The Other in Epic Fantasy and Seven Pillars of Wisdom


“At the Ford of Danamol a spur of the mountains runs right down to the river, making a low rampart of hills screening it from the north. The Khentor host was pausing to eat about two miles away from the Ford; Li’vanh and Mnorh had gone away from the rest about a mile, to the top of a low rise, to keep a watch. They were lying very flat in the short grass taking it in turns to keep an eye on the land before them. And it was during Mnorh’s watch, while Li’vanh was looking back towards their own camp, that the enemy first showed themselves” 146

“[Li’vanh] He sighed. It was not so easy to pray, alone–or at least he had never found it so. But all at once he felt that he dared not go unblessed–unarmed. What prayer could he make, to the God whom he had refused to forsake, yet could not truly remember?” 209

“So Ir’nanh brough me, didn’t he? he thought angrily. Well then, all I can say is that Ir’nanh had a ruddy nerve. But what right did Ir’nanh bring me? What affair was I of his?

And that was another thing. Magic he might possibly accept; he had no choice. But Ir’nanh was spoken of as a god. Of many things he was uncertain, but he was fiercely sure that Ir’nanh was no god of his, and he would not worship him” (34).

9 Ways Guy Gavriel Kay Stole Productively from Joy Chant’s Red Moon and Black Mountain

Red Moon and Black MountainAt a wine and cheese social last November, my professor, Dorothy Bray, who taught a class on the fantastic in medieval literature over the Fall, began to talk to me about how Guy Gavriel Kay had ‘stolen’ material from The Fionavar Tapestry from an earlier author.

I was mildly scandalized that Kay, who has achieved the Order of Canada, should have stolen details from an earlier author of epic fantasy, and was curious about who that author might have been. Perhaps he could be forgiven this unabashed theft if it came in his earlier Fionavar novels, when the younger Kay had yet to iron out his style and voice.

The premise behind the novels is that five students from the University of Toronto get summoned, by an undercover wizard, to the court of Ailill, the High King of Brennin. When the wardstones holding back the grim evil of Rokoth Maugrim the Unraveller break, the dark lord unleashes war upon the free peoples of Fionavar. Meanwhile each of the five students have their own private destinies to fulfill, one as a seer, one as a warrior of the plains, and so on. (You can read more about books one, two, and three of The Fionavar Tapestry here.)

In January Professor Bray offered me a well-preserved Ballantine Adult Fantasy novel, Red Moon and Black Mountain by the wonderfully-named Joy Chant. In The Fionavar Tapestry, one of the university students, Dave Martyniuk, is separated from the other during the crossing from this world into Fionavar. Prof. Bray informed me that basically the same thing happens in Red Moon, Black Mountain, and offered it to me to read.

I read through Chant’s novel chapter by chapter while working on my Master’s thesis. I emerged pleasantly surprised. My experience was of a nostalgic tour through the classic tradition of fantasy. Chant really focused on the psychology of the child protagonists, and did so realistically,  while presenting an honest narrative about the experience of growing up and losing innocence in a war against great evil, a war where victory is never assured and even triumph buys only momentary reprieve.

I recall Kay telling the press (I forget the particular essay or interview) that the reason he emphasizes the cost of his characters’ choices is because he read too much epic fantasy where dire choices held no grave consequences. This perspective seems to me now to have a lot to do with the worldview projected in Red Moon and Black Mountain, where a fairy tale happy ending never happens without catastrophe.

All this was very suggestive to me. So I read the novel and compiled a list of similarities between Kay’s trilogy and Chant’s epic fantasy novel. Most points are superficial, no more than the usual kind of borrowing authors do. But the last example is a direct lifting from Chant–or as I prefer to think of it, a scene that was stolen productively.

The list follows:

1. A red moon and a black mountain.

Chant’s villain, the  sorcerer Fendarl, has been bound by magic within Black Mountain, close to where Penelope and Nick find themselves after crossing over into the land of Kendrinh, the Starlit Land. Kay also has Rakoth Maugrim locked up in a dark mountain–a volcano in fact. As for the red moon, for Chant, its redness signifies the growing power of evil, while the moon’s waxing represents the power of good. Kay riffs off the same idea when the red War Moon of the Goddess appears in The Summer Tree.

2. Massive black birds

When Paul hangs on the Summer Tree in The Fionavar Tapestry, he witnesses a white and a black wolf fight, representing the war between good and evil. In Red Moon and Black Mountain, there is an epic battle between white and black eagles near Black Mountain–the white eagles win, but at terrible cost. Kay also has giant black birds in his fantasy: the black swans, who are servants of Rakoth.

3. Portal Quest Fantasy

Just likeThe Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Red Moon and Black Mountain is about children who tumble through a portal into a magical world. In The Summer Tree, they are adults, and commit more or less willingly to travel to Fionavar, following the advice of Loren Silvercloak, a wizard. Both novels also have one character separate from the main group in the crossing: Oliver in Chant and Dave Martyniuk in Kay. Another interesting variation on the portal quest fantasy is how Chant depicts the rapid acculturation of the children to their new, medieval world. They even start to forget their own birth names, adopting the ones locals give to them. In Kay, the Torontonians gain alternative names too and adopt to their medieval setting so rapidly that I frankly deem it one of the faults of this early novel that it did not take more time to show their transition.

