Fantasy

A course of lectures, if it is to be more than a collection of remarks, must have an idea running through it. It must also have a subject, and the idea ought to run through the subject too. This is so obvious as to sound foolish, but any one who has tried to lecture will realize that here is a genuine difficulty. A course, like any other collection of words, generates an atmosphere. It has its own apparatus—a lecturer, an audience or provision for one, it occurs at regular intervals, it is announced by printed notices, and it has a financial side, though this last is tactfully concealed. Thus it tends in its parasitic way to lead a life of its own, and it and the idea running through it are apt to move in one direction while the subject steals off in the other.

A lecture series must have an idea running through it if it is to be more than a collection of remarks. The series must also have a subject, and the idea should run through that subject too. This requirement sounds so obvious that stating it seems foolish. But anyone who has tried to lecture will recognize the real difficulty here. A lecture series, like any other collection of words, creates an atmosphere. The series has its own setup: a lecturer and an audience, or arrangements for one. The lectures take place at regular intervals and are announced in printed notices. The series also has a financial side, though that side is tactfully hidden. So, like a parasite, the series tends to take on a life of its own. The series and its guiding idea are likely to head one way while the subject slips away in the other direction.

The idea running through these lectures is by now plain enough: that there are in the novel two forces: human beings and a bundle of various things not human beings, and that it is the novelist's business to adjust these two forces and conciliate their claims. That is plain enough, but does it run through the novel too? Perhaps our subject, namely the books we have read, has stolen away from us while we theorize, like a shadow from an ascending bird. The bird is all right—it climbs, it is consistent and eminent. The shadow is all right—it has flickered across roads and gardens. But the two things resemble one another less and less, they do not touch as they did when the bird rested its toes on the ground. Criticism, especially a critical course, is so misleading. However lofty its intentions and sound its method, its subject slides away from beneath it, imperceptibly away, and lecturer and audience may awake with a start to find that they are carrying on in a distinguished and intelligent manner, but in regions which have nothing to do with anything they have read.

The idea running through these lectures is clear enough by now: the novel contains two forces. One is human beings, and the other is a bundle of various things that are not human beings. The novelist’s job is to balance these two forces and reconcile their demands. That idea is clear enough, but does it run through the novel too? Perhaps our subject, the books we have read, has slipped away while we theorize, like a shadow from a rising bird. The bird is doing well. It climbs steadily and consistently, high above us. The shadow is doing well too. It has flickered across roads and gardens. But the bird and its shadow look less and less alike. They no longer touch as they did when the bird’s toes rested on the ground. Literary criticism, especially a course of lectures on literature, is so misleading. However noble its aims and sound its methods, its subject slips almost unnoticed out from under it. Lecturer and audience may suddenly realize that their discussion is still impressive and intelligent. But the discussion has moved into areas that have nothing to do with anything they have read.

It was this that was worrying Gide, or rather one of the things that was worrying him, for he has an anxious mind. When we try to translate truth out of one sphere into another, whether from life into books or from books into lectures, something happens to truth, it goes wrong, not suddenly when it might be detected, but slowly. That long passage from Les Faux Monnayeurs already quoted, may recall the bird to its shadow. It is not possible, after it, to apply the old apparatus any more. There is more in the novel than time or people or logic or any of their derivatives, more even than Fate. And by "more" I do not mean something that excludes these aspects nor something that includes them, embraces them. I mean something that cuts across them like a bar of light, that is intimately connected with them at one place and patiently illumines all their problems, and at another place shoots over or through them as if they did not exist. We shall give that bar of light two names, fantasy and prophecy.

This was what worried Gide, or rather one of the things that worried him, for he has an anxious mind. When we try to move truth from one sphere to another, something happens to truth. This happens whether we move it from life into books or from books into lectures. Truth goes wrong, not suddenly, when we might notice, but slowly. The long passage from Les Faux Monnayeurs quoted earlier may call the bird back to its shadow. After that passage, we can no longer use the old tools. There is more in the novel than time or people or logic, or anything derived from them. There is more even than Fate. And by "more" I do not mean something that excludes these aspects, or something that includes and embraces them. I mean something that cuts across them like a beam of light. At one point, this beam is closely connected with these aspects and patiently lights up all their problems. At another, it shoots over or through them as if they did not exist. We shall give this beam of light two names, fantasy and prophecy.

