of a god and the

circumstances of his conception are unusual.

Mor’anh’s fathering by a stranger to the tribe was

against custom; and the stranger is later identified

as the god.

8. He is reared in a far country. Mor’anh grows up in

the tribe but makes an unprecedented journey to a far

country where he broadens his ideas and strengthens

himself.

10. He returns to his kingdom. Mor’anh’s return is of

great significance to his people.

P a g e | 197

11. He wins a victory. Mor’anh frees his people from the

Kalnat.

12. He marries – though Mor’anh breaks the rule by

marrying a humble girl who loves him, not a princess.

13. He becomes king – Mor’anh succeeds his father as

chief.

This gives Mor’anh a score of nine out of the twenty-

two points, which is a fair correspondence when Raglan can

apply only nine to Elijah, eleven to Apollo, twelve to

Joseph, and only sixteen even to King Arthur [52]. Mor’anh

is one of the hero-figures who appear in the legends of all

peoples, carrying with them in some way the story of their

people’s growth to a sense of collective identity or

nationhood. Chant is concerned to present clearly the

inner growth of the hero to an understanding of his own

identity and to a confidence in his own powers; but this is

inextricably bound up with the crucial point in the history

of his people which it is his main task, as chief, to

oversee. The public commitment is the private growth.

Identity and morality again cross – the question; “Who am

P a g e | 198

I?” cannot effectively be answered without the related

question; “What ought I to do?”.

Mor’anh’s story is a story of enormous changes coming

to a society that has been static for longer than any of

its members can recall. “Years past reckoning had it been

so, for generation upon generation beyond the reach of

memory.” [53] Mor’anh’s divine awareness is the catalyst

for the changes, his insight and broader vision carrying

the people into areas of behaviour that have never seemed

to them before to be possible, desirable, or necessary.

The good and the evil aspects of their nomad life have

always been accepted without question. Mor’anh is slightly

out of step with this from the beginning; “Right from the

womb it seemed the Gods had marked him: ……” [54] His

closest friend Hran knows quite well that “……Mor’anh’s mind

could go where Hran’s could never follow; …….” [55] But

Mor’anh is not spared the necessity for growth and

development within himself; he has to mature to the point

at which he can wield his full powers confidently and lead

the tribe assertively, in order to carry out his purpose.

P a g e | 199

For example, while the annual tribute paid to the Kalnat

troubles Mor’anh, while he thinks about it more

questioningly than the rest of the tribe, still his anger

and his desire for action are not aroused until the custom

inflicts a personal injury upon him. When his beloved

sister Nai is taken forcibly by a Kalnat man for a

concubine, the turning-point comes for man and tribe;

“In a silent passion of range andgrief, he closed himself in the Inner Tentof the God. There he beat at Kem’nanh’s earwith his fury and his pain, storming at thegreat God until far into the night, cryingout against his loss, until the smotheredhatred in his heart seared him with agony,and from his bitterness was pressed a colddesire for revenge.” [56]

This personal agony is the motive force of social and

economic revolution. All previous tributes, even previous

thefts of women, have been accepted fatalistically by the

tribe as just part of life’s pattern. Awe of the Kalnat

induces fear and the strong desire to avoid trouble. Other

individuals in the tribe cannot comprehend Mor’anh’s

ability and desire to “lay hold on life” and attempt to

reshape destiny. As Mor’anh’s obsession leads them further

P a g e | 200

and further from the traditional ways, beginning to turn a

hunting people into a fighting nation, his father protests;

“‘I want my tribe safe, my peoplesafe,’ whispered Ilna. ‘I want the world asI have always known it.’” [57]

Mor’anh’s changing awareness is changing everything

that his people had believed to be immutable.

In Red moon and Black Mountain, everything that happened

to Oliver, in the sense of apparently external events,

could be interpreted on another level as symbolising

subconscious growth and change actually taking place in the

“real” world. In the case of Mor’anh, Chant employs a

mixture of this symbolic, folkloristic method of presenting

her hero’s maturation, and a more naturalistic mode. Two

of the signs of Mor’anh’s increased maturity are his

meeting face to face the God Kem’nanh; and his long journey

into Lelarik of the Cities, a journey which requires him to

develop new skills none of his people has ever needed

before. So unimaginable to the Alnei are the lands beyond

the Great Plains that a tremendous degree of courage and

self-confidence, of belief in the purpose he holds, are

P a g e | 201

necessary to Mor’anh before he can achieve this feat. And

from this newly-grown individuality and decisiveness come

generations of development. Mor’anh wins for his people

not only the short-term benefit of better arms to fight the

Kalnat, but a whole new growth of trading and cultural

exchange between themselves and the people of Jemaluth.

All this is straightforward narrative, character revealed

by action. By contrast, the confrontation with the God is

pure myth, heavy with symbolism pertaining to self-

knowledge and awareness and maturity. In facing Kem’nanh

[58], Mor’anh is facing the truth about his own nature, as

Ged did in the Eastreach and Frodo on Mount Doom. [59] He

is learning both his true individual identity and the

purposes that are possible to or incumbent upon that

identity. Like Ged and Oliver, he learns at once who he is

and what he is supposed to do – and the inextricable link

between those two;

“For you were not born of desire butwill, and by design, and the design was notmine …… because the Alnei and the Khentoreineed a lord at this time who is more thanjust a man. …… It is the wild magic I putinto your hands: power over winds, and over

P a g e | 202

beasts, and the spirits of men, and muchbesides. …… The Wild Magicians will needstrong spirits. …… That is why I put myblood into the Alnei, whom I have chosen tobear this burden. You will be first amongthe Tribes, Lords of the Plain; and everyman of the Alnei so long as the Tribeendures, shall call himself the Son ofMor’anh.” [60]

Mor’anh’s chosen, divine nature concentrates into

itself an extreme example of how personal identity and

group or public or moral identity cross. To know one’s

father is to know something about oneself, one’s own

nature. To be told one’s capabilities, to have it

suggested that one can and should carry out certain

difficult and dangerous tasks which will benefit others, is

to gain an even clearer picture of who and what one is. To

find that one is really of noble or divine birth is a

common motif in fairy-tale and folk-tale, and signifies

coming into confident awareness of one’s own identity and

to adult status. Bettelheim cites the example of The Goose

Girl, whose true identity was concealed for a long time but

who came triumphantly into her rightful place in society;

this signifies, he suggests, the achieving of a sense of

the autonomous self. [61] Here as in the case of Mor’anh,

P a g e | 203

the public, social, status identity – princess – is

expressive of the integration or maturity of the private

self. Mor’anh is the Lord, the chosen one; the chosen one

is Mor’anh. His growth and his people’s development into a

new stage of social evolution are bound together. Unlike

the other hero-figures we have studied, Mor’anh does not

experience a single stark moment of realisation and

commitment; Chant presents a more naturalistic process of

gradual maturing, with the shocking experience of Nai’s

abduction and the supernatural encounter with Kem’nanh

woven into it. In her next novel, which is still

technically a fantasy in many aspects of its structure and

form, she carries this naturalism further still.

When Voiha wakes [62] is set in the land of Halilak, a

country within Joy Chant’s invented world of Khendiol. To

this extent at least the work must be classified as a High

Fantasy; and its further characteristic of embedding in its

events and in the relationships between its characters much

that is symbolic of philosophical and moral questions,

confirms this view. Yet there are profound differences

P a g e | 204

between this and Chant’s earlier work, which must be

examined before considering the similarities of theme and

idea.

These profound differences might be summed up in a

shorthand way by saying that When Voiha wakes resembles the

work of Ursula LeGuin, while the two earlier novels more

closely resemble the work of Tolkien. More specifically,

in the adult novels of LeGuin, which are classified as

Science Fiction, there is very little use of the outer

trappings of that genre – hardware such as space vehicles

and their motive power, and futuristic scientific

achievements are kept to a minimum. Within the genre,

LeGuin chooses to concentrate on relationships and social

structure; the pressure on the individual of the

constraints of her or his particular society. This is

exactly what Chant does in her third novel. It could be

argued that both women could equally well have made this

sort of exploration within a naturalistic setting; the

Fantasy element is not strictly irreducible. It is pared

to a minimum. Chant’s two earlier books employ magic and

P a g e | 205

supernatural motifs and devices as does Tolkien; there is

more evidence of the relationship of their writings to

fairy and folk-tale, and other early literary forms that do

not rely on realism, such as Romance.

Yet Chant retains her former interest in identity,

self-awareness, and the challenge of society – and the form

which that interest takes in this third novel is such that

she does derive one great benefit from retaining the

Fantasy form. She can establish exactly the kind of

society she needs in order to throw into relief the

question of gender and identity; how important a strand in

the weaving of the self-image it may be, that a particular

society sets a particular value on certain qualities in its

male and female members. The question could have been

explored within a realistic novel set in contemporary

Britain; but Halilak is a Matriarchy, and many of Chant’s

points are made simply through the fact of that inversion.

There are matriarchies in the objective world; but the

Fantasist’s power to shape her sub-creation exactly as is

necessary to the theme of the fiction, works for Chant

P a g e | 206

through When Voiha wakes to establish in clear polarisation

the gender questions she is concerned with.

Other points of difference in this novel as compared

with its predecessors are the elimination of direct

manifestations of the supernatural; and the far greater age

of the protagonists. Rahike is twenty-eight and a mother;

her lover Mairilek is twenty-four. Romantic love is an

important element in the story. Yet Chant is still

concerned with change and growth, acknowledging that the

turbulence of adolescence is not by any means the last

trial of our identity or our moral allegiance. And

although the Gods are not physically present, they are

still in evidence – in female manifestations; Iranani the

Dancer is Karinane in Halilak and the pressure to do good

according to an inward sense of right is very strong.

Morality and identity cross for Rahike as for Ged, Oliver

and Mor’anh. She too has to consider the demands and needs

of the society in which she finds herself. There is none

of the dramatic fatalism of Oliver’s situation, no splendid

moment of commitment to a noble cause. There is no sense

P a g e | 207

of a sudden and irreversible turning-point in the history

of the nation such as Mor’anh’s career embodies. But there

is the possibility of change in the pattern of society in

Rahike’s own land of Naramethe, of a shift in the structure

of the world as her people have always accepted it, and

because this is bound up with the pattern of her personal

life it is she who has to be the first of her people to

accept the novelty, to embrace it rather than turning away

in fear. And to do this even though it brings her personal

sorrow, Rahike has to take a step into greater maturity.

She would have considered herself mature enough at the

opening of the story. In this land ruled by women, Rahike

is among the leaders of society, a skilled administrator

who has been appointed Young Mistress and will succeed the

Mistress as ruler at the latter’s death. She has a fine

house and beloved little daughter. She acquires a handsome

young lover – there are no marriages, for the men live

apart in the Men’s Town – and seems to have everything she

could wish for. But she falls deeply in love with young

Mairilek, and he with her. So he confides to her his love

P a g e | 208

and great gift for music; and this leads her into the area

of novelty and the forbidden. Music has no status or

official recognition in Naramethe, and Mairilek is seen as

a useless and possibly even dangerous character by the

other men and by many of the women. He does not fit into

the traditional pattern of his society, and no-0ne knows

what to do with him. Before they become lovers, even

Rahike reflects;

“The Craft-Laws were men’s mysteries,and no affair of hers, but she knew musicwas not a craft. And a man must be acraftsman. Such a passion as Mairilek’s wasfolly: was worse: was dishonourable; and shesaw the justice of the low esteem hesuffered.” [63]

Here Mairilek’s uniqueness, his individuality, are

seen to have no scope for expression within the confines of

his society. This has happened to characters in Chant’s

earlier work, but always to women. In’serrina the

Enchantress was not allowed to remain an Enchantress when

she married a man who was not of the Starborn; duty

involved conformity even at the cost of self-fulfilment

(Red Moon and Black mountain). Runi, a young girl of the

Alnei, is rejected by her people and becomes bitter and

P a g e | 209

spiteful because she will not marry and subordinate her

will to a husband’s. There is simply no place for an

unmarried woman of mature age within the tribal structure

(The grey mane of morning). All the heroes we have considered

– Ged, Frodo, Oliver, Mor’anh, Gawain – have acceded to the

need and ideals of society, but in the sense of bringing to

that society the gift of their strongly developed selves,

not in the sense of giving up individuality. They have

helped society to grow in and with their own growth.

Rahike is to do this too; and to help Mairilek overcome the

constraints as In’serrina and Runi could not. The

inversion of the male/female position in When Voiha wakes, so

that it is the man who is supposed to be contented with the

limited role assigned him by society, helps to point up

more strongly Chant’s ideas about the potential

constrictions any society may place on the individuals

within it,. In extreme cases there may be no scope for

true individuation at all. “He can only choose from what

is offered. What real choice has he?” asks Rahike when she

has come to see the truth about Mairilek’s situation. [64]

Other women cannot accept this insight; Rahike has taken a

P a g e | 210

major step in learning to see what life must be like for an

oppressed group within a society. Her own position of

power and authority is great enough to enable her to

manipulate events to her own benefit. She might have

called upon the sacred names of custom and tradition in

order to bind Mairilek to her. But it is she who has the

courage to go against custom, encouraging the timid young

man to take the enormously daring step of leaving Naramethe

to join a group of wandering musicians whose Master will

foster his great talent. This is done at tremendous costs

to herself; she is expecting Mairilek’s child – though he

would never have known of his paternity, as the mystery of

conception is one of the facts kept from the men by the

women. Yet he would have shared and enhanced her joy in

the child. She loses a great deal by this self-sacrificial

act;

“The road that led him from her wasalso the road that led to his craft-brothers, and to the glory that belonged tohim. He would walk lightly again. Alreadyhe had the love that would heal him, consolehim for what he had lost. Maybe he wouldnever love another woman, but he would havewhat he had always loved most. While she:

P a g e | 211

she knew she was maimed. ……For her springwas over, and the time of flowering wouldnever come again.”[65]

In Rahike’s story Chant has remained true to her own

idea of the Quest Fantasy as “ …… an ordeal, a testing and

a judgement.” [66] But with the abandonment of the

externalising, folkloristic techniques of the two earlier

books, she has moved into an area into which she never took

Oliver or Mor’anh; the everyday, the ambivalent, the

undramatic. It is the closing phrase of this novel that is

most telling; “Her heart rose, and she pushed it down:

learning the lesson he had learned as a small boy: enduring

reality.” [67] In the light of this new concern with the

everyday, in whatever society, real or imaginary, it will

be interesting to see whether Joy Chant’s future work

continue to hold to any Fantasy techniques at all.

