Three warnings:
1. This is long
2. I am a blowhard
3. This has spoilers for the works of Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells, George RR Martin, Joe Abercrombie, the very dissimilar Terry’s Goodkind and Pratchett.
As some of you may remember, there was an essay about nihilism in Fantasy not long ago that was so poorly argued that it became, retroactively, about half the reason that Jesus was crucified. Some people argue it is the only reason, but I like to hedge my bets.
A month minus a day after that essay’s publication, there was a horrific tsunami in Nippon that killed tens of thousands of people. Coincidence? Probably. What I’m trying to say is that they were both two horrible things and the world would probably be a better place if neither had happened.
Hold off on your disdain for the death and murder jokes, I’ll be coming back to them at the end, and they’re there to serve a point.
I bring up this essay now because it’s late, I’m lazy, and I needed a segue. However, I also think it is a good starting point to discuss Authority, Heroism, and Death as they pertain to Fantasy because one of the general, albeit unspoken, thrusts of the argument was:
“How dare you imply that killing people is bad.”
Secondly, and by extension:
“Implying that killing people is bad is immoral.”
Yup, I think that about sums it up. And who says I can’t fairly and honestly critique another person’s work?
In order to make myself look even more sympathetic and complete the villification of my “opponent” that I began several paragraphs ago: I’d like to suggest that killing people almost always is bad, and that implying that killing people is bad is moral. After I establish this, I will then explain why I have structured these jokes in the way I have. When I have done this, you will be totally impressed with me both as a human being and as a fat twenty-six year old virgin who still lives with his mother, which we can all agree is an altogether different creature from a human being.
In fact, I intend to present an argument that is so overwhelmingly impressive that if someone were to call this essay a “retarded piece of shit” you would automatically assume the meaning of “retarded piece of shit” has been changed while you weren’t looking to instead mean “a profoundly insightful and beautiful argument.”
Let’s get cracking shall we?
When you strip Grin’s argument down to its core, it deals with nihilism as an agent acting against Authority. Authority, in this case meaning some super-human, omniscient, and necessarily anthropocentric source of absolute morality, which communicates with mankind using coherent methods. The source of this Authority, to be absolute, is typically the Creator of whatever cosmology it inhabits. Nihilism, as Grin sees it, is an agent that either forces people not to listen to that Authority, act against that Authority, or believe that there is no Authority. I think it is important to differentiate this from atheism, which Grin at times seems to confuse with nihilism, as atheism still allows other sources of authority, albeit generally not absolute Authority.
This pertains to Epic Fantasy as the genre historically deals with moral heroism, so it’s easy to see why this “nihilistic” perspective becomes troubling to those with an Authority based sense of morality. If there is no Authority then killing Orcs stops being “Good” and starts feeling much more like “a conflict between two rival species.” That you happen to be on one side and not the other begins to feel much more like random chance than destiny. In fact, the whole “epic conflict” might suddenly be described as “niche competition.”
Furthermore, if there is no Authority then your hero doesn’t get to be the hero just by doing what the Authority tells them to do. Lack of Authority implies that morality might be a very complex issue, dealing largely with human beings as a lesser source of authority, and that actions and consequences are much more difficult to predict. More problematic to classic formulas, it undoes Destiny. For example, dropping the ring in the mountain may have good consequences in the immediate future but directly result in mass famine thousands of generations forward. The heroic legacy of any particular action or group of actions becomes impossible to discern.
Goodness without Authority has to be decided with the limited mind of a human being, imperfect knowledge, in a universe that may or may not have any specific concern for the moral sentiments of homo sapiens. In other words, lack of Authority creates a world in which it becomes enormously difficult to be a hero. Not only does it become difficult to become a hero, it creates an environment in which heroism itself might be variable to perspective, and thus change with time and distance.
In the interests of being pejorative, Hitler is a great example of the variable nature of heroism. Beloved and worshiped by his people, hated by almost all others, now hated universally except for a few inbred trailer park kids who can’t figure out a better way to spend their weekends.
I do see Grin’s issues with “nihilism” in this respect, however he ignores a very large problem. As many problems as arise from heroes who lack Authoritative backing, there are yet more problems that arise from Authority.
The problems inherent in Authority-centric narratives are often swept under the rug by, what I call, Absolutists. However, the problem faced in these narratives is the same one we face in our every day world. How do we know who the one true Authority is? And furthermore, what is it about the nature of this Authority makes it absolute?
For surely, if there is some type of God to whom men owe an obligation to follow a moral example, then it is the obligation of that God to be moral. Yet if you ask people to choose between all the Gods that exist, we see that there is no clear answer on which God is the most moral from a species perspective.
The problems of Authority are exacerbated in works that deal deal largely with escape, not just from our world, but from the consequences of certain actions. Because epics deal largely with military conflict, these escaped consequences are almost always related to the act of killing. Take the Star Wars universe as an example, where Authority is derived from the Force. In this universe, the heroic Luke Skywalker blows up a battle station the size of a small planet.