The novels we have now to consider all tell a story, contain characters, and have plots or bits of plots, so we could apply to them the apparatus suited for Fielding or Arnold Bennett. But when I say two of their names—Tristram Shandy and Moby Dick—it is clear that we must stop and think a moment. The bird and the shadow are too far apart. A new formula must be found: the mere fact that one can mention Tristram and Moby in a single sentence shows it. What an impossible pair! As far apart as the poles. Yes. And like the poles they have one thing in common, which the lands round the equator do not share: an axis. What is essential in Sterne and Melville belongs to this new aspect of fiction: the fantastic-prophetical axis. George Meredith touched it: he was somewhat fantastic. So did Charlotte Brontë: she was a prophetess occasionally. But in neither of these was it essential. Deprive them of it, and a book remains which still resembles Harry Richmond or Shirley. Deprive Sterne or Melville of it, deprive Peacock or Max Beerbohm or Virginia Woolf or Walter de la Mare or William Beckford or James Joyce or D. H. Lawrence or Swift, and nothing is left at all.

The novels we now turn to all tell a story, contain characters, and have plots or bits of plots. So we could use the same tools to study them as we would for Fielding or Arnold Bennett. But when I name two of them, Tristram Shandy and Moby Dick, we clearly need to pause and think. The bird and the shadow are too far apart. We need a new formula. The mere fact that we can mention Tristram and Moby in one sentence shows the need. What an impossible pair! As far apart as the poles. Yes. And like the poles, they share something that the lands around the equator do not: an axis. What is essential in Sterne and Melville belongs to this new aspect of fiction: the fantastic-prophetical axis. George Meredith touched this axis: he was somewhat fantastic. So did Charlotte Brontë: she was occasionally a prophetess. But neither writer depended on this quality. Take it away, and a book remains that still resembles Harry Richmond or Shirley. Take this quality away from Sterne or Melville, and nothing remains at all. The same goes for Peacock, Max Beerbohm, Virginia Woolf, Walter de la Mare, William Beckford, James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, or Swift.

Our easiest approach to a definition of any aspect of fiction is always by considering the sort of demand it makes on the reader. Curiosity for the story, human feelings and a sense of value for the characters, intelligence and memory for the plot. What does fantasy ask of us? It asks us to pay something, extra. It compels us to an adjustment that is different to an adjustment required by a work of art, to an additional adjustment. The other novelists say "Here is something that might occur in your lives," the fantasist says "Here's something that could not occur. I must ask you first to accept my book as a whole, and secondly to accept certain things in my book." Many readers can grant the first request, but refuse the second. "One knows a book isn't real," they say, "still one does expect it to be natural, and this angel or midget or ghost or silly delay about the child's birth—no, it is too much." They either retract their original concession and stop reading, or if they do go on it is with complete coldness, and they watch the gambols of the author without realizing how much they may mean to him.

The easiest way to define any aspect of fiction is always to consider what it asks of the reader. A story asks for curiosity. Characters ask for human feelings and a sense of value. A plot asks for intelligence and memory. What does fantasy ask of us? Fantasy asks us to pay something extra. It forces us to make an adjustment beyond the one any work of art requires. Other novelists say, "Here is something that might happen in your lives." The fantasy writer says, "Here's something that could not happen. First, I must ask you to accept my book as a whole. Second, I must ask you to accept certain things in my book." Many readers can agree to the first request but refuse the second. "We know a book isn't real," they say, "but we still expect it to be natural. And this angel or midget or ghost or silly delay over the child's birth, no, it's too much." These readers either withdraw their original acceptance and stop reading, or continue with complete indifference. If they continue, they watch the author's playful antics without realizing how much those antics may mean to him.

No doubt the above approach is not critically sound. We all know that a work of art is an entity, etc., etc.; it has its own laws which are not those of daily life, anything that suits it is true, so why should any question arise about the angel, etc., except whether it is suitable to its book? Why place an angel on a different basis from a stockbroker? Once in the realm of the fictitious, what difference is there between an apparition and a mortgage? I see the soundness of this argument, but my heart refuses to assent. The general tone of novels is so literal that when the fantastic is introduced it produces a special effect: some readers are thrilled, others choked off: it demands an additional adjustment because of the oddness of its method or subject matter—like a sideshow in an exhibition where you have to pay sixpence as well as the original entrance fee. Some readers pay with delight, it is only for the sideshows that they entered the exhibition, and it is only to them I can now speak. Others refuse with indignation, and these have our sincere regards, for to dislike the fantastic in literature is not to dislike literature. It does not even imply poverty of imagination, only a disinclination to meet certain demands that are made on it. Mr. Asquith (if gossip is correct) could not meet the demands made on him by Lady into Fox. He should not have objected, he said, if the fox had become a lady again, but as it was he was left with an uncomfortable dissatisfied feeling. This feeling reflects no discredit either upon an eminent politician or a charming book. It merely means that Mr. Asquith, though a genuine lover of literature, could not pay the additional sixpence—or rather he was willing to pay it but hoped to get it back again at the end.