P a g e | 212

Notes and references: Chapter 6; Renunciation and

sacrifice.

1. Joy Chant, Fantasy and allegory in literature for young readers

(Aberystwyth :

Collect of Librarianship, Wales, 1971).

2. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain; the end of the house of

Kendreth (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1970).

(Hereafter referred to as Red moon and black mountain) Page

references to the Unwin Paperback edition. (London:

George Allen and Unwin, 1982).

3. Conversation with Julia Merritt, Messrs George Allen

and Unwin, Hemel Hempstead, on May 9th, 1984.

4. Joy Chant, “Niggle and Numenor” Children’s Literature in

Education 19 (Winter 1975) 161-171.

5. Fred Inglis, The promise of happiness; meaning and value in

children’s fiction (Cambridge University Press, 1981) p 23.

6. See page 98 of this thesis.

7. Joy Chant, “Niggle and Numenor”, p (162-163).

8. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain, p 211.


P a g e | 213

10. Joy Chant, “Niggle and Numenor”, p 168.

11. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain, p 120-123.

12. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit or there and back again 3rd

Edition (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1966) p

233-234.

13. J. R. R. Tolkien, The return of the King; being the third part of

the Lord of the Rings, 2nd Edition (London: George Allen and

Unwin, 1966) p 233-234. (Hereafter referred to as The

return of the King.)

14. J. R. R. Tolkien, The return of the King. P218-219, p 377;

p 309.

15. Tom Bombadil may be found in; J. R. R. Tolkien, The

fellowship of the Ring; being the first part of the Lord of the Rings, 2nd

Edition (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1966). Chapters

6 and 7 of Book 1.

Borrobil features in; William Croft Dickinson, Borrobil

(London: Croft, 1944).

16. Joy Chant, The grey mane of morning (London: George Allen

and Unwin 1977).

17. Joy Chant, When Voiha wakes (London: George Allen and

Unwin, 1983). An Unwin Paperback original.

P a g e | 214

18. Joy Chant, Red moon and black mountain, Chapter 3.

19. Joy Chant, Red moon and black mountain, Chapters 11, 13,

14, 15, 16.

20. Joy Chant, Red moon and black mountain, p 187

21. J. R. R. Tolkien, The fellowship of the Ring, p 284

22. Ursula K LeGuin, The tombs of Atuan (London: Gollancz,

1972). Page references to paperback edition

(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1974). P 122.

23. H K Sandars (Editor), The epic of Gilgamesh

(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1964) p 94.

24. J. R. R. Tolkien and E V Gordon (Editors), Sir Gawain

and the Green Knight, 2nd Edition revised by Norman Davis

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967) line

2132.

25. Ursula K LeGuin, A wizard of Earthsea (Berkeley: Parnassus

Press, 1968). Page reference to the paperback edition

(Harmondsworth: Penguin 1971) p 146.

26. Fr. Klaeber (Editor), Beowulf, 3rd Edition (Boston: D C

Heath and Co, 1950) lines 199-200.

27. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain, p46.

28. Joy Chant, Red moon and black mountain p 215.

P a g e | 215


importance of fairy tales (London: Thames and Hudson,

1976). Hereafter referred to as The uses of

enchantment. Page references to the paperback edition

(Harmondsworth : Penguin, 1978) p 226.


31. Ursula K LeGuin, A wizard of Earthsea p 198-199.

32. Erich Neumann, The great mother, an analysis of the archetype,

2nd Edition (Princeton: Princeton University Press,

1963). Page references to the paperback edition

(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972) p 67.


34. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain, p 254-261.


36. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain, 262-263.

37. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain, 264.

38. The Gospel according to St John, Chapter 10, v39.

39. The Gospel according to St John, Chapter 15, v13.

40. The Gospel according to St John, Chapter 10 v17-18.


P a g e | 216

42. James George Frazer, The golden bough; a study in magic and

religion Abridged edition (London: MacMillan, 1922).

References to the paperback edition (London: MacMillan,

1957). See;

Chapter xxiv – The killing of the divine king.

Chapter’s xxix-xxxv – Adonis and Attis.

Chapter’s xxxix-xl – Osiris.

43. Frank Waters, The book of the Hopi (New York: Viking

Press, 1963) p 24 and p 137-153.

44. And 45. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain. P 275.

46. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain. P 277.

47. The Methodist hymnbook (London: Methodist Conference

Office, 1933) Hymn number 490.


49. Jane Mobley, “Towards a definition of fantasy

fiction”, Extrapolation 15 (May 1974) 117-128. And R J

Branham, “Principles of the imaginary milieu”,

Extrapolation 21 (Winter 1980) 328-337.

P a g e | 217

50. Joy Chant, Red moon and Black Mountain. p 230.

51. Fitzroy Richard Somerset, Fourth Baron Raglan, “The

hero of tradition” in; Alan Dundes, The study of folklore

(Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey : Prentice- Hall, 1965) p

142-157. The essay was originally given as an address to

the English Folklore Society in June 1934. In 1936, it

was slightly revised to form the core of a book entitled

The hero: a study in tradition, myth and drama. Raglan’s summary

of the hero’s career is on p 145 of The study of folklore.

52. Fitzroy Richard Somerset, Fourth Baron Raglan, “The

hero of tradition”, p 148-150.

53. Joy Chant, The grey mane of morning, p 21.

54. and 55. Joy Chant, The grey mane of morning, p 22.



58. Joy Chant, The grey mane of morning, Chapter 21.


J. R. R. Tolkien, The return of the King, p 223-225.

P a g e | 218

60. Joy Chant, The grey mane of morning, p 167-168.


62. Joy Chant, When Voiha wakes, see note 17 above.

63. Joy Chant, When Voiha wakes, p 23.


65. Joy Chant, When Voiha wakes, p 167-168.

66. Joy Chant, “Niggle and Numenor”, p (19).


P a g e | 219

Chapter 7; The sense of belonging; Jane Louise Curry and

the Misfit.

Jane Louise Curry is an American academic who has,

since 1968, published many works of Fantasy for young

readers. The majority of her works are intended for the

age range between nine and fourteen, but one or two are for

younger children from about seven. [1] Her achievement in

these works is uneven; and she has written many different

kinds of Fantasy, so that this section will not be a

critical survey of all her work to date – some of it being

still unavailable in this country, in any case. The works

selected for close examination are the three novels that

seem to me to illustrate most clearly the importance of the

identity-maturity theme in Fantasy, and its relationship to

the Quest motif.

All those of Curry’s works of fiction that I have seen

are classifiable as Low Fantasy; that is, Fantasy in which

the action is set in the objective world and the strange or

alien elements are introduced upon the scene, breaking into

the characters’ everyday lives. She has produced time-

P a g e | 220

shift novels (or ghost stories) [2], novels with miniature

human beings in them, of the Lilliput school [3], one

mystery adventure in which the “magic” is actually

explained away in the denouement [4], one novel based on

the Arthurian legends [5], and a whole series of works

which ambitiously seek to draw together the Celtic

mythology of Curry’s own Welsh ancestors with her mythical

history of Pre-Columbian America [6]. This latter series

is the most important both in terms of excellence and in

terms of interest with regard to the

Challenge/Quest/Identity theme.

Curry has brought together Amerindian and Celtic

mythology, archaeology, history and legend with her own

speculation, to build a complex mythical history that dates

from before the beginning of the current age up to the

nineteen-seventies. These stories always involve magic,

many of them involve time-shift, and in most of them the

race of Elves is featured, either as main characters in the

story or as influences in the background. Through all of

them, too, runs the theme of selfhood and identity, bound

P a g e | 221

up with its related theme of duty and commitment. But in

some of them Curry has failed to develop enough tension or

depth to her stories, because of the basic error of

involving too many protagonists. In these overcrowded

books [7] Curry hints at many issues vital to the identity

theme – race, class, education, gender – only to find that

she has not space to develop them in any depth. Callie,

for example, in The daybreakers feels herself a misfit on

many counts; she is black, cut off from her old home in the

South, and struggling with a quick temper that involves her

in quarrels with family and friends. But Callie’s whole

class becomes involved in her adventures in ancient Abaloc,

and there is no room for more than perfunctory surface

reference to these matters in the rest of the book. In the

single-protagonist books [8], Curry weaves the themes so

that the action is genuinely expressive of what is

happening inside the young protagonist. This is why these

three novels make the most rewarding reading, and the most

worthwhile studies, of all her works. Indeed, Curry

herself seems to feel the lack of emphasis and development

in the “crowded” books, since there is a pattern of

P a g e | 222

repeated themes following though the novels that form the

Abaloc series. In chronological order of publication –

although not chronological in terms of the imagined events

– Curry makes half-hearted use of a theme in one novel and

then much more direct use in the next. Miggle Arthur in

Beneath the hill feels at odds with her family, but little real

use is made of this; while Eilian, in The Change-child, is the

centre of the action and the external events she is

involved in are bound up with the theme of her discovery

and acceptance of her true self. The children in the

crowded novels cannot be sufficiently well isolated as

individuals within the text, for much real growth to self-

awareness to take place. Callie in The Daybreakers is

unhappy, but after this unhappiness has functioned as a

channel for the kings of Cibotlan to reach the present day,

we are not shown its resolution though any inner growth in

Callie. Dewi in Over the sea’s edge, however, undergoes deep

self-examination and is fully aware of how his attitude to

himself and the world has changed to become more accepting

and more positive. In the next novel in the series Curry

seemed to have broken out of the pattern. The watchers,

P a g e | 223

which picks up themes from earlier books in the series,

especially alienation, identity and self-knowledge, is a

single-protagonist novel centring on Ray Siler, and makes

great use of Ray’s inner state and its resolution, in the

working out of the plot. Unfortunately, its successor The

Birdstones is a return to the use of a multitude of child

characters, not all of whom are ever clearly individuated

for the reader, let alone in terms of their own self-

awareness.

It remains generally true, however, that Curry handles

the Low Fantasy mode very well. There are senses in which

it is a more difficult genre to work in than is High

Fantasy, since the writer has less freedom to create a

background against which to set characters and plot. Much

of the work must depend on the techniques of the realistic

writer and seek to delineate a convincing contemporary

society. To hold the balance between this and an equally

convincing imaginary society of Elves or of the far past is

very difficult. Some writers take drastic ways out; Susan

Cooper, for example, to my mind seriously mars her sequence

P a g e | 224

The dark is rising by the device of forgetfulness. That is to

say, her magically-empowered characters are able to make

the “ordinary” people forget anything supernatural that

they may have witnessed. As a result no-one grows or

develops at all, and much of the mythic power of the folk-

lore mode Cooper employs is wasted. Curry gets round this

problem neatly by running parallel strands of experience

though all her stories. The single-protagonist novels in

particular are notable for their skilled use of adult

characters, realistically related to the children and often

themselves experiencing growth and change. There is always

a problem in the society depicted, a “real” problem which

engages the adults but which the children alone fully

perceive as being linked with an underlying supernatural

situation. To select one example; the adults in Beneath the

hill think they are facing the problem of the despoliation

though modern technological methods of mining, of a

beautiful tract of land. The children see the link between

the greed of the modern contractors and the ancient spirit

of evil that the elves tell them of. Family life and

sociological trends in modern America are convincingly

P a g e | 225

presented; yet there is also hauntingly beautiful evocation

of the Otherworld of Celtic legend and enough blending to

make it clear that experiences with that Otherworld stand

in Curry’s novel, as they did in the ancient tales, for the

experiences of the deeper levels of the mind. Faery is

employed as a metaphor for the underlying states both of

individual consciousness and of the social structure. This

skilled dual usage is revealed very clearly in the three

single-protagonist novels chosen for closer study.

The change child, set in Wales at the turn of the

sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, clearly illustrates

both the use of the techniques of Low Fantasy; and the use

of the metaphor of the Other world encounter to point up a

time of growth in consciousness and self-awareness in a

particular individual. Eilian, the child of the title, is

at odds with her surroundings in many ways. Slightly

crippled in one foot, red-headed, and given to the making

of songs and poems, she is regarded with suspicion by

neighbours as a probable changeling; that is, a child left

by the fairies in exchange for a human child. She is

P a g e | 226

thought of as odd. Since her own mother shares in this

opinion to some extent, and is only half-joking in her own

application of the term “changeling” to Eilian, the girl

has a rather low opinion of herself. She has comfort from

her father’s love and her grandmother’s care; but there is

still bitterness to cope with. Even her father says; “……

it’s foolishness for a girl to wish to be a poet at all,

that only a man can be a bard and compete for prizes at the

Eisteddfodau ……” [10]. No-one completely understands or

accepts her nature or her aspirations. Therefore she

cherishes within herself a compensatory self-image that

involves some idea that she might actually be special,

might have fairy blood in her, even though in everyday

conversation she explicitly states, more than once, “I am

no changeling!” [11] Bettelheim points out that this is one

of the compensatory images that children adopt for

themselves and find in fairy-tale;

“The feeling of inferiority isdefensively turned into a feeling ofsuperiority.

The pre-pubertal or adolescent childmay say to himself, “I do not compete with myparents, I am already better than they are;

P a g e | 227

it’s they who are competing with me.”……………. Every child at some time wishes thathe were a prince or princess – and at times,in his unconscious, the child believes he isone, only temporarily degraded bycircumstances.” [12].

Eilian’s circumstances change twice during the novel,

and although the cause of these changes, in terms of the

“real” world, is the trouble between her father and the

Rastall family over the inheritance of Plaseiran, the

journeys constitute a quest-related experience for Eilian.

She is forced in the course of it to learn to value other

individuals and to give weight to their needs; to accept

responsibility for her actions; and to be reconciled to the

limitations and the potential of her own nature. She has

to make a choice of allegiance, a commitment, which is

related to the moment of dedication of the hero in a High

Fantasy. While the outer problem of the inheritance is

being worked out in plots and lawsuits, Eilian’s growth is

being worked out in a visit to Faery which, in the terms of

the novel, “really” happens, but can be shown to have much

in common with the traditional tales in which every action

is expressive of some psychological trait or condition of

P a g e | 228

the protagonist. Both these come together at the end of

the book to reconcile Eilian with her mother, whose own

attitude has become gentler as a result of her improved

fortunes, so that she is ready to meet the advance of the

more understanding Eilian.