If that had been a real battle station, I am certain that many people on board hated their jobs, hated the Empire, and would have been somewhere else if not for threat of death. In a cosmos without Authority, blowing up the Death Star may become necessary, but killing millions of people can never become good. However with Authority, the act of slaughter can not only be seen as necessary but as the only moral recourse.
In other words, even if Orcs are trying to destroy your species, they are thinking organisms with social structures. Killing Orcs in a world without Authority may be necessary, but it can never be righteous. In more escapist and Absolutist works, like those of Goodkind for example, where the author makes the central character the source of complete and absolute moral authority horrific actions are excused with the flimsiest of excuses.
I think the question Leo Grin was stumbling over is the same question a lot of fantasies have traditionally stumbled over: “Without some kind of singular Authority to provide blanket justifications for mass human action how can any truly epic endeavor be heroic?”
And that, my friends, is a very troubling question.
However, I do not feel that is an impossible path to navigate. In the recent New York Times Bestseller The Way of Kings (US
I mention Sanderson first, because he follows a tradition I would call Absolutist Fantasy. Which is absolutely not to say that his characters are of the Goodkind variety, where they themselves are sources of singular moral authority. Rather, that there is some Authority existing somewhere out in the Universe (or in this case, Cosmere) and that much of the struggle of the characters revolves around the question: How can I do what is right? And what is the right thing?
Much as in our world, the characters will never know for certain that they have done the right thing. They will have to keep seeking at Ultimate Truth most likely until they die, without ever finding a satisfactory answer. However, there are hints in Sanderson’s work as there tend to be for a Fantasy story of this sort. It is hinted that those characters with some sort of “power” are not born with this power, but rather it bonds to them because of their character and choices. Authority, in other words, is earned in the works of Sanderson. And this, I think, is a wonderful tradition, which I wholeheartedly endorse.
For example, a most brilliant twist in Sanderson’s Mistborn trilogy was that the prophecies the characters were initially following for the first two books, believing them to be Authoritative, ended up releasing the series’ main villain. They were, in other words, wrong. The characters later go on journeys of discovery, spend hours thinking on the subject of what is right as it pertains to the fate of the world, before again arriving at something resembling moral Authority. Again, their sense of morality is earned rather than bestowed. That I think is a much more honest stance, and a much more powerful narrative, than “I am right and the reason I am right is because I said so.”
So, I wouldn’t say that Absolutism has no place or is in itself immoral. It has the same sort or problems as any other narrative element. However, I would argue that portraying a world without Absolute Authority, while also having some problems, is also morally imperative. It casts lights on all the sorts of lesser authorities upon which society can begin to build.
Grin, at times, seems to imply that writers like Abercrombie and Martin are in some way glorifying slaughter and destruction, but nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, I would say that the way Abercrombie and Martin have designed their worlds is the only moral way they could have done so in worlds lacking Authority. However, I also grant that the primary thrust of these works isn’t to espouse a certain moral code whereas in the works of writers like Sanderson that theme is much more prevalent.
During the course of Abercrombie’s latest work, The Heroes we are allowed a visceral viewpoint of an unfolding three-day battle from around a dozen characters. The genius of this comes in that we get viewpoints on both sides of the conflict. What’s more, the death toll in this book matters. There are no demons to be tossed back into the pits of hell. Only people killing other people for no very good reason. Seeing the battle from both sides lends itself to a sense of fear, confusion, and near hysteria, without clear villains
The complaints against always seem to boil down to three issues:
Is it violent? Yes.
Is it graphic? Yes.
Is it profane and irreverent? Absolutely.
But these complaints all come from a place without a sense of perspective, and what seems to be a certain gut-level dislike of worlds without Authority. The book is not violent, graphic, or profane as a vehicle for violence, graphicness, and profanity. These elements are there to show the consequences of killing. This, to me, is where the attacks against Joe Abercrombie’s sense of morality (or at least the argument that he is assaulting morality itself) fall apart.
Abercrombie is not writing about a small family running a sandwich shop in a shaky economy, or a young man trying to break into show business. Horrible things aren’t happening for no reason. Horrible things happen in Abercrombie’s work because people are doing horrible things to each other. No one gets to kill without repercussions.
The moral problems in Abercrombie’s and Martin’s work are the same as before: What is right? And who decides what is right?
Only in these works, no obvious answer presents itself at the end of the narrative and no signs or portents appear to hint one way or another.
This leaves us only with human authority. It becomes troubling because, as it turns out, the monarchists in these words, whose power comes from fear and threat of arms, are not wise and benevolent people. There is a lesson here, but it is not one of trust but of skepticism. These works (I would say indirectly) promote a worldview in which it is necessary to challenge and question those in power. As offensive an idea as that has apparently become, it seems to remind me of something.
What though?
Oh yes, I remember. Actual monarchy.
In light of this, it seems rather absurd to “patriotically” bemoan the horrific portrayal of a system of government that the first American patriots hated sufficiently that they were willing to go to war to be free of it.
Monarchy aside, rulership in Abercrombie and Martin’s work, as in our own world, in no way implies a divine mandate. Not only is supreme Authority absent, but all human authority is suspect.