No doubt the approach above does not hold up as criticism. We all know that a work of art is a complete thing in itself, etc., etc. It has its own rules, different from those of daily life. Anything that fits the work is true. So why ask any question about the angel, etc., except whether the angel fits the book? Why treat an angel differently from a stockbroker? Once we enter the world of fiction, what difference is there between a ghost and a mortgage? I see the logic of this argument, but my heart refuses to agree. Novels generally stick so closely to ordinary reality that introducing the fantastic creates a special effect. Some readers are thrilled, others put off. The fantastic asks readers to make an extra adjustment because its method or subject matter is unusual. It is like a sideshow at an exhibition, where you pay sixpence on top of the entrance fee. Some readers gladly pay. They came to the exhibition only for the sideshows, and only those readers can I now address. Others refuse indignantly, and we sincerely respect them. Disliking the fantastic in literature does not mean disliking literature. Nor does such a dislike even suggest a lack of imagination. It means only an unwillingness to meet certain demands placed on the imagination. Mr. Asquith, if the gossip is correct, could not meet the demands of Lady into Fox. He said he would not have objected if the fox had become a lady again. But as the story stood, he was left feeling uneasy and dissatisfied. His reaction reflects badly on neither a distinguished politician nor a charming book. It simply means that Mr. Asquith, though a genuine lover of literature, could not pay the extra sixpence. Or rather, he was willing to pay but hoped to get his money back at the end.

So fantasy asks us to pay something extra.

So fantasy asks us to give something extra.

Let us now distinguish between fantasy and prophecy.

Now let’s look at the difference between fantasy and prophecy.

They are alike in having gods, and unlike in the gods they have. There is in both the sense of mythology which differentiates them from other aspects of our subject. An invocation is again possible, therefore on behalf of fantasy let us now invoke all beings who inhabit the lower air, the shallow water, and the smaller hills, all Fauns and Dryads and slips of the memory, all verbal coincidences, Pans and puns, all that is mediæval this side of the grave. When we come to prophecy, we shall utter no invocation, but it will have been to whatever transcends our abilities, even when it is human passion that transcends them, to the deities of India, Greece, Scandinavia and Judæa, to all that is mediæval beyond the grave and to Lucifer son of the morning. By their mythologies we shall distinguish these two sorts of novels.

Fantasy and prophecy both have gods, but their gods differ. Both have a sense of mythology that sets them apart from the other aspects of our subject. So once again we can call on supernatural powers. For fantasy, let us now call on all beings who inhabit the lower air, the shallow water, and the smaller hills. Let us call on all Fauns and Dryads and slips of memory, all verbal coincidences, Pans and puns. Let us call on all that is medieval on this side of the grave. When we come to prophecy, we shall make no such appeal aloud. But our unspoken appeal will have been to whatever exceeds our abilities, even when human passion exceeds them. It will have been to the deities of India, Greece, Scandinavia and Judæa. It will have been to all that is medieval beyond the grave and to Lucifer, son of the morning. We shall distinguish these two kinds of novels by their mythologies.

A number of rather small gods then should haunt us today—I would call them fairies if the word were not consecrated to imbecility. (Do you believe in fairies? No, not under any circumstances.) The stuff of daily life will be tugged and strained in various directions, the earth will be given little tilts mischievous or pensive, spot lights will fall on objects that have no reason to anticipate or welcome them, and tragedy herself, though not excluded, will have a fortuitous air as if a word would disarm her. The power of fantasy penetrates into every corner of the universe, but not into the forces that govern it—the stars that are the brain of heaven, the army of unalterable law, remain untouched—and novels of this type have an improvised air, which is the secret of their force and charm. They may contain solid character-drawing, penetrating and bitter criticism of conduct and civilization; yet our simile of the beam of light must remain, and if one god must be invoked specially, let us call upon Hermes—messenger, thief, and conductor of souls to a not too terrible hereafter.

A number of rather small gods, then, should haunt us today. I would call them fairies if the word were not reserved for idiocy. (Do you believe in fairies? No, not under any circumstances.) The stuff of daily life will be pulled and stretched in various directions. The earth will be given little tilts, mischievous or thoughtful. Spotlights will fall on objects that have no reason to expect or welcome the attention. And tragedy herself, though not excluded, will seem to arrive by chance, as if a word could disarm her. The power of fantasy reaches into every corner of the universe, but not into the forces that govern the universe. The stars that are heaven’s brain and the army of unchangeable laws remain untouched. And novels of this kind feel improvised, which is the secret of their power and charm. These novels may contain solid portrayals of character and sharp, bitter criticism of behavior and civilization. Yet we must keep our comparison to a beam of light. And if one god must be called on especially, let us call on Hermes. He is a messenger, thief, and guide of souls to a not too terrible afterlife.

