#70 = Volume 23, Part 3 = November 1996
Brian Attebery
Teaching Fantastic Literature
Although I have been able, once or twice, to teach a course entirely devoted
to science fiction, more often I incorporate both sf and fantasy into an
introductory-level course called Fantastic Literature. Even though this means
dealing with a wide range of students (including the barely literate) and making
the syllabus conform to the specifications for a general education literature
course, the students and I generally find it helpful to place contemporary
fantasy and sf in a larger historical and generic context. Furthermore, working
at a level that does not assume answers to basic critical questions turns out to
work to the benefit of the texts, since many of the standard answers to such
questions are based on a realist model for narrative.
Perhaps half of the students who sign up for the course are already widely
read in contemporary fantasy; slightly fewer are regular readers of sf. These
students are proficient at what Samuel R. Delany calls the protocols of sf: they
are alert to the verbal clues that establish a consistent magical or alien
fictional world. Usually, though, they are less able or willing to analyze the
text for style, tone, or narrrative technique. The other half are current or
prospective English majors who can readily spot an extended metaphor or an
embedded narrative but are not always sure what is happening in the story.
The disparity between these two groups of students can be useful. In the
first class sessions, I use short passages to demonstrate different reading
protocols, following Delany's model, and then for the rest of the semester let
the students fill one another in on alternative ways of making sense of a
particular selection. The trick seems to be to articulate the difference itself
so that it becomes available for discussion.
Whatever background students bring to the course, it rarely includes much
awareness of the traditions that modern fantasy writers are drawing upon or
responding to. Accordingly, I proceed more or less chronologically, starting
with classical or mythological texts that illustrate alternative constructions
of reality of the sort that fantasy writers imitate and/or steal from. I have
had success with the Homeric poems, Ovid's Metamorphoses, and Gilgamesh.
H.R. Ellis Davidson's Gods and Myths of Northern Europe, on the other
hand, proved to be unpopular with the students for the same reasons I liked it,
because it told them more than they wanted to know about the culture and society
within which Norse myths functioned. Next time I go the Northern route I will
probably find a more straightforward retelling of the Eddas. The wild mix of
bawdiness and reverence in Apuleius's The Golden Ass makes it a
wonderfully teachable story (as well as a powerful lead-in to C.S. Lewis's Till
We Have Faces) but represents a late and skeptical treatment of mythic
materials, arguably closer to modern fantasy. In addition to one of these longer
texts, I like to assign a number of creation stories from around the world
(including the opening chapters of Genesis).
It isn't possible in an introductory course to confront all the issues raised
by myth scholars, but I do try to bring in a few ideas that seem to translate
well to the study of fantasy. These include differences between oral and written
narrative, the role of myth in codifying a society's sense of itself and its
institutions, ways of analyzing a story's structure and categorizing motifs,
psychoanalytic readings of myths (and major objections to them), and the idea of
mythic time as a cycle—Eliade's Eternal Return. This last concept is
particularly useful in making students aware of the power of narrative to
organize time.
Studying mythic texts is also a good way to get students to ask why cultures
tell stories at all, and particularly why they so frequently tell stories that
deviate from reality, at least as defined in rational, materialist terms. For
the storytelling cultures, of course, reality is not limited to scientifically
verifiable phenomena—nor is it so limited for many of my students, who will
argue that ghosts nor telepathy nor prophetic vision are enough in themselves to
push a text into the category of the fantastic. Here again the pedagogical
challenge is to encourage students to become aware of their own assumptions and
to recognize that a different set of assumptions will give rise to dramatically
different readings. Rather than argue over what is real, I try to get students
to investigate the way different conceptions of reality affect the way we
interpret literature. For instance, the ancestral influences in Gloria Naylor's Mama
Day are enough like religious legends told within the Mormon church (to
which many of my students belong) that they are able to fit most of the story
into their view of the cosmos and hence feel no need to interpret its events
metaphorically, the way they do, say, the dragons of Earthsea. It is usually
possible, nonetheless, to reach consensus about what might be called everyday
reality: the range of possible events that do not push one across a threshold
into the numinous or the weird.