At the level of the Fantasy plot, then, there is much

traditional material, carrying out its traditional

function. In fact Eilian thinks she may be going into

something like fairy-land on her first journey to stay with

her grandmother’s troop of thieves, who are known as the

Red Fairies. She is “enchanted” by them in the everyday

sense of being very much in love with the idea of them, and

she makes a kind of commitment to them in her heart on

first meeting.

“There were laughs and greetings andkisses, and in the light of the lanterns theirhair shone gold and their eyes gleamed silver.Eilian tightened her arms around her uncle’swaist until he could feel her heart poundingfrom excitement. “Maybe I’ll never go home,”she thought. “Maybe, maybe this is the truehomecoming.” Mam and Dad seemed dim shadowsin a heavier world.” [13]

P a g e | 229

This romantic hope is knocked flat by Eilian’s

eventual discovery that the Red Fairies are in fact robber;

that Uncle Emrys is weak and under his mother’s thumb; and

that her dear Grandmother is plotting to sell her to Simon

Rastall against her father’s wishes. (He has said that no

considerations of peace about the contested inheritance

will induce him to let Eilian be married off to a man who

does not care for her). The Red Fairy identity, which she

had hoped to adopt, is not the answer to her problems. She

learns to see the people she has been living with as

flawed, ambivalent, ordinary individuals, the normal

mixture of good and bad. This is an important step on the

way to discovering her own autonomous identity. Having

brought her to a point where she is vulnerable to such

influences, the story now takes her into Faery, to find

herself; to see the complexities of the truth about

herself, as she has seen it about Emrys and Mamgu and the

others.

Eilian goes into the forest under the guidance of

Goronwy, the boy who has always seemed quite ordinary, but

P a g e | 230

now turns out, confusingly, to be one of the Fairy-folk

after all. On the realistic level the forest functions as

a refuge for the injured Emrys, who is in danger of arrest

if he does not go to ground. On the psychological level,

the forest is filling its traditional role as a symbol of

wandering in the unconscious, exploring the self, often at

risk – expressed as the danger of going mad – but with the

hope of making useful discoveries about oneself. Two

traditional examples of this are the mediaeval tale of Sir

Orfeo, who wandered bereft of reason until his music healed

him and he was reconciled to his wife Herodis; and Malory’s

Lancelot who ran made for two years in the forest; a token

of his inability to cope with the pressures of Guenever’s

possessiveness. [14] In both these tales the fact of being

lost in the forest stands for a wandering in the inner word

of the unconscious self. Eilian is not lost, but guided by

the care – and criticism – of Goronwy. She passes through

the forest with him, is aware of his sense that she is

letting herself down by her self-absorbed attitude, and

here comes to her realisation about the importance and

P a g e | 231

uniqueness of other Selves; “I only let him be Uncle, she

though, not Emrys. …… But now he was his own ……” [15]

In the next confrontation, with the Fairy Kind, Eilian

finally meets the truth about herself. Again, this

parallels the experience of Orfeo and other traditional

figures in folk-tale who enter Faery and are changed by

their meeting with its powerful figures. [16] Eilian

learns, ironically enough, that she is indeed of Fairy

blood; but the learning is an ambivalence of bitterness and

pleasure. For on the personal level, she sees that there

is a sense in which this makes no difference. Her growing

conviction, for example, that she may make a good singer

but has not as much skill as a poet as she had hoped, is

not affected either way by this. And painfully, on the

wider level, her coming functions as the fulfilment for the

Tylweth Teg of a prophecy that they must leave Middle-Earth

for the fairy kingdoms over sea. So the fact of Eilian’s

being who she is has brought mixed results; joy to Goronwy,

who loves her; pain to the Tylweth Teg, who lose their

ancient home; and to herself, the continuing need to make

P a g e | 232

the effort to accept herself and learn to accept others.

There is no side-stepping that effort for self-acceptance,

however colourful one’s ancestry or multifarious one’s

talents. And so Eilian’s act of commitment is an act of

commitment to herself and to a positive attitude to that

self; the commitment, in fact, that has been symbolised in

the High Fantasies we have studied, by the act of

dedication to a Quest or cause. Just as those heroes

learned to mobilise the strengths in themselves in order to

defeat evil enemies, Eilian is taught by the Lady Wintida

that her answers are also within;

“Eilian was muddled. ‘Change is notgood then?’ she ventured doubtfully.

‘On the contrary, child. All that isgood comes through it. But it is no suddenshift played on you, for what is growth butchange and transformation? To fear it is toinvite decay, but to live in hope it beimposed upon you by some kindly fate is tolive a fool.’

‘I do not understand. Am I sofoolish?’ No sooner had she said it than athought brushed past Eilian of the achingsameness, the dreaming–of –when–things–would–be–differentness, of so many of her days.

The lady smiled. ‘Only in thinking wecan give you love and peace if you have not

P a g e | 233

tended the seeds of these things in your ownheart.” [17]

Less dramatically than Ged, or Oliver, Eilian has seen

that she can and must come to terms with the contents of

her own heart. For her there has been discontent and

unhappiness, rather than the combat with an externalised

symbol of the dark side of the self that the High-Fantasy

protagonists faced. But the text confirms that Eilian’s

journey has been a kind of quest for the self and a process

of integration; her father reflects, when she has returned

to their new home; “It is the real child’s come home.” [18]

He sense that she is in some way more truly herself, more

balanced and self-aware, than before her adventures. And

Curry closes the novel with an age-old symbol of

psychological and spiritual stability; the symbol of the

tree.

“’And I have brought a cherry tree,’said Eilian, ‘which I must plant tomorrow.’”[19]

The theme of reconciliation to the self and the device

of providing two levels of motivation for the action of the

P a g e | 234

story, carry over into Over the sea’s edge. For Dave/Dewi as

for Eilian, his physical journey stands for his

psychological and spiritual exploration of himself. For

the others in the story, there are plenty of “realistic”

reasons for the journey across the ocean and though the

forests of Pre-Columbian America. For Madauc, to a greater

degree than for Emrys or any of the other adults in either

novel, there is also an increase in self-knowledge and a

shift in expectations of and attitudes to life. This runs

parallel with Dewi’s experience and serves to underline it.

The identity problem is brought to the fore in this

novel in a startling way; two characters actually do change

identity by means of a time-shift effected by a magic

talisman. Instead of this being reversed at the end, as

might perhaps have been expected in a children’s novel, the

changeover holds, and it is to the new identity that Dave-

who-becomes-Dewi is gradually reconciled. Less attention

is paid to Dewi-who-becomes-Dave, but we do see at the end

that he is also reconciled to his new life. At the

beginning of the story, Dave feels himself a misfit in his

P a g e | 235

life in modern Ohio, unhappily aware of his lack of the

academic skills and enthusiasm that his father wants him to

have. He feels he is, in a sense, the wrong person, that

he cannot please his father by being who he naturally is.

He longs for adventure and physical activity;

“I don’t WANT toStructure My Personality Around a Positive Goal. I want to ……sail down to the gulf of Mexico on a raft and explore awilderness and ride with a banner in the wind and ….. andknow how to live on trapping and acorns and nuts and berriesor whatever, and ……” [20]

Meanwhile in the year 1170 the Welsh boy Dewi longs

fiercely for the life of a scholar, for all the things Dave

rejects. The longing and the discontent together are

channelled through the silver pendant from ancient Abaloc

that Dave finds in a cave along the Ohio (at once “before”

and “after” he (as Dewi) left it there – Curry deals

skilfully with these complications of Time). One night,

the boys change places in their sleep, so that each awakes

to what he thought he wanted. The action of the story

largely concerns their struggle to accept the selves they

find themselves to be; the unavoidable task for each

growing individual. It is significant that at the end of

P a g e | 236

the story, when each has found peace, each is shown to have

done so by integrating into the chosen identity a measure

of the self that was formerly rejected. Dave-who-was-Dewi

– referred to as Dave from now on – learns at the end to

relax some of his obsessive drive for academic success and

to enjoy relaxing on the river like Dewi-who-was-Dave

(hereafter called Dewi). Dewi learns that his book-

learning can serve a useful purpose in keeping records of

Madauc’s new community in the New World. The pattern is of

the integration of various traits in the self, not of being

able to reject some in favour of others. In fact the story

makes greatest sense if the two boys are treated as the

folk-tale motif of the Two Brothers, whose interdependence

signifies the need for integration between the two opposing

principles within the self. Bettelheim says;

“The stories on the “Two Brothers”theme add to this internal dialogue betweenid, ego, and superego another dichotomy: thestriving for independence and self-assertion,and the opposite tendency to remain safelyhome, tied to the parents. From the earliestversion on, the stories stress that bothdesires reside in each of us, and that wecannot survive deprived of either: the wish tostay tied to the past and the urge to reach

P a g e | 237

out to a new future. Through the unfolding ofevents, the story most often teaches thatentirely cutting oneself off from one’s pastleads to disaster, but that to exist onlybeholden to the past is stunting; while it issafe it provides no life of one’s own. Onlythe thorough integration of these contrarytendencies permits a successful existence.”[21]

Many of these implications and nuances are embedded in

the story of Dave and Dewi. The new Dave tries to limit

himself to one aspect of himself, concentrating upon his

scholarship to such an extent that, ironically, even his

father is alarmed and urges him to ease his pace. Allowing

the other aspect of himself back in, Dave finds he can

relax and feel safe; imagination is allowed its place

alongside Mathematics and Latin. “…… he never grew so old

that he made the mistake of forgetting that dreams hold

their share of truth.” [22] The new Dewi, by contrast,

tries to get back to his former state and rejects the new;

“I have to get back. He felt the olddaydream – the one about an adventurous lifewhere every tomorrow held its own surprise –blow away in a black wind that took hischildhood with it. He wanted only to besafe.” [23]

P a g e | 238

When each boy is reconciled to the existence in

himself of elements of the old and the new identity, he

finds peace. This finding of peace by the two brothers,

each in his proper place, signifies in the folk-tale the

establishment of integration in the one personality,

different aspects of which the two brothers symbolise.

Dewi, like Eilian, accepts himself.

On the Fantasy level of the story other traditional

motifs are used. Like Eilian, Dewi crosses water and

travels through a dense forest on his way to confrontation

with the truth about himself. That he crosses the ocean

rather than a stream, and that the forest exists in a

remote past so alien to Dewi that it might almost be an

Otherworld itself, serves to intensify the image of rebirth

to a new phase of existence. Crossing water signifies the

end of one stage and the beginning of a new one; a

symbolism employed, for example, in the Christian rite of

Baptism. [24] Dewi’s supernatural experience differs from

Eilian’s. She was led to reflect inwardly on her own

attitudes and behaviour, while riding through the forest to

P a g e | 239

face the King of Faery. [25] He confronts his other self,

walking in the forest in a surreal mist, and each is

confirmed by this experience into his sense of belonging in

and intending to stay in the new identity; in other words,

is confirmed in the sense of self. [26] After this the

fleeting contacts between the two are broken off. Neither

retains any desire to be other than he is, although Dave

has still to overcome his terror at the very thought of

anything from his past life in Wales, and Dewi to make a

step towards true independence that involves ending both

his reliance on Madauc and his acceptance of Madauc’s dream

as his own. This comes about through a truly Fantastic

confrontation reminiscent of High Fantasy. Dewi and Siona,

one of the Elvish/Indian people of Abaloc, witness the

destruction of the evil priest Neolin at the hands of the

Being who is the embodiment of Evil throughout the Abaloc

series. The children- they are still only thirteen or

fourteen – are not actively involved in the turning out of

the Sun-Serpent Katoa from Ebhelic, but for Dewi the

awareness of the existence of such evil is a turning–point.

[27] It gives him a set of allegiances, the choice of which

P a g e | 240

indicates his new self-awareness and confidence. In

deciding that he is against Katoa, that he feels at home

in Abaloc, and that he has an affinity with Sion —who later

marries him—Dewi is deciding who he is and that he is happy

with who he is. The theme of choice between good and evil

is not as strongly developed nor as clearly externalised as

in High Fantasy, but it is there and is linked with the

identity theme. Dewi’s rejection of Katoa is underlined by

Madauc’s alignment alongside Abaloc against the power of

Cibotlan, which is corrupted by Katoa. [28] Madauc rejects

the role of plunderer he had cast himself in, and finds

contentment instead in the role of voyager and discoverer,

eventually, like Dewi, settling in the new land as a symbol

of his contentment with his new, developed self.

Finding a place that feels like home reflects the

finding of peace within oneself; and this motif, together

with others from these two stories is repeated in the last

novel to be studies, The Watchers. In terms of both the

realistic writing and the Fantasy elements, Curry displays

here a greater depth and power in the realisation of

P a g e | 241

character and the dramatic tension of events, than in any

of her earlier works. The Fantastic events are much more

thoroughly bound up with the hero’s psychological state and

his growth in awareness; there is a need for a willed

commitment on his part to the cause of Good that increases

the functional validity of the Fantasy element. The

particular sector of modern society that Curry chooses to

evoke, the cut-off world of the Virginia mountain hollows,

is fascinating in itself and skilfully handled in order to

express the writer’s concern about many aspects of

contemporary life. And that concern in itself is

effectively expressed though the Fantasy as well as on the

realistic level. This is a classic example of how well Low

Fantasy can work, at its best.

Surface events that motivate the action in the story

are, that Ray Siler is not wanted by his stepmother, and is

sent to live with his mother’s “kin” in Twilly’s green, and

isolated mountain hollow. Ray feels rejected and

resentful; he is a strongly convincing portrait of an

alienated working-class adolescent, sullen and suspicious

P a g e | 242

and heavily profit-motivated. All is not well in the

Hollow, although there is a warm and loving welcome for him

there. Almost all the large extended family is living on

“Welfare” (Social Security), one young man has been killed

and another emotionally damaged by the Vietnam War, one of

the younger girls, Bonnie, longs to leave the Hollow and

seek fame and the comforts of the modern world as a singer.