You will expect me now to say that a fantastic book asks us to accept the supernatural. I will say it, but reluctantly, because any statement as to their subject matter brings these novels into the claws of critical apparatus, from which it is important that they should be saved. It is truer of them than of most books that we can only know what is in them by reading them, and their appeal is specially personal—they are sideshows inside the main show. So I would rather hedge as much as possible, and say that they ask us to accept either the supernatural or its absence.

You will now expect me to say that a fantasy novel asks us to accept the supernatural. I will say so, but reluctantly. Any statement about these novels’ subject matter puts them in the clutches of critical analysis. It is important to save them from those clutches. More than with most books, we can only know what these novels contain by reading them. Their appeal is especially personal. They are sideshows within the main show. So I would rather leave myself as much room as possible. I would say that these novels ask us to accept either the supernatural or its absence.

A reference to the greatest of the them—Tristram Shandy—will make this point clear. The supernatural is absent from the Shandy ménage, yet a thousand incidents suggest that it is not far off. It would not be really odd, would it, if the furniture in Mr. Shandy's bedroom, where he retired in despair after hearing the omitted details of his son's birth, should come alive like Belinda's toilette in The Rape of the Lock, or that Uncle Toby's drawbridge should lead into Lilliput? There is a charmed stagnation about the whole epic—the more the characters do the less gets done, the less they have to say the more they talk, the harder they think the softer they get, facts have an unholy tendency to unwind and trip up the past instead of begetting the future, as in well-conducted books, and the obstinacy of inanimate objects, like Dr. Slop's bag, is most suspicious. Obviously a god is hidden in Tristram Shandy, his name is Muddle, and some readers cannot accept him. Muddle is almost incarnate—quite to reveal his awful features was not Sterne's intention; that is the deity that lurks behind his masterpiece—the army of unutterable muddle, the universe as a hot chestnut. Small wonder that another divine muddler, Dr. Johnson, writing in 1776, should remark, "Nothing odd will do long: Tristram Shandy did not last!" Doctor Johnson was not always happy in his literary judgments, but the appropriateness of this one passes belief.

A look at the greatest of them, Tristram Shandy, will make this point clear. Nothing supernatural appears in the Shandy household, yet a thousand incidents suggest that the supernatural is not far away. Consider Mr. Shandy's bedroom, where he retreated in despair after hearing the missing details of his son's birth. Would it really be odd if the furniture came alive, like Belinda's dressing table in The Rape of the Lock? Or if Uncle Toby's drawbridge led into Lilliput? A kind of enchanted standstill hangs over the whole epic. The more the characters do, the less gets done. The less they have to say, the more they talk. The harder they think, the softer they get. Facts have an unholy tendency to unravel and trip up the past. They do not produce the future, as facts do in well-behaved books. And the stubbornness of lifeless objects, like Dr. Slop's bag, is deeply suspicious. Obviously, a god is hidden in Tristram Shandy. His name is Muddle, and some readers cannot accept him. Muddle almost takes bodily form, though Sterne did not intend to reveal his fearsome features fully. This is the god lurking behind Sterne's masterpiece: the army of unspeakable muddle, the universe as a hot chestnut. No wonder another divine muddler, Dr. Johnson, remarked in 1776, "Nothing odd will do long: Tristram Shandy did not last!" Doctor Johnson was not always fortunate in his literary judgments, but the aptness of this one is beyond belief.

Well, that must serve as our definition of fantasy. It implies the supernatural, but need not express it. Often it does express it, and were that type of classification helpful, we could make a list of the devices which writers of a fantastic turn have used—such as the introduction of a god, ghost, angel, monkey, monster, midget, witch into ordinary life; or the introduction of ordinary men into no man's land, the future, the past, the interior of the earth, the fourth dimension; or divings into and dividings of personality; or finally the device of parody or adaptation. These devices need never grow stale; they will occur naturally to writers of a certain temperament, and be put to fresh use; but the fact that their number is strictly limited is of interest; and suggests that the beam of light can only be manipulated in certain ways.

Well, that must serve as our definition of fantasy. Fantasy implies the supernatural but need not show it directly. Often it does. If that kind of classification were useful, we could list the devices used by writers drawn to fantasy. They might bring a god, ghost, angel, monkey, monster, person of unusually small stature, or witch into ordinary life. Or they might send ordinary people into no man's land, the future, the past, the earth's interior, or the fourth dimension. Or they might explore the depths of personality or split it apart. Finally, they might use parody or adaptation. These devices need never grow stale. Writers of a certain temperament will naturally turn to these devices and find fresh uses for them. But the strictly limited number of devices is interesting. That limit suggests that the beam of light can only be manipulated in certain ways.

