Tolkien thought fairy stories bring us consolation from a
“catastrophe” turned good, or (put the other way) happy endings tinged with
sadness. Later fantasy, following in Tolkien’s shadow, has not always kept faith
with this idea. Two trends in fantasy novels, though apparent opposites, both
diverge significantly from Tolkien’s vision.
First is the (rightly criticized) tendency for fantasy-novel
heroes to be invincible. Facing ludicrously powerful forces of evil, they come
through unscathed. This quality, whenever we see it, fails to measure up to
Tolkien’s perception of “eucatastrophe” because it overemphasizes the “eu” part
and forgets the other: catastrophe. Something terrible has to happen, some
irreparable damage has to be done to somebody we care about, or the good outcome loses its
poignancy and joy. If you want an excellent illustration of this, just think of
Frodo before he leaves Middle Earth. Frodo is damaged—irreparably so. His
heroic feat costs him his “humanity,” if I can call it that.
That outcome is not accidental. For Tolkien, there can’t be
any consolation where genuine suffering is not recognized. (Anybody who’s ever
been handed a platitude in the face of real personal tragedy knows this.) If
the hero of a fantasy story is, in effect, invincible, a person who never
suffers real injury or hardship, then the tale will be incapable of giving us
one of the gifts that is fantasy’s birthright—at least, according to Tolkien.
Many people—readers and writers and editors among them—have
been unsatisfied with such invincible heroes. As a result, we’re seeing an
opposite trend, a reaction that also, however, fails to fill the role Tolkien
envisioned for “fantasy.” Bluntly: I’m talking about so-called “gray
characters.” These characters are “human,” at our worst and most egocentric.
They lie, cheat, avenge themselves. If they do something “good,” it’s for
despicable reasons. There’s no “good” versus “evil,” no heroes and villains,
just the soft, spongy middle.
This, we are told, is “gritty realism.” And it might be
that, but it’s also not “eucatastrophe.” It’s not what you get in the fairy
stories. It gives no consolation—far from it. The accent has shifted to the
“catastrophe”—except that here there isn’t “evil” in the old sense of the word,
either. Catastrophe becomes the constant, the uninterrupted state of existence.
The first departure—failing to embrace the existence of real
suffering, so that consolation can be provided by the unexpected “turn”—might
be relatively harmless next to this second one. Because a brutal insistence on
only “gray characters” and death and mayhem may—I hope not, but it probably
does—amount to a denial of the possibility of “joy,” of hope, of the dream of
goodness, that the fairy stories sometimes offered. Certainly Tolkien’s work
offered it: those of us who love it are left with a keen yearning to visit
Minas Tirith under Aragorn’s benevolent rule, or (for us democratic Americans)
a long stay in the Shire, among people (hobbits, that is) who are genuine if a
little provincial.
No doubt, many and greater champions of Tolkien can be found
than me, but I want to join my voice to theirs. His characters are not perfect,
and they aren’t unrealistic or one-sided, either. The best example here is
Frodo. Think of it: he starts out good, he wants to do the right thing—so far,
I think that’s like most of us. Check one. He’s a “little person” faced with
forces beyond his control or understanding or capacity to overcome. Check
two—so are most of us. Frodo’s asked to do something extraordinary, and he
reluctantly agrees. Some of us have done the same; many of us, for instance,
faced with an invalid child or parent make the “good” choice, the “right” one,
the unselfish one, to care for that child or parent ourselves. People make such
hard choices every day. Yes, their motives might be mixed. But they embark,
wanting to do the right thing. And don’t forget, Tolkien lived during an era
renowned for self-sacrifice. So, check three.
But what happens to Frodo at the end of this story? Let’s
fast forward to the culmination of his quest, when he stands at the cracks of
Mount Doom and, after all his work and all his suffering for “doing the right
thing”—he fails. He can’t quite bring himself to do the self-sacrificial deed he
intended at the beginning. He puts on the ring and he, little exhausted Frodo,
defies Sauron. Check four—most of us would have failed too, in analogous
circumstances. Think of the dutiful person taking care of that invalid child or
parent, day after day, year after year. And losing, in the midst of all that,
the thread of why she was doing it. And maybe coming to loathe the child or
parent, in small and maybe larger ways. Or maybe feeling cheated in life—and
even acting out to restore the balance.
As fantasy should for Tolkien, the “eucatastrophe” comes as
the result of an unexpected turn. Gollum bites off the finger; Frodo’s original
resolve is brought about despite his failure at the end. That part doesn’t have
to be “realistic,” because this is “fantasy”—it draws on the fairy tale
tradition, where such a turn is part of the magic of the story itself. How does
Cinderella win the day without that lost slipper? Or the magic that got her to
the ball? If you want nitty-gritty (and who doesn’t, sometimes?), fantasy might
not be the best place to seek or find it.
But the catastrophe isn’t over yet. Frodo is damaged; he can
no longer continue in Middle Earth. He’s saved his world from oppressive
malice, but he’s lost the world for himself. He exits the novel a wounded figure.
The battle against evil takes a real toll.
No, Tolkien’s characters and realms aren’t perfect; they
have their faults and weaknesses. But when it really matters, they normally do
the right things, or at least they want to. I think that’s more like most of
us, or at least more of us than some folks like to admit. But even if you think
all humans are so hopelessly corrupt that no one would have done what the
“fellowship” did, the role of fantasy is not to show us the world as we
normally live it, but rather to offer us a vision of the world that’s touched
by “faerie,” by a magic that’s not about grasping but dreaming. Part of that
dream is for people, realms, choices, that are good, at least in part. Or at
least they struggle toward being good. And in the outcome, as cliché as some
people may find it, without the “happy ending” that Tolkien said was
“essential”—a happy ending tinged with sad, real loss—fantasy might just turn
out not worth the hard work it demands.
[Note: This is the third of three posts on Tolkien’s essay,
“On Fairy Stories.” The other two are here and here.]
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