The children are unhealthy. Modern culture is cutting off

the old ways at the roots and putting nothing in their

place. As the plot evolves on the “real” level, we learn

that these simple, unworldly folk have been cheated out of

the ownership of part of their land and that the whole

community may be destroyed by Arbie Moar’s greed. His

greed, apparently, for the coal that underlies the

mountain.

Meanwhile, on the symbolic and supernatural level,

things have been developing in parallel. Reverting to a

symbol she used fairly successfully in Beneath the Hill, Curry

revitalises it to even greater effect. The idea of dark

forces underlying surface appearances, both in terms of

P a g e | 243

individuals and in terms of society, is expressed in the

image of the mining that undercuts the green and daylit

Earth. This carries on the realistic level the expression

of selfish human greed that destroys the environment in the

name of efficiency and greater profit. It also carries the

psychological meaning of the dark levels of the individual

psyche, that can destroy if not integrated. And the mine

is also the location of Katoa, [29] the Ancient Serpent who

embodies all spiritual evil and violence and

destructiveness. So the three levels of operation of the

story all centre on the mine.

Fortunately, three people are aware of the inner or

spiritual dimension to the problem and of those, two have

some chance of doing something about it. Mary-Mary, Ray’s

learning-disabled little cousin; Ray himself, vulnerable

through his misery and the sheer fact of being adolescent;

Delly, damaged by his war-experience in Vietnam; these

three are able to see something of a past drama centred on

the Shrine of Katoa, which is called up to be re-enacted

around them because of the disturbances of the current

P a g e | 244

situation. This gives them the clue to the inner story

they are involved in, and Ray and Delly are able to fight

the battle on that level even while their uncles stand up

to the forces of modern bureaucracy with shotguns and a

road-barrier.

Ray is pulled back into the past because his unhappy

and violent emotions link him with the boy Ruan, who in 330

AD betrayed the secret of the Shrine to the evil Queen

Tekla, and whose remorse and misery echo Ray’s. Ray is in

danger of being used by Arbie Moar, as Ruan was by Tekla,

to reveal the location of the Shrine, so that Moar can

unbind the Serpent, who has taken him over as an instrument

to bring about his release. Delly can see into the past

because he is the Watcher. Although the lore and knowledge

of the folk of Twilly’s Green is diminished almost to

nothing, it becomes clear as the story develops that in the

days when it was called Tul Isgrun, they were a proud race,

of mingled Elvish and Indian and Welsh blood, perhaps even

partly divine if the Aldar, who were among their ancestors,

originated like Katoa in the Third Age of the world, the

P a g e | 245

age before our current one. In the past they possessed

power enough to bind the serpent in Tul Isgrun, and to keep

watch over him there. Today, Delly can only contrive to

blow up the mine, so destroying the double threat of

destruction by mining and destruction by the release of

Katoa. Yet he has fulfilled his duty, and Ray learns to

respect the quiet-spoken cousin he had always thought a

little odd. Ray learns some other things as well; and

these are the things that make this so much as novel about

identity.

Bettelheim says, in a discussion of Hansel and Gretel;

“Hansel and Gretel” ends with the heroes returning to

the home from which they started, and now finding happiness

there. This is psychologically correct, because a young

child, …… cannot hope to find happiness outside the home.

If all is to go well in his development, he must work these

problems out while still dependent on his parents. Only

through good relations with his parents can a child

successfully mature into adolescence.” [30]

P a g e | 246

Although Bettelheim is here discussing pre-adolescent

children, younger than Curry’s three protagonists in the

novels we are considering, what he has to say about

reaching home has a good deal of relevance. Each of the

three young people has to overcome the feeling of not

really belonging anywhere. Only Eilian follows the Hansel

and Gretel pattern of returning to the family home, and

even that is in a new house with a slightly improved Mam.

But all three have an experience of having at last reached home.

Dewi in Abaloc and Ray in Twilly’s Green both feel that

they have found somewhere to belong, somewhere they can fit

in, and with a kind of parent-substitute in the Tribe or

extended family. The plot of The Watchers, from Ray’s point

of view, is the story of his reconciliation to himself and

his situation through his gradual commitment to the cause

of Good, the cause of the struggle against Katoa and what

he stands for.

When Ray arrives in Twilly’s green his resentment

against his father for sending him there predisposes him to

resist the spontaneous love his family offers; “It tempted

P a g e | 247

you to stretch and yawn and sprawl your legs out on the

broken-backed sofa, and ray set his mind against it like a

wary half-wild dog.” [31] Determined to resist assimilation

into the new environment and to get back to the old one,

Ray at first sees Moar – although he cannot like or trust

him – as a potential ally, simply because he is willing to

pay Ray for any interesting fragments, relics of Katoa,

that he can pick up in the Hollow. And Ray is desperate to

acquire enough money to buy a bus ticket for home. So,

like Ruan, he lines up on the wrong side at first. It is

in spite of himself that he begins to respond positively,

on the outer level to the love of the family and on the

inner to the secrets of his inheritance that he finds in

the old books at the Gare, on the gravestones, and in his

relatives’ fading memories. It is uncharacteristic

behaviour for Ray to be interested in such matters. It is

the craving for identity and belonging that motivates him.

A sense of beauty and ancientness is awakened in him, and

the old profit-motive begins to die, when he first comes to

the old Gare. Uncle Penn has suggested that if the secret

of the old house got out, the tourists would get in;

P a g e | 248

“And run up a few gift –shops and aColonel Chicken’s Barn, Ray thought. TheTwilly’s’ Greeners would end up weavingbaskets of white oak splits and stitchingquilts for the tourists. There was nothingreally wrong with that, but somehow it madehim shiver. The thought of all this beautyand stillness shattered by the shrieks ofsmall bored children and the satiny stonedefaced by others, dismayed him. He had donethat himself once, making a furtive scratchy I-was-here in a courthouse corridor in AppleLock.

But not here. Never here.” [32]

This was a special place, the right place and

time for Ray to begin to look at himself and reassess

himself; some of what he is expressing here is a sense of

possession and of belonging – “This is my place”. From

this point on he begins to function naturally as a member

of the community of the Hollow, and to forget about going

home. When his father sends him a ticket for home, he

decides not to use it. His allegiance is shifting. [33] By

the time the crisis comes and the older men are lined up

against the forces of the law on the road up to the Hollow,

Ray is aware enough to perceive the strength of what is

going on on the other levels of action.

P a g e | 249

“Whatever was going on, it had beentrying to play itself out from the day he hadfirst climbed the long hill into Twillys’green: the past pressing into the present;some old defeat seeking to complete itself.And something – Ray was frightened what itmight be – was expected of him.” [34]

Gradually Ray works out what has been happening and

how his own negative attitudes to himself and to everything

around him have helped to precipitate events. He realises

that he has changed and that the change is bound up with

events in Twillys’ Green;

“…… his universe had shifted underfootand overhead. It was changed and so was he,and it was not just the sense, so unexpectedand so deep, of belonging; …… It was as if hehad something to do here or undo.” [35]

All this, the personal struggle for identity, the

legal battle for the land, and the spiritual struggle

against Katoa, comes to a head when Bonnie, Delly and Ray,

preparing to blow up the mine, are assaulted by temptation

in the form of promises from Katoa, promises of all their

wishes fulfilled. Ray breaks out of his struggle against

this insidious attack “…… to the bewildering knowledge that

none of the old aches hurt anymore.” [36] He has overcome

resentment and self-absorption, and achieved self-

P a g e | 250

acceptance. In allying himself with Good, not so much for

his own sake as for the sake of his family, he has broken

free of his earlier, restricted Self. His story ends, like

Eilian’s, with an image of planting and growing, as Ray and

his Uncle plan a garden in the area of land that has been

saved from destruction;

“He could not have been happier if hehad been Ruan, come home at last after twiceeight hundred years.” [37]

P a g e | 251

Notes and references; Chapter 7; Jane Louise Curry

1. The following is a chronological list of fictional

works by Jane Curry; I have not been able to obtain all

of them; works marked * have not been viewed:

Down from the lonely mountain; California Indian tales (London:

Dobson, 1968).

Beneath the hill (London: Dobson, 1968)

The sleepers (London: Dobson, 1970)

The daybreakers (London: Longmans, 1970)

The change child (London: Dobson, 1970)

Over the sea’s edge (London: Longmans, 1970)

The housenapper (London: Longmans, 1971)

(Originally published as Mindy’s mysterious miniature

(New York: Harcourt Brace, 1970)

The ice ghosts mystery (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1972)

The lost farm (London: Longmans, 1974)

The watchers (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1975)

P a g e | 252

* The magical cupboard (New York: Athenaeum Press, 1975)

* Parsley Sage, Rosemary and time (New York: Athenaeum Press,

1975)

Poor Tom’s ghost (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1977)

The Birdstones (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1977)

The Bassumtyte treasure (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1978)

* Ghost Lane (New York: Athenaeum Press, 1979)

* The wolves of Aarn (New York: Athenaeum Press, 1981)

2. The sleepers

The daybreakers

Over the sea’s edge

The watchers

Poor Tom’s ghost

The Birdstones

The Bassumtyte treasure

3. The housenapper

P a g e | 253

The lost farm

4. The ice ghosts mystery

5. The sleepers

6. Beneath the hill

The change child

The daybreakers


The watchers

7. Beneath the hill

The daybreakers

The birdstones

8. The change child


The watchers

9. Susan Cooper, The Dark is rising;

Over sea, under stone 1st edition (London: Cape, 1965).

P a g e | 254

2nd edition (London: Chatto and Windus, 1974)

The dark is rising (London: Chatto and Windus, 1974)

Greenwitch (London: Chatto and Windus, 1974)

The grey King (London: Chatto and Windus, 1975)

Silver on the tree (London: Chatto and Windus, 1977)

It is interesting to note that Cooper’s recent novel

Seaward (London: The Bodley Head, 1983), which is High

Fantasy and involves the Quest motif, strongly

emphasises the themes of growth, responsibility, and

maturity, while still employing the motifs and devices

of Celtic mythology that she uses in the earlier works.

10. Jane Curry, The change child p35.

11. Jane Curry, The change child p 20.

12 Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment; the meaning and

importance of fairy tales (London: Thames and Hudson, 1976)

Hereafter called The uses of enchantment. References to

the paperback (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978) p204-205

13 Jane Curry, The change child p 51.

P a g e | 255

14 ‘Sir Orfeo’ in; Donald B Sands (Editor), Middle English

verse Romances (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston,

1966)

Sir Thomas Malory, Works, edited by Eugene Vinaver

(London: Oxford University Press, 1954), p 594-610

15. Jane Curry, The change child, p 99.

16. An early, anonymous version of the visit to the ruler

of Faery is the ballad ‘Thomas the Rhymer’ in; The New

Oxford book of English verse edited by Helen Gardner (Oxford:

Oxford University Press, 1972) p 353-356. A literary

treatment of the same theme is J. R. R. Tolkien, Smith

of Wootton Major (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1967)

17. Jane Curry, The change child, p 111-112.

18. Jane Curry, The change child, p 131.

19. Jane Curry, The change child, p 139. The symbolism of the

tree is examined in detail in; Roger Cook, The tree of life:

image for the cosmos (London: Thames and Hudson, 1974)

20. Jane Curry, Over the sea’s edge, p 8.

P a g e | 256

21. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment, p 91; see also

the section on the theme of the two brothers, p 91-96.

22. Jane Curry, Over the sea’s edge, p 183.

23. Jane Curry, Over the sea’s edge, p 28. Note that this is

yet another example of the pain and loss involved in

growth, as described by Neumann; see; Erich Neumann,

The great mother; an analysis of the archetype (Princeton:

Princeton University Press, 1955 and 1963). References

to the paperback edition (Princeton: Princeton

University Press, 1972), p66-67.

24. See, for example, The Methodist Service Book (London:

Methodist Publishing House, 1975) p A8; “We pray that

this child, now to be baptised with this water, may die

to sin and be raised to the new life in Christ.”

25. Jane Curry, The change child, Chapter 8.

26. Jane Curry, Over the sea’s edge, p 76-77.

27. Jane Curry, Over the sea’s edge, p 149-156.

28. Jane Curry, Over the sea’s edge, Chapter 14.

P a g e | 257

29. Katoa owes his name and some of his nature to the

legends of the Hopi Indians. According to the legends,

Katoa was the Serpent of the First World – there have

been Four Worlds in the cycle of creation. See; Frank

Water, The book of the Hopi (New York: Viking Press, 1963)

p 12-14. The other association called up by the

serpent form is the Lucifer/Satan story of the Judaeo-

Christian tradition. See; J M Evans, Paradise lost and the

Genesis tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968).


31. Jane Curry, The watchers, p 24.







P a g e | 258

Chapter 8; The beginning place; Alan Garner and the deepsof time. [1]

Ever since the publication, in 1960, of his first

Fantasy novel for children Alan Garner has attracted the

attention of critics, teachers, librarians and children to

an amazing extent. In his excellent book on Garner, Neil

Philip includes a “select” bibliography of articles,

essays, reviews and criticism, running to just over four

closely-printed sides. [2] Some of this critical interest

has been hostile, and particularly within the world of

children’s books there has been much debate on whether or

not the books, particularly the later ones, are suitable

for children to read. There are fears that Garner includes

too much sex, too much violent emotion, and too much

“difficulty” in language and plot for younger readers.

Parallel with this debate has run the attempt to define

Gardener’s works in terms of Fantasy – is, or is not, any

particular work a Fantasy, and if so is it a “good”

Fantasy? Philip is at pains, in his preface, to dissociate

himself as far as possible from the definition debate;

P a g e | 259

“Everything Alan Garner has publishedhas been published for children. This simplefact has seriously distorted criticism ofGarner’s work; …… My concern, therefore, willbe with the words on the page and with thespace between the words. Only when thequality of the words is established does thenature of their audience become more than amatter for parochial concern. …… It seems bestsimply to leave the books to be enjoyed bythose who enjoy them, adults or children, andto judge them on their purely literaryqualities.” [3]

Philip’s study of Garner’s work is carried out in

accordance with this statement of intention; but in drawing

on his book as a major source for this section, I will

necessarily take what may seem, in these terms, the

retrograde step of looking at the related questions of how

far the books chosen for study are Fantasy, and how far

they are specifically related to the needs of a young –

particularly an adolescent – readership.