I will select, as a typical example, a recent book about a witch: Flecker's Magic, by Norman Matson. It seemed to me good and I recommended it to a friend whose judgment I respect. He thought it poor. That is what is so tiresome about new books; they never give us that restful feeling which we have when perusing the classics. Flecker's Magic contains scarcely anything that is new—fantasies cannot: only the old old story of the wishing ring which brings either misery or nothing at all. Flecker, an American boy who is learning to paint in Paris, is given the ring by a girl in a café; she is a witch, she tells him; he has only to be sure what he wants and he will get it. To prove her power, a motor-bus rises slowly from the street and turns upside down in the air. The passengers, who do not fall out, try to look as if nothing was happening. The driver, who is standing on the pavement at the moment, cannot conceal his surprise, but when his bus returns safe to earth again he thinks it wiser to get into his seat and drive off as usual. Motor-buses do not revolve slowly through the air—so they do not. Flecker now accepts the ring. His character, though slightly sketched, is individual, and this definiteness causes the book to grip.

I’ll choose a recent book about a witch as a typical example: Flecker's Magic, by Norman Matson. I thought it was good and recommended it to a friend whose judgment I respect. He thought it was poor. That is what makes new books so tiresome. They never give us the restful feeling we get when reading the classics. Flecker's Magic contains hardly anything new. Fantasies cannot. It offers only the old, old story of the wishing ring that brings either misery or nothing at all. Flecker, an American boy learning to paint in Paris, receives the ring from a girl in a café. She tells him she is a witch. He only has to be sure what he wants, and he will get it. To prove her power, a bus rises slowly from the street and turns upside down in the air. The passengers do not fall out and try to look as if nothing is happening. The driver is standing on the pavement at the time and cannot hide his surprise. But when his bus returns safely to the ground, he thinks it wiser to take his seat and drive off as usual. Buses do not turn slowly through the air, so they do not. Flecker now accepts the ring. Though his character is only lightly sketched, he has a distinct personality, and that distinctness makes the book gripping.

It proceeds with a growing tension, a series of little shocks. The method is Socratic. The boy starts by thinking of something obvious, like a Rolls-Royce. But where shall he put the beastly thing? Or a beautiful lady. But what about her carte d'identité? Or money? Ah, that's more like it—he is almost a beggar. Say a million dollars. He prepares to turn the ring for this wish—except while one's about it two millions seem safer—or ten—or—and money blares out into madness, and the same thing happens when he thinks of long life: to die in forty years—no, in fifty—in one hundred—horrible, horrible. Then a solution occurs. He has always wanted to be a great painter. Well, he'll be it at once. But what kind of greatness? Giotto's? Cézanne's? Certainly not; his own kind, and he does not know what that is, so this wish likewise is impossible.

It moves forward with growing tension, a series of little shocks. The method is Socratic. The boy starts by thinking of something obvious, like a Rolls-Royce. But where will he put the blasted thing? Or a beautiful lady. But what about her identity card? Or money? Ah, that’s more like it. He is almost a beggar. Say a million dollars. He gets ready to turn the ring to make this wish. Except, while he’s at it, two million seems safer. Or ten. Or... And the thought of money grows louder until it becomes madness. The same thing happens when he thinks of a long life. To die in forty years? No, in fifty. In a hundred. Horrible, horrible. Then a solution occurs to him. He has always wanted to be a great painter. Well, he’ll become one at once. But what kind of greatness? Giotto’s? Cézanne’s? Certainly not. His own kind. But he does not know what his own kind of greatness is, so this wish is impossible too.

And now a horrible old woman begins to haunt his days and dreams. She reminds him vaguely of the girl who gave him the ring. She knows his thoughts and she is always sidling up to him in the streets and saying, "Dear boy—darling boy—wish for happiness." We learn in time that she is the real witch—the girl was a human acquaintance whom she used to get into touch with Flecker. The last of the witches—very lonely. The rest have committed suicide during the eighteenth century—they could not endure to survive into the world of Newton where two and two make four, and even the world of Einstein is not sufficiently decentralised to revive them. She has hung on in the hope of smashing this world, and she wants the boy to ask for happiness because such a wish has never been made in all the history of the ring.