The confusion seems to happen, in Abercrombie’s works in particular, when characters acknowledge their evil nature or try to change their ways. Doing this creates an almost offensive level of humanity in someone it would be easier to dismiss as a villain. However, what is often forgotten is that humanization is not the same as justification.
Logen Ninefingers, the “hero” of Abercrombie’s First Law trilogy, isn’t a good man plagued by vice. He’s a sad, broken man who knows what he is and can’t help but want to be good even if he doesn’t have the fortitude. That his arc is parabolic from bad, to good, back to bad does not imply that this is the nature of the world but only that this particular story is tragic. Nor does it imply that there is something desirable about being Logen Ninefingers. In fact, it seems to present the opposite case.
Yet, to show a character we can’t immediately hate puts us in the uncomfortable position of thinking about bad people as merely people who do bad things. It begins to feel more like personal failings and blind chance put someone in an awful situation rather than destiny. That regular people should find themselves in a position where they are called upon to witness or do horrible things, for no reason at all, offends the purpose-junky in us all. That people can do bad things and remain people… even to me that feels wrong. However, experience would seem to indicate it is true.
I mention these two works, not because I think they have a particular moral bent but because they often serve as “go-to” works for people who want to attack “grittiness.” Grittiness, I suppose, meaning Fantasy with direct and dire consequences. However, there is certainly nothing immoral about portraying an incestuous relationship as dysfunctional, or mass murderers as psychotic. Although I do not think these works are “preaching” they do have a clear and honest moral stance, as any work written by any human being should be expected to have.
However, there are two other bodies of work that deal with Authority and the consequences of death that I think provides a glimmer of comfort for our purpose-junky brains and do it without an appeal to the Absolute Authority.
Terry Pratchett, who I think is probably the most morally concerned writer working today in any genre (at least that I am aware of), consistently weaves themes of Humanist authority into his narratives. Not human authority mind you, as there is no single person or source of wisdom from whom this authority becomes manifest, but from Humanity itself. The Tiffany Aching books, as well as the “Witch” books,” in particular deal with this theme. Pratchett fully acknowledges that men are animals beneath the surface, but never lets us slip into despair without first reminding us that we’re also still humans on top, and that in a universe of countless trillions of stars that is a very curious thing for us to be.
Yet the idea that Humanity is a source of authority is almost ubiquitous in all of Pratchett’s work, from Nation to the Johnny Maxwell trilogy. However, Pratchett’s stance on Humanism as authority is perhaps best stated by the personification of Death in Hogfather: “Human beings are the curious place where the rising ape meets the falling angle.”
In everything from Sam Vime’s victory in Thud to the emerging civilization of the rats in Maurice and his Educated Rodents, Terry Pratchett illustrates that men can be more than animals and that as peculiar as it may be, what tells us to be better than animals is us.
Another body of work, placing humanity as its central authority with a particular emphasis on empathy, are Dan Wells’ John Cleaver books. The series beginning with I Am Not a Serial Killer follows a sociopathic teenagers moral struggles to not become like the very monsters he seeks to destroy. Yet there is no easy road taken in these novels. The monsters hunted by the protagonist, John Cleaver, are oftentimes much more human than himself. Although the monsters murder, and are biologically distinct from our species, they are nevertheless people.
Through the series, the agnostic John must wander through a maze made of his own humanity, to decide right from wrong. And worst of all, his ability to understand the monsters, to empathize with them, is what allows him to destroy them. The actions are necessary no doubt. The monsters have caused the deaths of untold thousands throughout their lives on this planet but when their deaths arrive they are almost always bittersweet.
Nowhere in these works does someone appear in the sky and announce the correct course of action. No one shows up to give out easy answers, or suggest a course of action or to say “trust me, I’ve got this all figured out.” The characters wander naked in the night, and whatever light they have to guide them invariably comes from within.
Morality may be a strange sort of fire existing in the heads of approximately 6.7 billion apes, who are at this moment clinging to an ordinary speck of dust orbiting a very ordinary star, but just because that fire is swaddled in a whole universe of black doesn’t mean it shines any less bright. Just because it could be utterly destroyed by another passing speck of dust ramming into it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t keep us warm. Maybe we fail and maybe we sometimes do wrong, but if we can always believe we can be better than perhaps that is all we need to get through the night.
Lastly, as to excuse the profanity and irreverence with which I began this long-winded essay, I find humor to be a useful heuristic when examining the integrity of any body of work. Humor is a sort of rotation or mental perspective. It allows us to look at ideas from strange and unflattering angles. There’s a reason all the books I mentioned here contain humor (although in one particular case, the humor is almost totally unintentional).
I find works without humor to be of the very weakest and dishonest sort. The real world is a highly absurd place, and any fictional work no matter how tragic or heroic which does not attempt to at least deal with the presence of the absurd is a brittle work indeed. For the curious, I have always tried to place my sense of right and wrong in laughter. That way it’s very easy to tell when a reaction is honest and when it’s faked.