Philip begins his first chapter;

“Alan Garden hasnot simply produced a number of books but acoherent oeuvre, in which every book is acomment on and refinement of its predecessors.The books cross-refer and intertwine, and thesame themes, blighted love, isolation,confrontation with the Godhead, redemption,recur throughout. In particular, the books

P a g e | 260

are held together by myth, and by an abidinginterest in the nature of the mythical.” [4]

And he later quotes Garner as saying;

“It is the same story every time onlyin different guises.” [5]

This incontrovertible fact about Garner’s fiction,

which carries over also to describe his various

compilations of traditional material and his other works,

makes it difficult to justify the selection of a number of

his works for special consideration. Yet within the terms

of this thesis, some selection must be made. I have

therefore excluded from close consideration those of

Garner’s works which are not original prose Fantasy with an

apparent intended readership between the ages of ten and

eighteen. [6] It must be remembered, however that this

separation is to some extent an artificial one, and that

Garner’s editorial work in the field of Folk-tale is

closely linked with his fiction; Neil Philip illustrates

this persuasively in his fourth and sixth chapters. Even

more artificial, it may seem, is my decision to limit

discussion of Garner’s published fiction to three works;

Elidor; The owl service; and Red shift; with only brief

P a g e | 261

reference to The weirdstone of Brisangamen, The Moon of

Gomrath and The stone book quartet. [7]

Briefly, while the first two novels are undoubtedly

classifiable as Low Fantasy, they do not concern themselves

with growth and development within the child protagonists.

The children respond to situations, but do not grow because

of them. Neil Philip comments;

“The main criticisms to be voicedagainst these early books are self-evident.Firstly Colin and Susan are little more thanciphers. The flatness of the childcharacters, Garner tells us in ‘Coming toTerms’, was the result of a deliberateartistic policy: ‘The children are my ownmistake, but it was done deliberately. Iwanted them to be camera lenses through whichwe look and do not become involved because Iwanted to look at the external primary coloursof the fantasy.’ By the end of The moon ofGomrath Garner was aware of the failure ofthis idea; his growing dissatisfaction withhis bland creations is illustrated by hisfirst ending for that book, in which theMorrigan approaches Colin ‘& wrung the littlebugger’s neck’”. [8]

By contrast The stone book quartet, although it is

undeniably about identity and self-acceptance, cannot be

said to expound those themes through the traditional

devices of Low Fantasy. There is still mysticism there,

P a g e | 262

what Philip calls “…… a constant sense of something more,

something greater, behind the events described, an

alchemical transmutation of the dross of everyday into the

gold of every day.” [9] Yet the books remain outside the

genre of Low Fantasy.

This leave the three “middle” books; Elidor; The owl service;

Red shift; and the last of these in itself a borderline case

worthy of an author who is obsessed with boundaries. These

three seem to me to fulfil, to a lesser or greater extent,

the criteria of Low Fantasy as it is used to explore the

nature of identity and of wholeness of personality;

maturation; the search for autonomy and integration. It is

on the basis of this assumption that they will be studied.

Philip confirms this view;

“Garner is one of the most able of thewriters who have sought in the last twentyyears to explore the disjointed and troubledpsychological and emotional landscape of thetwentieth century through the symbolism ofmyth and folklore: myth is used as adiagnostic tool in the examination ofcontemporary ills. Central to Garner’swriting is a concern with patterning, withrepetitive cycles of experience, which he hasexplored by structuring his stories around

P a g e | 263

myths and legends. Although the use ofmythology has become less overt in his laterwork, and the magical trappings of the earlierbooks, plundered willy-nilly from whateversource came to hand, have been discarded, mythis still the energy source which powers hiwriting. The patterns have simply becomebarer, and more essential, until in Red shift itis well-nigh impossible for the reader todiscern beneath the complex narrative schemethe story of the ballad of ‘Tam Lin’ on whichGarner assures us the book is based.” [10]

Reading Elidor, it is still possible to trace quite

easily the mythical and legendary sources of the motifs

employed; the wasteland and the maimed King are from the

Grail legend, and the adventure which opens the book is

based on the story of Childe Roland (see note 13 below).

Elidor fits into the genre perhaps best described as modern

fairy-tale; a story employing many of the techniques of the

traditional tale. Indeed, although this is Low Fantasy

like all Garner’s works, it comes nearest to employing the

methods of High Fantasy, in taking its characters into an

otherworld at the beginning. Most of the action, however,

takes place in the objective world, specifically in

Garner’s own childhood home. Philip quotes Garner’s

reasons for choosing Low Fantasy;

P a g e | 264

“In an article written in 1968 Garnerexplained why he wrote about magic and thesupernatural impinging on the real worldrather than writing self-contained fantasiesof the Tolkien type ‘If we are in Eldorado andwe find a mandrake, then OK, so it’s amandrake: in Eldorado anything goes. But, byforce of imagination, compel the reader tobelieve that there is a mandrake in a gardenin Mayfield Road, Ulverston, Lancs, then whenyou pull up that mandrake it is really goingto scream; and possibly the reader will too.’”[11]

Garner believes that the force of the magical elements

will be stronger if they can be seen to affect events in

the objective world. In this Curry’s practice is similar,

but even at her most powerful Curry does not write with

Garner’s power and authority. Like Curry, Garner is aware

of the significance of place, of the need to belong, to

find the right place, to fit into and to accept oneself.

Poignancy is heightened in Garner to a tragic pitch by his

protagonists’ ultimate failure to win the battle for self-

acceptance and self-control. There is triumph at the end

of Elidor, but it is qualified, mitigated by grief.

Philip does not find in Elidor any clear concern with

“social maturity” [12] Yet I feel the book to be very much

concerned with Roland and his search for identity, meaning

P a g e | 265

and purpose in his life, and that this does involve some

exploration on Garner’s part of the themes of

responsibility and selflessness as indicators of emotional

and social maturity and of personal validity. There is

even a crucial amount of commitment for Roland that stands

with the taking of the Ring as a moment – admittedly less

heightened and grandiose in treatment than the Tolkien

incident – of dedication to a cause. Roland agrees to go

into the mound of Vandwy to recover the treasures of Elidor

for Malebron; but he gets the courage for this from his

sense of loyalty to others. His brother and sister are

trapped in the mound, and he feels he has no choice but to

rescue them. Hence any dedication to the cause of “Good”

here is unconscious and bound up in the specific act of

rescuing his loved ones. It is only later than Roland

begins to conceive of himself as in some way allied with

Malebron in the battle between light and dark forces in

Elidor. Nevertheless a quest has been undertaken, and in

very traditional terms; to go into the Magic place – the

place of death, the dark tower, the underworld – and rescue

the good that is trapped there. In this quest, Roland is

P a g e | 266

successful. He rescues Helen from the equivalent of

Elfland, just as his original in the ballad does. [13]

But this is a beginning, not an end, to Roland’s

story. It is no part of tradition for the hero to be

followed into his future life in the real world and for the

reader to see him struggling with the consequences of his

commitment. Curry, for example, leaves her protagonists in

the single-protagonist works with an implied “happily ever

after” once the sense of belonging has been achieved.

Chant does the same in her two earlier, more traditional

novels. LeGuin shows use the mature Ged in action – and

repeating his mistakes – in her trilogy, but this is

intended for older readers than is Elidor. Garner, in a

book written so lucidly as to be accessible to a very young

readership, gives us a protagonist who, on completion of

his heroic quest, has hardly begun to come to terms with

himself, with the negative and destructive side of his

psyche, or with his place in the family that is the chief

element in his social context. The conflict between good

and evil that is happening in Elidor comes back with Roland

P a g e | 267

into the heart of the family; where it becomes obvious to

the analytical reader at least, that the whole thing is an

embodiment of what is going on within Roland.

Here Garner is making greater use of folktale

technique than may be immediately obvious. He takes us

back to LeGuin’s assertion that Fantasy is about, that its

actions take place in, the unconscious mind. [14] On one

level of interpretation, Elidor is Roland’s unconscious

dimension. Malebron, the maimed King who rules in this

wasteland, is the dark side of Roland. He has power, but

is crippled. He is ambivalent, the representative of the

light or good force in Elidor, yet demanding and

manipulative of the children, uncaring of their individual

needs. He is expressive of Roland’s own sense of not

belonging, of being odd, of being undervalued. (Note that

Malebron tells him that here, in Elidor, he, the youngest

and the weakest, is the strongest and most significant).

This is clear evidence that the land of Elidor and the

figure of Malebron are externalisations of the type used in

folktale and in High Fantasy, of aspects of Roland. A

P a g e | 268

comparison may be drawn between this and the extent to

which Oliver Powell’s adventures in Khendiol are struggles

with his own subconscious, and Fendarl an embodiment of his

Shadow or dark self. [15] Garner then carries this

externalisation over into our dimension. Leaving behind

the Otherworld and its King, he next embodies Roland’s

disturbed state of mind in the peculiar happenings that

take place around him because of the presence in our world

of the treasures from Elidor. The burial of the treasure

in the garden signifies Roland’s attempts to repress his

still unresolved feelings of self-doubt and resentment.

The misbehaviour of the electrical objects in the Watson

household becomes, according to this reading, a kind of

poltergeist manifestation of Roland’s strong repressed

emotion. Garner uses this theme again at the beginning of

The owl service, and the literature of the subject suggests

that such manifestations are indeed chiefly associated with

young boys and adolescent – specifically menstruating –

girls. [16] There is a good deal in Roland of the despised

youngest son of three, who in fairy tales of the

traditional kind would be fated to come out on top in a

P a g e | 269

blaze of glorious self-justification. [17] Less

optimistically, Garner shows how Roland’s desperate

attempts to make himself important only bring trouble on

himself and others. It is even partly true that Elidor is

saved in spite of, rather than because of, Roland’s efforts

in the second part of the story.

Back in the real world, Roland becomes passionately

enamoured of the idea of himself as the champion of Good,

the ally of Malebron, dedicated to the salvation of Elidor.

He sees himself, as it were, as the hero of a children’s

quest story, with a high destiny to fulfil. This runs up

against obdurate reality in the face of the other

children’s cynicism about or fearful rejection of the

otherworld experience. This is part of a pattern in his

life;

“’Come off it, Roland. You’re always

imagining things.’ That was a family joke.”

[18]

It is on this family tradition that the others rely.

Nicholas falls back on the idea of mass hallucination,

P a g e | 270

David on coincidence, as explanations of their experience.

Helen simply tries to avoid the subject. This rouses

Roland in two ways. The best side of him is inspired by

the thought that he is the only one loyal to Elidor and the

only one who can protect his unheeding family. He performs

an act of self-giving love in order to break down the door

between Elidor and his home, and so save his family from

invasion and attack. [19] At this point he does achieve a

high degree of self-awareness and accepts that the

existence of this door is his responsibility, that he has a

duty to unmake it. Unfortunately, he is not mature enough

to be aware of his own mixed motives or the dark impulses

in himself. He believes he clings to Elidor for Elidor’s

sake; but partly he clings to it for reasons of self-

validation, to make himself feel important. And it is the

urge to be important in his sibling’s eyes that leads him

into an act of hubris parallel with Ged’s in releasing the

Shadow. Determined to make the other three see that he is

right, he forces them to look at the partial Evil from

Elidor. And the four children are trapped into becoming

the means by which the men can enter this world.

P a g e | 271

“ ‘I didn’t mean it,’ said Roland. ‘Ionly wanted to show you – so you’d know.’ [20]

Ged’s sentiments exactly. And Roland, like Ged, has

allowed out into his relationships with the world and other

people, something from the darkness of his inner self which

is destructive and self-seeking. Much of this story

converges on the issue of Roland’s identity and nature and

what he should become. It is a story of the need for

maturity, the struggle for self-realisation and acceptance,

rather than of its achievement. Even the other children

are to some degree externalisations of Roland’s feelings,

of other aspects of the completed self that he has not yet

integrated. David’s common-sense; Nicholas’ attempts to

live without taking account of the inner dimensions of

experience – “I thought if we dropped this Elidor business

we’d be all right” [2] – Helen’s instinctual, loving

response to Findhorn that causes him to sing, while

Roland’s anguished cries only betray him to death; all

these have to work together at the climax, in order to save

Elidor. Again this is the technique of folktale or High

Fantasy, the collaboration of four characters standing for

P a g e | 272

the achievement of integration within the protagonist. But

that achievement is here portrayed as makeshift and

temporary.

There has been much discussion of the ending of Elidor.

Philip describes it as “ambivalent” and speaks of “a strong

sense of loss, of anti-climax, of wrongness.” [22] Elidor

is gloriously safe; but Findhorn the Unicorn – an aspect of

Roland? – is horribly dead. Does this mean, as Philip

suggests, that Roland is irreparably damaged by his

experience, a forerunner of the next two protagonists of

Garner’s works, Gwynn and Tom? Or might it be only that

Garner has seen that no victory is without its price? That

if Roland has come to terms with his darker side, he has

also paid for it as Ged paid with his scars, Frodo with his

finger and his peace of mind, and Oliver Powell with his

innocence? Neumann too records the sense of loss that

comes with every gain [23]; and on that basis it could be

argued that this is a genuine instance of a Fantasy

adventure embodying a growth experience. No doubt it will

continue to be argued the other way. At any event, this is

P a g e | 273

undoubtedly a book about the formation of the self-concept

and about the changes and developments necessary in the

individual if she or he is to cope adequately with

relationships and events. To that extent it puts to Roland

the traditional question; “What are you like?” Garner’s

presentation of a protagonist who cannot face up to this

question, is his original and personal use of the

traditional framework.