And now a horrible old woman begins to haunt his days and dreams. She vaguely reminds him of the girl who gave him the ring. She knows his thoughts and keeps sidling up to him in the streets, saying, "Dear boy, darling boy, wish for happiness." Eventually we learn that she is the real witch. The girl was a human acquaintance she used to make contact with Flecker. She is the last of the witches, and very lonely. All the others killed themselves during the eighteenth century. They could not bear to live on into Newton’s world, where two and two make four. Even Einstein’s world is not decentralized enough to bring them back to life. She has held on in the hope of smashing this world. She wants the boy to wish for happiness because no one has ever made that wish in the ring’s entire history.

Thus again and again—the mark of the true fantasist—does Norman Matson merge the kingdoms of magic and common sense by using words that apply to both, and the mixture he has created comes alive. I will not tell the end of the story. You will have guessed its essentials, but there are always surprises in the working of a fresh mind, and to the end of time good literature will be made round this notion of a wish.

Again and again, Norman Matson blends the worlds of magic and common sense by using words that apply to both. This is the mark of a true fantasy writer, and the blend he creates comes alive. I will not tell you how the story ends. You will have guessed the essentials, but a fresh mind always finds surprising ways to work them out. And until the end of time, good literature will be built around this idea of a wish.

To turn from this simple example of the supernatural to a more complicated one—to a highly accomplished and superbly written book whose spirit is farcical: Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm. You all know Miss Dobson—not personally, or you would not be here now. She is that damsel for love of whom all the undergraduates of Oxford except one drowned themselves during Eights week, and he threw himself out of a window.

Let us turn from this simple example of the supernatural to a more complicated one. It is a highly accomplished, superbly written book with the spirit of a farce: Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm. You all know Miss Dobson. Not personally, or you would not be here now. She is the young woman for whose love all but one of Oxford’s undergraduates drowned themselves during Eights week. The one exception threw himself out of a window.

A superb theme for a fantasy, but all will depend on the handling. It is treated with a mixture of realism, wittiness, charm and mythology, and the mythology is most important. Max has borrowed or created a number of supernatural machines—to have entrusted Zuleika to one of them would be inept; the fantasy would become heavy or thin. But we pass from the sweating emperors to the black and pink pearls, the hooting owls, the interference of the Muse Clio, the ghosts of Chopin and George Sand, of Nellie O'Mora; just as one fails another starts, to uphold this gayest and most exquisite of funeral palls.

A superb theme for a fantasy, but everything will depend on how it is handled. The treatment mixes realism, wit, charm, and mythology, and the mythology matters most. Max has borrowed or created a number of supernatural devices. Entrusting Zuleika to just one of them would have been clumsy. The fantasy would become heavy or thin. But we move from the sweating emperors to the black and pink pearls, then to the hooting owls. Next comes the intervention of the Muse Clio, then the ghosts of Chopin and George Sand, and of Nellie O'Mora. Just as one device fails, another takes over, keeping aloft this most cheerful and exquisite of funeral cloths.

Has not a passage like this—with its freedom of invocation—a beauty unattainable by serious literature? It is so funny and charming, so iridescent yet so profound. Criticisms of human nature fly through the book, not like arrows but upon the wings of sylphs. Towards the end—that dreadful end often so fatal to fiction—the book rather flags: the suicide of all the undergraduates of Oxford is not as delightful as it ought to be when viewed at close quarters, and the defenestration of Noaks almost nasty. Still it is a great work—the most consistent achievement of fantasy in our time, and the closing scene in Zuleika's bedroom with its menace of further disasters is impeccable.

Doesn't a passage like this, with its freedom of invocation, have a beauty that serious literature cannot achieve? It is so funny and charming, so shimmering yet so profound. Criticisms of human nature fly through the book, not like arrows but on the wings of sylphs. Towards the end, the book loses some energy. That dreadful ending is so often fatal to fiction. Seen close up, the suicide of all the undergraduates of Oxford is not as delightful as it ought to be. And the throwing of Noaks out of a window is almost nasty. Still, the book is a great work, the most consistent achievement of fantasy in our time. And the closing scene in Zuleika's bedroom, with its threat of further disasters, is flawless.

So Zuleika ought to have come on to this place. She does not seem ever to have arrived and we can only suppose that through the intervention of the gods her special train failed to start, or, more likely, is still in a siding at Bletchley.

So Zuleika should have come to this place. She seems never to have arrived. We can only suppose the gods intervened and her special train never left. Or, more likely, the train is still on a siding at Bletchley.