Along with myth, I incorporate selections from the other primary forms of
folk narrative that do cross the threshold: legend, folktale, and ballad.
Folklorists, basing their conclusions mostly on European materials, generally
distinguish between legends, which are usually open-ended or tragic and are
believed by their tellers, and magical folktales, viewed as fictional
entertainments even by their tellers and tightly structured along the lines
analyzed by Vladimir Propp. After introducing this distinction, I like to muddy
the waters by offering something like a Navajo Coyote story, which may function
simultaneously as comic folktale and sacred myth, with a bit of pourquoi legend
thrown in at the end: "and that's why coyotes have yellow eyes." A
good example of such a tale in cultural context can be found in Barre Toelken's Dynamics
of Folklore.
After a quick tour of the forms of oral narrative, I move to genres that
imitate or embroider those forms: the literary fairy tale, the literary ballad,
and the medieval romance. Populated by fairies, giants, and other beings from
tale or legend, these narratives demonstrate the writer's freedom to add
descriptive details, motivations, moralized conclusions, and rationalized
explanations to their folk models. One of the best texts to illustrate all of
these changes is Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which not only
represents a pinnacle of the Arthurian tradition but also suggests a link with
twentieth-century fantasy through J.R.R. Tolkien, who played an important role
in popularizing the poem.
Moving beyond the medieval era, there are a number of important Renaissance
(or Early Modern) writers who made use of the fantastic, but I pass over Drayton
and Milton to concentrate on a Shakespeare play. A Midsummer Night's Dream
and The Tempest are obvious choices, and I have used them with success,
but lately I have found myself selecting more obscure and problematic plays,
such as A Winter's Tale or Pericles. These offer a couple of
advantages. First, the students have no preconceptions about how to respond:
even if they have read any Shakespeare they almost certainly haven't been
introduced to these plays, and they can't even fit them into categories like
tragedy or comedy. Second, there is enough disagreement among critics as to the
plays' meaning and worth that there is room for each student to form an original
judgment, especially since the critical confusion can be traced in large part to
the plays' fantastic elements. By the way, the filmed BBC productions of them
(which I use in class) deal awkwardly with intrusions of magic and the divine,
and one of the things I invite students to do is to imagine staging a play in
such a way as to give the fantastic its due.
At this point in the syllabus, I give up any pretence at historical coverage.
The eighteenth century disappears entirely, and the nineteenth is reduced to a
couple of poems and one novel: Frankenstein, or something of George
MacDonald's (Lilith is a challenging but rewarding choice), or even
Dickens' Christmas Carol. In the class I am currently preparing, I am
using The Wizard of Oz primarily so that I can follow it with Geoff
Ryman's Was.
My choices from among twentieth-century writers range widely in style and
genre. I have used short fiction, selecting in different semesters from Eric
Rabkin's Fantastic Worlds, Silverberg's The Science Fiction Hall of
Fame, Ursula K. Le Guin's and my Norton Book of Science Fiction, and,
next semester, Greg Bear's New Legends. I have also used Angela Carter's
collection of wickedly revisionist fairy tales, The Bloody Chamber. Among
novels, I have been most pleased by those that, like Carter's tales, dramatize
the complex relationship between twentieth-century readers and earlier
storytelling traditions. Examples are Lewis's Till We Have Faces,
Delany's The Einstein Intersection, Le Guin's The Left Hand of
Darkness and Always Coming Home, Zelazny's The Dream Master (Lord
of Light has never been in print when I have tried to get it), Jeanne
Larsen's Silk Road, Nancy Willard's Things Invisible to See, and
Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children. These are strongly intertextual
works, works that embody some of the processes that I hope to see in class
discussions and student writing. The most important thing that can happen in
class is when two or more texts connect up like batteries in a circuit (and
occasionally even light up the dimmer bulbs in the room). I often find myself
surprised at the interactions that begin to take place among the various
readings we have done, at the way one Promethean character critiques another or
one framing of a tale invests another with unexpected irony.