“The owl service” says Philip definitely and unhelpfully,

“is not a Fantasy, but a novel about human relationships, a

tripartite examination of the destructive power of

possessive love”. [24] In fact the book seems to operate on

both levels, as is typical of Low Fantasy. On the

realistic or surface level, there are novelistic techniques

employed and on the mythic level the symbolic and

externalising elements of Fantasy are present. The levels

are so skilfully blended as to be almost inextricable. On

every level, the book is a

“…… story of the damage people do eachother, not only through evil in themselves,but through the unhappy combination of

P a g e | 274

circumstances that throws otherwise harmlesspersonalities together.” [25]

In this passage Garner is explaining that he perceived

this to be the story of the Mabinogion tale, ‘Math son of

Mathonwy’, that forms the mythic basis for the novel, when

he first saw it. [26] So The owl service could be described as

telling a contemporary story within the framework of the

myth, in order to bring out at once the timeless relevance

of the myth and the symbolic significance of the events of

"ordinary" lives. Timelessness, the sense in which the

basic realities of human life remain unaltered by time and

surface conditions, is one of Garner’s themes; Alison says

to Gwyn;

‘ “I don’t know where I am.“Yesterday”, “today”, “tomorrow” – they don’tmean anything. I feel they’re here at thesame time: waiting.”’ [27]

To the sense of the insignificance of time, Garner

adds his strong sense of the significance of place. The

Welsh valley of Llanymawddwy is a kind of reservoir for the

trapped emotions of the original three protagonists, Lleu,

Gronwy and Blodeuwedd. Huw is fatalistically aware of it,

telling Gwyn;

P a g e | 275

“Lleu, Blodeuwedd and Gronwy Pebyre.They are the three who suffer every time, forin them the power of this valley is contained,and through them the power is loosed”. [28]

On the Fantasy level the myth is being used to express

the tendency in human love for possessiveness and jealousy

to cause damage to human personalities. The possessive

love of Arianrhod, mother of Lleu, forces him into the

relationship with Blodeuwedd, which is a failure and leads

to his death and later to that of his rival, Gronwy. On

the realistic level this is repeated in the brooding

presence offstage of Margaret, the mother of Alison, whose

dominance and need to control her daughter’s life and

relationships trigger the resentments of class, education

and sexual jealousy in Gwyn, the modern embodiment of

Gronwy. In one sense the novel could be conceived of as

the story of one maturing consciousness and its

relationship with mother-figure. Carolyn Gillies sees the

Triple Aspect Moon Goddess, the Great Mother, behind the

triangulations in all Garner’s novels up to and including

Red shift. [29] Neumann explains the various aspects of the

Goddess as expressive of the ambivalence, within the

P a g e | 276

psyche, of the Mother archetype, particularly of the

oppositions of caring and possessiveness perceived in the

same mother-figure by every immature individual. [30] Neil

Philip notices Garner’s tendency to present a “……

narrowing, limiting image of woman as either earth mother

or world bitch ……”. [31] It is against the image of the

mother than the growing individual first begins to conceive

of its own identity, of its existence as a separate self.

[32] And Ravenna Helson, quoted by Philip, refers to The owl

service in these terms;

“The characters represent differentforces within the personality, and acompelling sense of the interrelation of theseforces permeates the story”. [33]

Philip is sceptical about this, but Gillies quotes

Garner himself as saying that in the original myth “……

Gronw is Lleu and Lleu is Gronw ……” . [34] So on the

realistic level, the story is one of three teenagers who

are each in difficult relationships with their respective

mothers; but on the mythic level, represented by the

Mabinogion theme and is intrusion into modern life, it is

P a g e | 277

one of the male personality struggling to emerge into a

state of autonomy and integration but thwarted by its

inability to cope with the feminine – at once the feminine

side of itself and the external relationship with women

that has been conditioned and distorted by the relationship

with the actual mother and the resultant archetype of the

female within the individual. Just as in Elidor, the mythic

framework is expressive of what is going on in the

unconscious. It is not possible to fix on one of the young

protagonists as a centre, such as Roland provided, and say

that the other characters or situations are

externalisations of the inner state of that one character.

There is no whole character from which the others can be

projected. The male protagonist is wholly externalised in

Gwyn and Roger, and to a lesser extent in Huw and Clive.

The need is for integration; control; acceptance and

awareness of the powers within the self – the valley – and

how they may be channelled for good rather than for

destructiveness. The young male’s own capacity for love

may be either a giving or a taking force. Until someone is

willing to give, the pattern cannot be broken. Huw voices

P a g e | 278

the fear that it never will, that the spirit of Blodeuwedd

will be compelled always to manifest itself in the

destructive owl embodiment rather than in the gentleness of

flowers.

“ ‘She is coming, and will use whatshe finds, and you have only hate in you.’Said Huw. ‘Always and always and always.’”[35]

Although the release of hatred does at least purge the

valley of its sickness, until next time, it cannot prevent

the repetition of the tragedy, whereby each time one of the

males involved is killed. It cannot finally heal the

valley – the inner self. Blodeuwedd “wants to be flowers”;

the female principle tends towards beneficence, towards

caring; but she needs a self-giving response to meet her

efforts. Roger provides it and breaks the pattern. Where

his original, Lleu, hid behind a stone to try to avoid the

spear of Gronwy – the symbol of the suffering consequent

upon Lleu’s own actions – Roger stands humbly before the

taunting of Gwyn, accepting by implication his own guilt

and his awareness of the consequences of his own

P a g e | 279

destructive attitude towards Gwynn. He breaks out of what

has been a state of extreme self-absorption to reach out to

Alison and save her from destructiveness; the owl

manifestations give way to flowers.

This parallels Ged’s moment of triumph over the dark

forces in himself, in the East Reach. Garner’s treatment,

however, does not involve the drawing together of the two

sides of the self into a harmonious relationship. Gwynn is

left, hurt and desolate, as Findhorn the unicorn was left

bleeding to death as the negative side of Roland’s

achievement in self-development. In Garner, the cost of

growth is always tremendous pain, damage that can never

truly be healed. Something dies for the good of something

else, so that something else in the psyche can live. The

image is perhaps more of overcoming and striving to leave

behind what is too immature to be of service to the new

self, than one of integration of all the elements of the

self. Here one thinks of Gillies’ reference to the death

of the surrogate King, or dark twin. [36] It is as if the

dark side must suffer and die as a punishment, an expiation

P a g e | 280

of guilt. This holds true for the sacrifice of Oliver in

Red moon and Black Mountain; the death of Gollum in The Lord of the

Rings; the death of Findhorn and the collapse of Gwyn into

hatred and bitterness, in Garner. [37] While the Taoist

concept of the balance leads LeGuin to posit the

possibility of harmony within the self, the Judaeo-

Christian tradition has produced more images of self-

control and self-doubt. Nevertheless, even Garner’s

tragically painful image of triumph won at great cost,

still sounds a note of victory; Roger’s self-conquest is

allowed to result in the moving beauty of the end of The owl

service;

“And the room was full of petals fromskylight and rafter, and all about them afragrance, and petals, flowers falling, broom,meadowsweet, falling, flowers of the oak.”[38]

Patterns in human behaviour can be broken through, and

true individual awareness may come. Roger, impelled by

love for Alison, is moved to accept responsibility and duty

towards others. He has begun to grow up; he has achieved

his quest.

P a g e | 281

Of Red shift, Neil Philip says;

“The book’s basic premise is that themost important, and the most difficult task inlife is the establishment of loving contactbetween two people, the breaking down ofbarriers ……. This private, internal struggle……” [39]

This is quite true, and renders the Fantasy level of

the book more important than it might appear at first

glance. Firstly, the theme of the struggle of the young

male for identity, against the backdrop of the tension

between himself and his mother, is carried over into this

book from The owl service and is very aptly expressed in the

‘Tam Lin’ theme of the beloved young man enthralled by the

Queen of Elfland. The jealous “queen o’ Fairies” [39] is

one embodiment of the possessive mother, as is Tom’s mother

on the realistic level of the story. Secondly, the love-

theme is itself important; Bettelheim explains the

significance of the marriage with which so many traditional

fairy-tales end;

“All the stories considered so farconvey that if one wishes to gain selfhood,achieve integrity, and secure one’s identity,difficult developments must be undergone:hardships suffered, dangers met, victories

P a g e | 282

won. Only in this way can one become masterof one’s fate and win one’s kingdom. Whathappens to the heroes and heroines in fairytales can be likened – and has been compared –to initiation rites which the novice entersnaïve and unformed, and which dismiss him attheir end on a higher level of existenceundreamed of at the start of this sacredvoyage through which he gains his reward orsalvation. Having truly become himself, thehero or heroine has become worthy of beingloved.

But meritorious as such self-development is, and while it may have oursole, it is still not enough for happiness.For this, one must go beyond one’s isolationand form a bond with the other. On howeverhigh a plane his life may proceed, the Iwithout the Thou lives a lonely existence.The happy endings to fairy-tales, in which thehero is united to his life’s partner, tellthis much. But they do not tell what theindividual must do to transcend his isolationafter he has won his selfhood. …… Merely beingoneself is not enough …… One becomes acomplete human being who has achieved all hispotentialities only if, in addition to beingoneself, one is at the same time able andhappy to be oneself with another. To achievethis state involves the deepest layers of ourpersonality. Like any transmutation whichtouches our innermost being, it has dangerswhich must be met with courage and presentsproblems which must be mastered. The messageof these fairy stories is that we must give upchildish attitudes and achieve mature ones ifwe wish to establish that intimate bond withthe other ……” [41]

P a g e | 283

I have quoted this at length because of what it has to

say in confirmation of the trends within Fantasy writing

that I have been trying to illustrate in all four author

studies; and specifically because of what it has to say

about Tom and Jan in Red shift. Yo some degree the lover

trapped in Elfland, needing to be rescued by his beloved is

the over-protected boy with the dominant mother. This time

the protagonist is asked to prove his maturity by his

attitude to his beloved; and the modern time-strand of the

story, he fails, crippled by self-pity and anger, punishing

Jan for what the mother has done to him. Macey and Thomas,

in the earlier time-levels, have a greater respect for the

feminine and for their loved ones. This is signified by

both of them handling the votive axe with the respect

demanded by the woman, while Tom disposes of it without any

idea that he will hurt Jan by doing so. Also, Macey

refrains from sexually abusing the Maiden, and so survives

where his comrades die; while Thomas overcomes resentment

of his namesake’s rape of Margery to such an extent that he

is even able to welcome the idea that she may be pregnant

with Venables’ child. Tom can only see Jan’s brief affair

P a g e | 284

with another man as an offence against himself. Loyalty to

their women rescues the two earlier men; self-absorption

leaves Tom trapped in his enchanted state, a sort of manic-

depressive condition which stands for enchantment in

Elfland as do Macey’s rages and Tomas’s fits. Tom blames

Jan for telling her parents about this; but it could be

argued that like Blodeuwedd, “She wants to be flowers”; it

is Tom’s bitterness that makes him see her as owls.

It is worth mentioning one dimension that Bettelheim

does not cover; namely that the union between a male and a

female character in a folk tale may on one level stand for

the reconciliation with the opposite principle within the

individual; anima in the male and animus in the female.

However, successful integration on this level and

successful relationships are inextricably bound up, and

both strands of meaning must be present in any folk-tale or

Fantasy which, like Red shift, is concerned to explore this

aspect of maturation.

In Red shift Garner is undoubtedly leaving behind the

traditional techniques of Low Fantasy; yet they are still

P a g e | 285

there in a residual form, and still operating powerfully on

some levels. Philip’s concluding remarks on Garner might

stand usefully as concluding remarks on the other authors

and works we have studied, confirming LeGuins’ comments

quoted on page 38 above. [42]

“He is concerned with the traversal ofboundaries within the self, with therefinement of consciousness. Through themanipulation of history, of the myths whichare man’s [sic] spiritual history and of themetaphysics of time and space he enlarges ourunderstanding of the human condition ……Essentially, he seeks in his work to reconcile‘the natural forces in the world and thehidden forces in ourselves’” [43]

P a g e | 286

Notes and references; Chapter 9; Alan Garner

1. The beginning place is the American title of a novel by

Ursula LeGuin which explores the theme of finding an

identity and employs the motif of a special magical place

lying on the borders of our world and another dimension.

(Threshold (London: Gollancz, 1980)). The phrase is used

here to indicate the importance in Garner’s world-

picture of the locality in which an individual grows up

and the effect upon the individual of the accumulated

associations and forces held within the place. “The deeps

of time” is an expression repeatedly used by Tolkien

to convey an impression of the immensity of time that may

have passed between events; here it is used to indicate

Garner’s feeling that time is in some senses irrelevant;

that the deeps of Time are all simultaneously present to an

individual in a particular location. One example is

in; J. R. R. Tolkien, The two towers 2nd Edition (London:

George Allen and Unwin, 1966) p 115. “Telchar first

wrought it in the deeps of time.”

P a g e | 287

2. Neil Philip, A fine anger; a critical introduction to the works of Alan

Garner (London: Collins, 1981). (Hereafter referred to

as A fine anger).

3. Neil Philip, A fine anger, p7-8.

4. Neil Philip, A fine anger, p 21.


6. Folk-tale collections edited by Alan Garner; The Hamish

Hamilton book of goblins (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1969).

The guizer; a book of fools (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1975).

Alan Garner’s fairy-tales of gold (London: Collins, 1980).

(Omnibus edition of four tales originally published

separately by Collins in 1979.)

The lad of the gad (London: Collins, 1980).

7. Original prose fiction published by Alan Garner between

1960 and 1979;

The weirdstone of Brisangamen (London: Collins, 1960).

The moon of Gomrath (London: Collins, 1963).

Elidor (London: Collins, 1965)

The owl service (London: Collins, 1967)

Red Shift (London: Collins, 1973)

The stone book (London: Collins, 1976)

P a g e | 288

Tom Fobble’s Day (London: Collins, 1977)

Granny Reardun (London: Collins, 1977)

The Aimer Gate (London: Collins, 1978)

8. Neil Philip, A fine anger p 41-42. Quoting from; Alan

Garner ‘Coming to terms’, Children’s literature in

education 2, July 1970, p 15-29.

9. Neil Philip, A Fine Anger, p141.

10. Neil Philip, A Fine Anger p 21.

11. Neil Philip, A Fine Anger, p 25

12. Neil Philip, A Fine Anger, p 62.

13. Childe Roland in; Joseph Jacobs, English fairy tales

(London: Bodley Head, 1968) p 74-99 and p 303-309.

14. Ursula K LeGuin, ‘Fantasy, like poetry, speaks the

language of the night’ World, 21st November, 1976.