Among the devices in my list I mentioned "parody" or "adaptation" and would now examine this further. The fantasist here adopts for his mythology some earlier work and uses it as a framework or quarry for his own purposes. There is an aborted example of this in Joseph Andrews. Fielding set out to use Pamela as a comic mythology. He thought it would be fun to invent a brother to Pamela, a pure-minded footman, who should repulse Lady Booby's attentions just as Pamela had repulsed Mr. B.'s, and he made Lady Booby Mr. B.'s aunt. Thus he would be able to laugh at Richardson, and incidentally express his own views of life. Fielding's view of life however was of the sort that only rests content with the creation of solid round characters, and with the growth of Parson Adams and Mrs. Slipslop the fantasy ceases, and we get an independent work. Joseph Andrews (which is also important historically) is interesting to us as an example of a false start. Its author begins by playing the fool in a Richardsonian world, and ends by being serious in a world of his own—the world of Tom Jones and Amelia.

My list of devices included "parody" or "adaptation", and I would now like to explore these further. Here, the fantasy writer takes an earlier work as his mythology. He uses that work as a framework or a source of material for his own purposes. Joseph Andrews offers an example of this approach that was begun but not carried through. Fielding set out to use Pamela as a comic mythology. He thought it would be fun to invent a brother for Pamela, a pure-minded footman. This brother would reject Lady Booby's advances just as Pamela had rejected Mr. B.'s. Fielding also made Lady Booby Mr. B.'s aunt. In this way, he could mock Richardson and, along the way, express his own views of life. But Fielding's view of life could only find satisfaction in creating solid, fully rounded characters. As Parson Adams and Mrs. Slipslop develop, the fantasy ends, and we get an independent work. Joseph Andrews is also historically important, but it interests us here as an example of a false start. Its author begins by playing the fool in Richardson's world. He ends by being serious in a world of his own, the world of Tom Jones and Amelia.

Parody or adaptation have enormous advantages to certain novelists, particularly to those who may have a great deal to say and plenty of literary genius, but who do not see the world in terms of individual men and women—who do not, in other words, take easily to creating characters. How are such men to start writing? An already existing book or literary tradition may inspire them—they may find high up in its cornices a pattern that will serve as a beginning, they may swing about in its rafters and gain strength. That fantasy of Lowes Dickinson, The Magic Flute, seems to be created thus: it has taken as its mythology the world of Mozart. Tamino, Sarastro, and the Queen of the Night stand in their enchanted kingdom ready for the author's thoughts, and when these are poured in they become alive and a new and exquisite work is born. And the same is true of another fantasy, anything but exquisite—James Joyce's Ulysses⁶ That remarkable affair—perhaps the most interesting literary experiment of our day—could not have been achieved unless Joyce had had, as his guide and butt, the world of the Odyssey.

Parody or adaptation offers enormous advantages to certain novelists. These writers may have a great deal to say and plenty of literary genius. But they do not see the world in terms of individual men and women. In other words, creating characters does not come easily to them. How are such writers to begin? An existing book or literary tradition may inspire them. High up in its cornices, they may find a pattern to start from. They may swing about in its rafters and gain strength. Lowes Dickinson’s fantasy, The Magic Flute, seems to have been created this way. It has taken the world of Mozart as its mythology. Tamino, Sarastro, and the Queen of the Night stand in their enchanted kingdom, ready to receive the author’s thoughts. When the author pours his thoughts into these characters, they come alive, and a new and exquisite work is born. The same is true of another fantasy, though one that is anything but exquisite: James Joyce’s Ulysses⁶. That remarkable work is perhaps the most interesting literary experiment of our day. Joyce could not have achieved it without the world of the Odyssey as both his guide and his target.

I am only touching on one aspect of Ulysses: it is of course more than a fantasy—it is a dogged attempt to cover the universe with mud, it is an inverted Victorianism, an attempt to make crossness and dirt succeed where sweetness and light failed, a simplification of the human character in the interests of Hell. All simplifications are fascinating, all lead us away from the truth (which lies far nearer the muddle of Tristram Shandy), and Ulysses must not detain us on the ground that it contains a morality—otherwise we shall also have to discuss Mrs. Humphry Ward. We are concerned with it because, through a mythology, Joyce has been able to create the peculiar stage and characters he required.

I am touching on only one aspect of Ulysses. Of course, the novel is more than a fantasy. It is a determined attempt to cover the universe with mud. It is Victorianism turned upside down, an attempt to make bad temper and dirt succeed where sweetness and light failed. It simplifies human character in the interests of Hell. All simplifications are fascinating, and all lead us away from the truth. The truth lies much closer to the muddle of Tristram Shandy. But we must not linger over Ulysses just because the novel contains a moral outlook. Otherwise, we shall also have to discuss Mrs. Humphry Ward. We are concerned with Ulysses because, through mythology, Joyce has been able to create the particular stage and characters he needed.