Some texts do not interact so freely with earlier forms of the fantastic. A
couple of years ago, Isabel Allende's House of the Spirits slipped right
past most of the students. They did not have the historical and cultural
background to make many connections with the text, and the earlier reading we
had done had very little to do with Allende's brand of magical realism. Science
fiction can also pose a problem unless I spend a good quarter of the class on
the development of its particular devices and concerns. While Frankenstein,
The Einstein Intersection, or Tepper's The Gate to Women's Country
interact synergistically with Greek myth and medieval legend, much sf engages
primarily with earlier scientific and science-fictional discourse and responds
less readily to a body of readings focusing on traditions of the fantastic.
I don't believe that much of what I have outlined here is unusual among
courses on the fantastic, although I'm sure that all who teach it have different
favorites among authors and genres. If there is any innovation in my course, it
is the result of my attempts to rethink the concepts through which I originally
learned to interpret the fantastic. As I look over what I have written here, it
looks rather retro. Historical periods? Close reading? An obligatory pass
through Shakespeare? Structures and motifs? Myth criticism, for the gods' sakes?
Yet in each case, the old song has been reharmonized in the light of
contemporary theory.
The old way to look at myths was as more or less pure glimpses into the
archaic collective soul. No one paid much attention to the fact that the Homeric
epics, for instance, were the work of an individual artist (or two, or several)
who not only shaped traditional tales to fit his own taste but also represented
a particular historical moment and social circumstance, without which the poems
would not have been written down or even performed orally. Those circumstances
dictate, for instance, a particular view of the roles of male and female deities
that is quite different from what we can reconstruct of the women's mystery
religions.
Another important consideration in looking at mythic texts is the degree to
which they have been affected by the conventions of written literatures,
especially because the written versions we have of most myths represent several
layers of editorial intervention. Folktales, likewise, have passed into and out
of oral tradition; the many variants of "Beauty and the Beast" may all
derive from the version of "Cupid and Psyche" written and possibly
invented by Apuleius. Recent studies of the Grimms's collection emphasize the
number of young, urban, literate women among their informants, which casts doubt
on the peasant oral tradition the collection is supposed to represent. All of
this information encourages us to rethink Freud and Jung and Lévi-Strauss: it
may be that the myth texts do not reflect human nature so much as create it,
that the unconscious is a product of, rather than the source of, collective
narratives.
Each time I introduce an idea like myth, it changes a little in response to
what I have been reading and thinking about. I find that the course in fantastic
literature is a marvelous arena in which to debate fundamental ideas about
storytelling, interpretation, the elements of fiction, and the functions of
literature. Listening to students who have few preconceptions, and dealing with
texts that challenge even those few, I am forced to reinvent myself continually
as a reader, scholar, and teacher. Most of the critical writing I have done in
the past decade has been formulated and tested in the laboratory of the
fantastic literature class. Student responses to the texts and my attempts to
understand and amend those responses have led me to investigate such topics as
the dramatized oral narrator in fantasy novels or the gendered metaphors through
which sf conventionally represents the process of scientific discovery.
Over several years of teaching fantastic literature, I have gradually altered
the way I perform in the classroom. I tell less, ask more. I try to set things
up so that the students have to interrogate their own reading experience, both
in discussions in class (not always easy in a class that averages over forty
participants) and on paper. I emphasize writing as a part of reading by
requiring a reading journal in which students keep track of their reactions and
make sense of them in terms of specific details from the text and outside
experiences that have affected their reading. Most of the students get very
conscientious about keeping up their journal entries when they find out that
they may bring the journals, but not the texts, to all exams.
Judging from what they say and write, most students learn a little more about
how they read, and some discover new ways to enjoy reading. Those who already
read sf and fantasy occasionally resent becoming more self-conscious about how
it works and what they get out of it. Those who have never read either genre
usually find at least some items that strike a chord in their imaginations. All
who stick with the class have had to think, for a little while, about the power
of language and of storytelling to create strange worlds, including the ones we
live in.
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