15. Joy Chant, Red moon and black mountain (London: George

Allen and Unwin, 1970).

16. Benjamin B Wolman (editor) Handbook of parapsychology

(New York: Van Nostrand Rheinhold, 1977) p 385-387.

17. Bruno Bettelheim, The uses of enchantment; the meaning

and importance of fairy- tales (London: Thames and Hudson,

1976). Hereafter referred to as The uses of

P a g e | 289

enchantment. Page references to the paperback edition

(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978). p 75-78.

18. Alan Garner, Elidor, p127. Page references to the

paperback edition (London: Collins, 1974).

19. Alan Garner, Elidor, p 106.




23. Erich Neumann, The great mother; an analysis of the

archetype 2nd Edition (Princeton : Princeton University

Press, 1972) p 66-67 – deprivation as part of the

maternal function of the female and the resultant sense

of loss involved in any growth experience.


25. Carolyn Gillies, ‘possession and structure in the

novels of Alan Garner’ Children’s literature in education

18 (Fall 1975) 107-117. Quotation from; Alan Garner,

‘A bit more practice’ Times literary supplement children’s

books (June 6th, 1968) 577-578.

P a g e | 290

26. T Ellis and J Lloyd (editors), The Mabinogion (Oxford:

Oxford University Press, 1929) Math son of Mathonwy is

on p 100-132 of Vol I.

27. Alan Garner, The owl service, p 68. Page references to

the paperback edition (London: Collins, 1973).

28. Alan Garner, The owl services, p 72.

29. Carolyn Gillies, ‘Possession and structure in the

novels of Alan Garner’, p 110- 111.

30. Erich Neumann, The great mother; an analysis of the

archetype, Chapter 3. This chapter explains how the two

aspects of the female - nurturing and transformative –

are perceived by the male as positive and negative and set

up ambivalence in the male reaction to the female

principle.


32. Bruno Bettelheim, The empty fortress; infantile autism

and the growth of the self (New York: Collier Macmillan,

1967). Page reference to the paperback edition (New

York: The free press, 1972) p 37.

P a g e | 291

33. Ravenna Helson, ‘Through the pages of children’s books’

Psychology Today 7 (November 1973) 107-117. Cited in;

Neil Philip, A fine anger p 74.


novels of Alan Garner’, p 114. Quoting from; Alan

Garner ‘Coming to terms’.

35. Alan Garner, The owl service, p 154.


novels of Alan Garner’, p 115. For the king of the Wood

see; James G Frazer, The golden bough; a study in

magic and religion, abridged edition (London:

Macmillan, 1922), especially chapters I, XXIV, and XXV.

Also a novel on the surrogate theme; Marion Campbell, The

dark twin (London: Turnstone, 1973).

37. Oliver’s sacrifice is in; Joy Chant, Red mood and black

mountain, the end of the house of Kendreth (London:

George Allen and Unwin, 1970). Chapters 30 and 31.

The death of Gollum is in; J. R. R. Tolkien, The return

of the King, being the third part of the Lord of the Rings

2nd Edition (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1966). P 224.

Findhorn’s heath – Alan Garner, Elidor, p 158-159.

P a g e | 292

Gwyn’s failure – Alan Garner, The owl service, p 152-

155.

38. Alan Garner, The owl service, p 156.

39. Neil Philip, A fine anger, p88.

40. Tam Lin in; Helen Gardner (editor), The new Oxford book

of English verse, 1250-1950 (Oxford: Oxford University

Press, 1972) p 356-361.




P a g e | 293

Conclusions

“Any poetry which aims at being a

clarification of life, must concern itself

with two questions ….. Who am I? …… Whom ought

I to become?” [1]

This thesis has sought to demonstrate, by examination

of relevant literary theory and by study of selected

examples, that one of the chief concerns of Fantasy fiction

is to provide clarification of life, particularly with

regard to those questions of actual and potential identity

and achievement that Auden cites here. The study has shown

that the adventures of the protagonists of Fantasy present

externalised and concretized parallels for the internal

journey and struggle of the growing individual. So the

function of Fantasy as fiction is similar to that of the

realistic mode; it is in technique and method that the two

differ. Both present to the reader observations upon human

behaviour, precedents, and models of possibilities that

might be realised as the individual grows. But while

realistic fiction seeks to present fictional worlds that

P a g e | 294

resemble as closely as possible the world that readers

objectively experience in their own lives, or know to exist

within the framework of the objective world, Fantasy is

concerned to present directly to the reader the events and

conditions of the internal world. By means of symbols and

motifs derived from myth, legend and folklore it seeks to

allow the reader some insight into the psychological and/or

spiritual nature of humanity. It tends to involve some

emphasis on the idea that self-development is a duty and a

responsibility for every person, and one key symbol for

this is the motif of commitment, of positive response to a

challenge, especially where that challenge involves

difficulty for the protagonist and benefit for others. The

fact of involvement in such action is some kind of proof or

outward sign of maturity;

“Look if you like, but you will stillhave to leap.” [2]

Auden’s assertion here is almost a threat, implying

that one will somehow be compelled to plunge into

independent action. Yet it also carries some of the

feeling that comes to Fantasy protagonists, of a deep

P a g e | 295

relief at the prospect of action, even of dangerous action.

Involvement matters; it is important as a sign that one is

capable of responsible action. It shows that one is

growing up.

The four authors studied have all made use of the

Fantasy mode to convey some of their insights into the

processes of maturation and individuation in human beings.

LeGuin reveals through the symbolism of magic, the

incontrovertible need for self-discipline and self-control,

through deep self-knowledge. Garner reveals the struggle

for the sense of identity, against the background of the

ancestral place and its associations, and against the

sometimes constrictive love of the mother-figure. Chant

shows the extent to which fulfilling one’s role in society

can be expressive of the needs and urges of the self, and

how far it may restrict people. Curry shows how the

feeling of belonging in a particular place and with

particular people can express a person’s sense of what he

or she is like and what things in life are most important

P a g e | 296

to them. None of these four allows escapism; all remain

true to this idea;

“…… successful fantasy uses the“other” to explore the familiar, not to escapefrom it. And to do that well requires a rigidgrip on the familiar, so that the distortionintroduced by the fantasy element involves anextension, not a diminution of understanding.”[3]

It is the possibility of this extension of

understanding that underlies the claim made for Fantasy

fiction by its devotees; that it may have a beneficial, not

a deleterious effect, upon its young readers. One final

quotation will help to underline the nature of the choice

faced both by the Fantasy protagonist and by the individual

on the path towards individuation;

“How will you look and what will you do when the basaltTombs of the sorcerers shatterAnd the guardian megalopodsCome after you pitter-patter?How will you answer when from their qualming springThe immortal nymphs fly shrieking,And out of the open skyThe pantocratic riddle breaks –“Who are you and why?”

For when in a carol under the apple-treeThe reborn featly dance

P a g e | 297

There will also, Fortunatus,Be those who refused their chance ……”. [4]

The refusal Auden describes is the restricting of life

to narrow limits and goals, which in many results from

circumstance, but in some results from fear on the part of

the individual of the effort and possible pain involved in

evolving onto a higher level of consciousness. Yet

increasingly, self-confident awareness of one’s inner

identity is important in a society whose traditional

economic and social structures are shifting to such an

extent that many of the old external pegs on which an

identity and a sense of purpose could be hung – occupation,

position within the family – are disappearing. It becomes

increasingly important to know who you are, and why. The

achievement of the sense of self depends on the combination

of a great many factors, and the reading of fiction in a

creative and constructive manner is, obviously, only one

such factor, and only for some individuals. Yet that key

symbol of commitment and involvement, taken from Fantasy

fiction, still holds much of the truth about the

predicament of the human soul seeking for purpose and

P a g e | 298

direction; for if we are not willing to take the Ring,

whatever form it takes in our own lives, there may be very

little hope of our ever finding the way.

P a g e | 299

Notes and references; Conclusion

1. W H Auden, The dyer’s hand (London: Faber, 1963) p

345.

2. W H Auden ‘Leap before you look’ in Collected shorter

poems (London: Faber, 1966) p 200.

3. Neil Philip ‘Fantasy; double cream or instant whip?’

Signal 35 (May 1981) 83-90.

4. W H Auden ‘Under Sirius’ in; Collected shorter poems p

243.

P a g e | 300

Bibliography

This is divided into two main sections: fiction, which

here includes poetry, drama, folklore, legend and

mythology; and non-fiction, being works of criticism or of

general background interest. Each section is subdivided

into works of primary importance, and those of secondary

importance. Where a work has not been treated in the text,

a brief note explains its inclusion in the bibliography,

except in cases where the title is self-explanatory.

Arrangement is by alphabetical order of author’s surname,

with the surname of the editor or the first word of the

title substituted where appropriate. Within each author

heading, works are arranged in chronological order of

publication.

Section 1: Fiction

A) Primary Material

CHANT Joy;Red moon and black mountain; the end of the house of Kendreth (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1970).

The grey mane of morning (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1977).

P a g e | 301

When Voiha wakes(London: George Allen and Unwin, 1983)

CURRY, Jane Louise;The change child(London: Dobson, 1970).

Over the sea’s edge(London: Longmans, 1970).

The watchers (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1975).

GARNER, Alan;Elidor(London: Collins, 1974).

The owl service (London: Collins, 1967).

Red shift (London: Collins, 1973)

Le GUIN, Ursula Kroeber;A wizard of Earthsea (London: Gollancz, 1971).

The tombs of Atuan (London: Gollancz, 1972).

The farthest shore (London: Gollancz, 1973).

The wind’s twelve quarters; short stories (London: Gollancz, 1976)

P a g e | 302

P a g e | 303

B) Secondary material

ANDERSEN, Hans Christian;Complete fairy tales and stories, translated by Erik Christian

Haugaard (London: Gollancz, 1974).

AUDEN, W H;Collected shorter poems (London: Faber, 1966).

De BRUNHOFF, Joan;Babar the Elephant (London: Methuen, 1934).

CAMERON, Ann;Daughters of Copper Woman (Vancouver: Press Gang Publishing, 1981).

CAMPBELL, Marion; The dark twin (London: Turnstone, 1973)

CARROLL, Lewis (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson); Alice’s adventures in Wonderland (London: MacMillan, 1865 (dated 1866).

Through the looking-glass and what Alice found there (London: MacMillan, 1871 [dated 1872]).

CHANT, Joy;The Starborn (short story) in; Maxim Jakobowski (Editor) Lands of never: an anthology of modern fantasy (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1983).

COOPER, Susan;Over sea, under stone (London: Cape, 1965).Second edition (London: Chatto and Windus, 1974)

The dark is rising

P a g e | 304

(London: Chatto and Windus,

Greenwitch(London: Chatto and Windus, 1975).

Silver on the tree (London: Chatto and Windus, 1975).

Seaward (London: The Bodley Head, 1983).

CURRY, Jane Louise;Down from the lonely mountain;California Indian tales (London, Dobson 1868).

Beneath the hill (London: Dobson, 1968).

The sleepers (London: Dobson, 1970).

The daybreakers, (London: Longmans, 1970).

The housenapper (London: Longmans, 1971). American title Mindy’s

mysterious miniature (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1970).

The ice ghosts mystery (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1972).

The lost farm (London: Longmans, 1974).

The magical cupboard (New York: Atheneum Press, 1975).

Parsley Sage, Rosemary and time

P a g e | 305

(New York: Atheneum Press, 1975).

Poor Tom’s ghost (Harmondsworth : Kestrel, 1977).

The Bassumtyte treasure (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1978).

The birdstones (Harmondsworth: Kestrel, 1978).

Ghost lane (New York: Atheneum Press, 1979).

The wolves of Aarn (New York: Atheneum Press, 1981).

DICKINSON, William Croft;Borrobil (London: Croft, 1944).

DONALDSON, Stephen;The chronicles of Thomas Covenant the unbeliever (New York: Holt, Rhinehart and Winston, 1977

- ).

ELLIS, T and LLOYD J. (Editors)The Mabinogion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1929).

GARNER, Alan;The weirdstone of Brisangamen (London: Collins, 1960).

The moon of Gomrath (London: Collins, 1963).

The Hamish Hamilton book of goblins (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1969).

The guizer; a book of fools

P a g e | 306

(London: Hamish Hamilton, 1975).

Tom Fobble’s day (London: Collins, 1975).

The stone book (London: Collins, 1976)

Granny Reardun (London: Collins, 1977).

The aimer gate (London: Collins, 1978).

Fairytales of gold (London: Collins, 1980).

The lad of the gad (London: Collins, 1980).

GRIMM, Jacob and GRIMM, Wilhelm;The complete Grimm’s fairy-tales 2nd Edition (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1975).

JACOBS, Joseph;English fairy-tales (London: The Bodley Head, 1968).

JAMES, Henry;The turn of the screw (New York: 1898).

KLAEBER, Fr.;Beowulf 3rd Edition (Boston: D C Heath and Co, 1950).

LE GUIN, Ursula Kroeber;Rocannon’s World (New York: Ace Books, 1966).

P a g e | 307

Planet of exile (New York: Ace Books, 1966).

City of illusions (Berkeley: Parnassus Press, 1967).

The left hand of darkness (New York: Walker, 1969).

The lathe of heaven (New York: Scribner, 1971).

The dispossessed (New York: Harper and Row, 1974).

Wild Angels: poems (New York: Capra Press, 1975).

The word for world is forest (New York: Berkeley-Putnam, 1976).

Orsinian tales (London: Gollancz, 1977).

Leese Webster (picture book) (New York: Atheneum Press, 1979).

A very long way from anywhere else (London: Heinemann Educational, 1979). American title Very far away from anywhere else.

Malafrena (London: Gollancz, 1980).

Threshold (London: Gollancz, 1980).American title The beginning place (New York: Harper and Row, 1980).

White Donkey (short story) in; Triquarterly 49 (Fall, 1980) 259-261.

Hard words and other poems

P a g e | 308

(New York: Harper and Row, 1981).

The compass rose; short stories (New York: Harper and Row, 1982).

The eye of the heron; stories by Ursula K LeGuin and others(London: Gollancz, 1983).

LE GUIN, Ursula Kroeber (Editor);Nebula Award Stories 11 (London: Gollancz, 1976).