The action of those 400,000 words occupies a single day, the scene is Dublin, the theme is a journey—the modern man's journey from morn to midnight, from bed to the squalid tasks of mediocrity, to a funeral, newspaper office, library, pub, lavatory, lying-in hospital, a saunter by the beach, brothel, coffee stall, and so back to bed. And it coheres because it depends from the journey of a hero through the seas of Greece, like a bat hanging to a cornice.

The action of those 400,000 words takes place in a single day. The setting is Dublin, and the theme is a journey. It is modern man's journey from morning to midnight, from bed to the squalid tasks of an ordinary life. He visits a funeral, a newspaper office, a library, a pub, a toilet, and a maternity hospital. Then comes a stroll by the beach, a brothel, a coffee stall, and finally a return to bed. And the story holds together because it hangs from a hero's journey through the seas of Greece. It hangs like a bat from a cornice.

Ulysses himself is Mr. Leopold Bloom—a converted Jew—greedy, lascivious, timid, undignified, desultory, superficial, kindly and always at his lowest when he pretends to aspire. He tries to explore life through the body. Penelope is Mrs. Marion Bloom, an overblown soprano, by no means harsh to her suitors. The third character is young Stephen Dedalus, whom Bloom recognizes as his spiritual son much as Ulysses recognizes Telemachus as his actual son. Stephen tries to explore life through the intellect—we have met him before in The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and now he is worked into this epic of grubbiness and disillusion. He and Bloom meet half way through in Night Town (which corresponds partly to Homer's Palace of Circe, partly to his Descent into Hell) and in its supernatural and filthy alleys they strike up their slight but genuine friendship. This is the crisis of the book, and here—and indeed throughout—smaller mythologies swarm and pullulate, like vermin between the scales of a poisonous snake. Heaven and earth fill with infernal life, personalities melt, sexes interchange, until the whole universe, including poor, pleasure-loving Mr. Bloom, is involved in one joyless orgy.

Ulysses himself is Mr. Leopold Bloom, a converted Jew. He is greedy, lustful, timid, undignified, unfocused, shallow, and kind, and always at his lowest when he pretends to aim higher. He tries to explore life through the body. Penelope is Mrs. Marion Bloom, an overblown soprano who is by no means harsh toward her suitors. The third character is young Stephen Dedalus. Bloom recognizes Stephen as his spiritual son, much as Ulysses recognizes Telemachus as his actual son. Stephen tries to explore life through the intellect. We have met him before in The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Now he is woven into this epic of grubbiness and disillusionment. Stephen and Bloom meet halfway through the book in Night Town. Night Town corresponds partly to Homer's Palace of Circe and partly to his Descent into Hell. In Night Town's supernatural and filthy alleys, Stephen and Bloom form a slight but genuine friendship. Their meeting is the book's critical turning point. Here, and indeed throughout the book, smaller mythologies swarm and multiply like vermin between the scales of a poisonous snake. Heaven and earth fill with hellish life, personalities dissolve, and sexes switch. Finally, the whole universe, including poor, pleasure-loving Mr. Bloom, is caught up in one joyless orgy.

Does it come off? No, not quite. Indignation in literature never quite comes off either in Juvenal or Swift or Joyce; there is something in words that is alien to its simplicity. The Night Town scene does not come off except as a superfetation of fantasies, a monstrous coupling of reminiscences. Such satisfaction as can be attained in this direction is attained, and all through the bode we have similar experiments—the aim of which is to degrade all things and more particularly civilization and art, by turning them inside out and upside down. Some enthusiasts may think that Ulysses ought to be mentioned not here but later on, under the heading of prophecy, and I understand this criticism. But I prefer to mention it today with Tristram Shandy, Flecker's Magic, Zuleika Dobson, and The Magic Flute, because the raging of Joyce, like the happier or calmer moods of the other writers, seems essentially fantastic, and lacks the note for which we shall be listening soon.

Does it work? No, not quite. Indignation in literature never quite works, whether in Juvenal, Swift, or Joyce. Something in words resists indignation’s simplicity. The Night Town scene works only as an excessive layering of fantasies, a monstrous mating of memories. Whatever satisfaction can be gained in this way is achieved. And throughout the book, we find similar experiments. Their aim is to degrade all things, especially civilization and art, by turning them inside out and upside down. Some enthusiasts may think Ulysses belongs not here but later, under the heading of prophecy. I understand this criticism. But I prefer to discuss it today alongside Tristram Shandy, Flecker's Magic, Zuleika Dobson, and The Magic Flute. This is because Joyce’s rage, like the other writers’ happier or calmer moods, seems essentially rooted in fantasy. It lacks the note we shall soon be listening for.

We must pursue this notion of mythology further, and more circumspectly.

We must explore this idea of mythology further, and with greater care.