LE GUIN, Ursula Kroeber and KIDD, Virginia (Editors);Interfaces (New York: Eerdmans, 1980).

LEWIS, Clive Staples;Out of the silent planet (London: John Lane and Bodley Head, 1938).

Perelandra (London: John Lane and Bodley Head, 1943).

That hideous strength (London: John Lane and Bodley Head, 1945).

The lion, the witch and the wardrobe (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1950).

Prince Caspian; the return to Narnia (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1951).

The voyage of the Dawn Treader (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1952).

The silver chair (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1953).

The horse and his boy (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1954).

P a g e | 309

The magician’s nephew (London: The Bodley Head, 1955).

The last battle(London: the Bodley Head, 1956).

MALORY, Thomas;Works, edited by Eugene Vinaver (London: Oxford University Press, 1954).

GARDNER, Helen (Editor);New Oxford Book of English verse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972).

RUSKIN, John;The King of the golden river 2nd Edition, (London , 1851).

SANDARS, N K (Editor);The epic of Gilgamesh (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1964).

SANDS, Donald B (Editor);Middle English verse romances (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966).

SHAKESPEARE, William;Complete Works (London: Oxford University Press, 1905 (Reset 1943)).

SOUTHEY, Robert;Poems, edited by Maurice H Fitzgerald (London: Oxford University Press, 1909). (Southey’s poem Madoc was one of Curry’s sources for the “history” of Cibotlan in her Celtic/Pre-Columbian series of novels).

TOLKIEN, John Ronald Reuel;The hobbit; or, there and back again

P a g e | 310

(London: George Allen and Unwin, 1937). 2nd (Revised) Edition, 1951.

The fellowship of the Ring; being the first part of the Lord of the Rings (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1954).

The two towers; being the second part of the Lord of the Rings

(London: George Allen and Unwin, 1954).

The return of the King; being the third part of the Lord of the Rings (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1955).

The adventures of Tom Bombadil; and other verses from The Red Book(London: George Allen and Unwin, 1962).

Tree and Leaf (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1964). (Contains the long essay On fairy stories).

Smith of Wootton Major (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1967).

The Silmarillion (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1977).

TOLKIEN, J. R. R. and GORDON, E V (Editors);Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, 2nd Edition revised by

Norman Davis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967).

P a g e | 311

Section 2 – Non-Fiction

A) Primary Material

ALDERLEY EDGE, its neighbourhood, and the legend of the wizard (Manchester: E J Marten, 1972). (One of Garner’s sources for his first two novels).

AUDEN, W H;‘Good and evil in The Lord of the Rings’, Critical Quarterly10 (Spring/Summer, 1968) p 374-375.

BENTON, Michael; ‘Detective imagination’, Children’s Literature in Education 13 (1974) p 5-12.

BETTELHEIM, Bruno;The empty fortress: infantile autism and the birth of the self (New York: The Free Press, 1972).

The uses of enchantment: the meaning and importance of fairy-tales (London: Thames and Hudson, 1976.

BISKIN, Donald and KOSKISSION, Kenneth;‘Moral development through children’s literature’, Elementary School Journal 75 (December, 1974) p 152-157.

BRANHAM, R J;‘Principles of the imaginary milieu’, Extrapolation 21 (Winter, 1980) p 328-337

BREWER, Derek;‘The interpretation of dream, folktale and Romance

with special reference to Sir Gawain and the Greene Knight’, Bulletin of the Modern Language Society 4, LXVII (1976).

Symbolic Stories(Ipswich: D S Brewer, 1980).

BROOKE-ROSE, Christine;

P a g e | 312

A rhetoric of the unreal: studies in narrative and structure, especially of the fantastic

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981).

CARPENTER, Humphrey;J. R. R. Tolkien; a biography (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1977).

The Inklings; C S Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, Charles Williams, and their friends(London: George Allen and Unwin, 1978).

CHAMBERS, Aidan;‘The reader in the book; notes from work in progress’,Signal 22 (May, 1977) p 64-67.

CHANT, Joy;‘Niggle and Numenor’, Children’s literature in education 19 (Winter, 1975) p 161-171.

CHUANG TZU;Complete works, translated by Burton Watson (Columbia: Columbia University Press, 1968)(Named by LeGuin on a postcard to the author as her most important Taoist source).

CLISSOLD, Stephen;The seven cities of Cibola (London: Eyre and Spottiswood, 1961). (One of Curry’s sources for “Cibotlan”).

CRESSWELL, Helen;‘If it’s someone from Porlock, don’t answer the door’,Children’s literature in Education 4 (March, 1971) p 32-40.

CURRY, Jane Louise;Letter to author, 22nd January, 1978.

DAICHES, David;Critical approaches to literature (London: Longmans, 1956).

P a g e | 313

DEACON, Richard; Madoc and the discovery of America (London: Muller, 1967).

DE BOLT, Joe (Editor)Ursula K LeGuin: Voyager to inner lands and outer space (New York: Kennikat Press, 1979).

EXTRAPOLATION 20 (Fall, 1980).

GARNER, Alan;‘A bit more practice’ Times Literary Supplement (June 6th, 1968) p 577-578.

‘Coming to terms’ Children’s literature in education 2 (July, 1970) p 15-29.

GILLIES, Caroline;‘Possession and structure in the novels of Alan

Garner’ Children’s literature in education 18 (Fall, 1975) p 107-117.

HARDING, D W;‘Psychological processes in the reading of fiction’ British Journal of Aesthetics Vol 2, no 2 (1962) p 133-147.

HARDY, Barbara;Tellers and listeners; the narrative imagination (London: The Athlone Press, 1975).

HELSON, Ravenna;‘Through the pages of children’s books’ Psychology today 7 (November, 1973) p 107-117.

HILL, Donald M;Lecture on Mediaeval Literature given at Bedford

College, Autumn Term, 1969.

HUGHES, Red;‘Myth and education’

P a g e | 314

Children’s literature in Education 1 (March, 1970) p 55-70.

INGLIS, Fred;The promise of happiness; value and meaning in children’s fiction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981).

IRWIN, W R;The game of the impossible; a rhetoric of fantasy (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1976).

JACKSON, Rosemary;Fantasy; the literature of subversion (London: Methuen, 1981).

KIMMEL, Eric;‘Can children’s books change children’s values?’Educational Leadership 28 (November, 1970) p 209-211.

LE GUIN, Ursula Kroeber;‘Creative spirit and children’s literature’Wilson Library Bulletin 53, no 2 (October, 1978) p 166-169.

‘Dreams must explain themselves’Signal 19 (January 1976) p 3-11.

LE GUIN, Ursula Kroeber;‘Fantasy, like poetry, speaks the language of the

night’World (21st November, 1966). (Reprinted in The Language of the Night – see below).

LE GUIN, Ursula Kroeber;The language of the night; essays on Fantasy and science fiction (New York: G P Putnam’s Sons, 1980).

LEWIS, Clive Staples;Of other worlds; essays and stories (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1966).

P a g e | 315

LEWIS, Roger;‘Fiction and the imagination’Children’s literature in education 19 (Winter, 1975) p 172-178.

LIVELY, Penelope;‘Children and memory’Hornbook XLIX No 4 (August 1973) p 400-407.

MACDONALD, George;‘The fantastic imagination’Signal 16 (January, 1975) p 26-32. (First published in 1908 as the preface to an Americanedition of Dealings with the fairies. Reprinted in Signal from MacDonald’s collection of essays A dish of orts; chiefly papers on the imagination and on Shakespeare (Edwin Dalton, 1908).

MCNEILL, Janet;‘Enter fairies through a hole in the hedge’ Junior Bookshelf 31 (February, 1967) p 23-27.

MANLOVE, C N;‘Conservatism in the fantasy of LeGuin’Extrapolation 21 (Fall, 1980) p 287-297.

MANLOVE, C N;Modern fantasy, five studies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975).

MOBLEY, Jane;‘Towards a definition of fantasy fiction’Extrapolation 15 (May, 1974) p 117-128.

MONTGOMERY, Marion;‘Prophetic poet and the loss of Middle-Earth’Georgia Review (Spring, 1979) p 66-83.

NEUMANN, Erich; The great mother; an analysis of the archetype (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1955).

P a g e | 316

NEW LAROUSSE Encyclopaedia of mythology (London: Hamlyn, 1968).

PHILIP, Neil:A fine anger: a critical introduction to the works of Alan Garner (London: Collins, 1981).

PHILIP, Neil;‘Fantasy: double cream or instant whip?’Signal 35 (May, 1981).

PLATO; The collected dialoguesEdited by Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961).

RABIN, Eric; The fantastic in literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977).

RAGLAN (Fitzroy Richard Somerset, 4th Baron Raglan) The hero of tradition (London: The Folklore Society, 1934). (Reprinted in; Alan Dundes The study of folklore (Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1965)).

STOCKHOLDER, Katherine;‘Fictions, phantasies and reality; a re-evaluation’Literature and psychology 26, no 1 (1976) p 17-30.

TOLKIEN, J. R. R.On fairy-stories in Essays presented to Charles Williams (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1947). Also in Tree and Leaf (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1964). (Originally an Andrew Lang Lecture delivered in shorter form at the university of St Andrews in 1938).

TODOROV, Tzvetan;The fantastic: a structural approach to a literary genre

P a g e | 317

(Cleveland/London: Case Western Reserve University Press, 1973).

TUCKER, Nicholas;The child and the book: psychological and literary exploration (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981).

TYMN, Marshall B, ZAHORSKI, KENNETH J and BOYER, Robert H;Fantasy Literature; a core collection and reference guide (New York/London: Bowker, 1979).

WILSON, Ann;Magical thought in creative writing: the distinctive roles of fantasy and imagination in fiction (Stroud, Gloucestershire: The Thimble Press, 1983).

WILSON, Edmund;‘Oo, those awful orcs’The Nation(April 14th, 1953) p 312-314.

ZIOLKOWSKI, Theodore;‘Otherworlds; fantasy and the fantastic’Sewanee Review 86 (Winter, 1978) p 121-129.

P a g e | 318

B) Secondary Material

ASHE, Geoffrey;Camelot and the vision of Albion (London: Heinemann, 1971). (Included for its references to the Wasteland and the maimed King – p 115-117 – which are among Garner’s sources for Elidor).

AUDEN, W H;The dyer’s hand (London: Faber, 1963). (Some of the essays in this book, particularly ‘The poet and the city’, consider the question of the function of poetry, and by extension that of fiction, in other people’s lives).

Letter to the author, December 5th, 1969.

CAMERON, Eleanor;The green and burning tree; on the writing and enjoyment of children’s

books (Boston, Mass.: Little, Brown and Co, 1962).

CHANT, Joy; ‘Attracting the reader’Times Literary Supplement 4042 (September 19th, 1980) 1028.

Fantasy and allegory in literature for young readers (College of Librarianship, Wales, 1971).

The high kings; Arthur’s Celtic ancestors (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1984).

BEER, Rudiger RobertUnicorn; myth and reality (New York: Mason/Charter, 1977).

COOK, Roger;The tree of life; image for the cosmos (London: Thames and Hudson, 1974).

P a g e | 319

CROSSLEY-HOLLAND, Kevin;The Faber book of northern legends (London: Faber, 1971).

CROUCH, Marcus;The Nesbit tradition; the children’s novel in Britain,

1940-1970 (London: Benn, 1972).

CURRY, Jane Louise;‘On the elvish craft’Signal 2 (May, 1970) p 42-49.

DARTON, F J Harvey;Children’s books in England 3rd Edition revised by Brian

Alderson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). (First

published in 1932).

DORSON, Richard M;The British folklorists; a history (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1968).

ELIADE, Mircea;The myth of the eternal return (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1965). (Philip cites this as relevant to Garner’s theme of

timelessness).

EVANS, J M;Paradise Lost and the Genesis tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968).

EYRE, Frank;British children’s books in the Twentieth Century (London: Longmans, 1971).

FISHER, Marjorie;

P a g e | 320

Intent upon reading; a critical appraisal of modern fiction for children 2nd Edition (Leicester: Brockhampton Press, 1964).

FRAZER, James George;The golden bough, Abridged edition (London: MacMillan, 1957).

GOOD NEWS BIBLE; today’s English version (London: The Bible Societies/Collins, 1976).

GRAVES, Robert;The white Goddess; a historical grammar of poetic myth (London: Faber, 1948).

HILDICK, Wallace;Children and fiction; a critical study in depth of the artistic and psychological factors involved in writing fiction for and about children (London: Evans Brothers Ltd, 1970).

HOGARTH, Peter; with Val Cleary;Dragons (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1979).

JOHNSON, Samuel;Works of Samuel Johnson LL D (London: Hawkins, 1787).

LYNN, Ruth Nadelman;Fantasy for children: an annotated checklist (New York/London: Bowker, 1979).

MANLOVE, C N;The impulse of fantasy literature (Kent State University Press, 1983).

METHODIST Hymnbook(London: Methodist Publishing House, 1975).

NEEDHAM, Joseph;Science and civilisation in China, 5 Volumes, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1954-1973).

P a g e | 321

SMITH, G Elliott;The evolution of the dragon (Manchester: Longmans Green, 1911).

THWAITE, Mary;From primer to pleasure: an introduction to the history of children’s books in England, from the invention of printing to 1900 (London: The Library Association, 1963).

TOWNSEND, John Rowe;A sense of story: essays on contemporary writers for children (London: Longmans, 1971).

WATERS, Frank;The book of the Hopi (New York: Viking press, 1963).

WEIL, Simone;La personne et la sacré; écrits de Londres (Privately printed, 1951).

WESTON, Jessie L;From ritual to Romance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1920) and (Bath: Chivers Press, 1980).(A study of the Grail Legend that includes details of the Wasteland and the maimed King – see Gardner, Elidor).

WHITELOCK, Dorothy (Editor);Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon reader 14th Edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967).

WILSON, Anne;Traditional Romance and tale; how stories mean (Ipswich: D S Brewer, 1976).

WOLMAN, Benjamin B;

P a g e | 322

Handbook of parapsychology (New York: Van Nostrand Rheinhold, 1977).

"I will take the ring"; responsibility and maturity in modern fantasy fiction for children. With...

Documents

Transcript of "I will take the ring"; responsibility and maturity in modern fantasy fiction for children. With...