4. Plainsmen

Dave and Oliver both wind up among horse-riding nomads. In Fionavar, Dave finds himself among the Dalrei, which share similarities to Plains Indian culture. In Chant’s novel, Oliver finds himself learning the ways of the Hurnei, another nomadic tribe that punishes the unnecessary hunting of animals with banishment. Furthermore–and this demonstrates more than passing coincidence–Dave’s Dalrei friend is named Levon, an echo of Oliver’s name among the Khentor: Li’vanh.

5. Mythic horses 

Horses are a staple of many fantasies. But magical horses are nonetheless included in both Kay and Chant: Dur’chai is Oliver’s sublime steed, while Tabor, a Dalrei, rides on the red unicorn, which is a horse with wings.

6. Magic forest

The magic forest is yet another staple of fantasy. Nonetheless, I note it here: Kay’s perilous wood is Pendaran Wood, a place of deadly magic where the trees themselves conspire against unworthy trespassers, while Nelimhon is Chant’s wood of eternal spring, which is dangerous for its seductive faery-like beauty.

7. Sense of sacrifice

The general sense of necessary sacrifice in Kay and Chant reveals a similar moral tone in both their novels, whether it is Paul willingly sacrificing himself on the Summer Tree in The Fionavar Tapestry, or the Hurnei’s grievous wartime losses in the desperate war against the forces of the dark lord Fendarl in Red Moon and Black Mountain.

6. Wild magic that must be bound

In Red Moon and Black Mountain, the evil magic of Fendarl looses the wild magic of Vir’Vachal, an amoral earth goddess who cares only for the land itself and growing things, to the exclusion of human beings. In The Fionavar Tapestry, a magic horn summons the Wild Hunt, which descends on the battlefield where the Dalrei are fighting Rakoth Maugrim’s forces. The Wild Hunt slaughters amorally on either side and is only bound with the intervention of the hunter goddess Ceinwein, who cannot be counted on to intercede twice. Vir’Vachal, on the other hand, is bound back to the earth with Oliver’s sacrifice towards the end of the novel. Which brings us to Kay’s direct borrowing from Chant.

9. Adonis myth

There is a nearly beat-by-beat borrowing from Red Moon and Black Mountain in The Wandering Fire in how Kay depicts Kevin Lane’s sacrifice to the earth goddess. The passage in Chant that Kay borrows from happens when the Hurnei realize that a vast human sacrifice is necessary in order to bind Vir’Vachal and prevent a wider human catastrophe. Oliver realizes that if he volunteers himself as a sacrifice, no more Hurnei will have to die. He presents himself into the cave of the priestesses and participates in a ritual that involves stepping over a cliff to plummet into a (nearly) bottomless pit:

“A clear path lay before him, ending on a slab at the brink of the abyss. With fear and will both drowned in the pounding heartbeat, he walked slowly forward. She [The High Priestess] watched him come, and he looked at her, and was not afraid. With the gulf at his feet he stopped, and hot air rising from the deeps smote on his face. Less than twice his height parted from Vir’Vachal; yet this time she did not rob him of his strength. He was strong, strong as she herself, and he would bind her. Gazing back at her he stepped up on to the slab. The dark depths at his feet called to him, the eyes of Vir’Vachal drew him. He drew a deep breath and raised his arms. Then savouring the sweet terror of doing just what he desired, he laughed and sprang over the edge.

For an instant he seemed to hover above the gulf, then he plunged into darkness. Fast and faster he fell, while the air roared in his ears and light burst behind his eyelids. The heat smothered him,his blood thundered, and the darkness closed above him, filled him, enveloped and overpowered him, devoured him and destroyed him, and Li’vanh Tuvoi was no more. Vir’Vachal flung up her head and sank from the sight of mortals for ever; and in the cave the women beat their breasts and cried Rahai! Rahai!” (264)

Oliver’s laughter emerges like an ecstatic joy chant. If he were not a child, his reaction could be called a moment of nearly sexual pleasure: the symbolism of this scene is allegorical for a sexual awakening. The cave is a sign of the female anatomy, and Freud interpreted dreams of falling as being sexual in nature. By performing this sacrifice, Oliver has become an adult, at least symbolically: fully mature and introduced to womanhood. It is a sacrifice much like Kevin’s sacrifice in The Wandering Fire:

“Wordlessly, he turned, remembering the way, and crossing the wide chamber, bearing his blood in a stone bowl, he came to its farthest point. To the very brink of the chasm.

“Naked as he had been in the womb, he stood over it. […] and he poured out the brimming cup of his blood into the dark chasm, to summon Dana from the earth on Midsummer’s Eve. […]

“She was there and her arms were around him in the dark as she claimed him for her own. It seemed to him as if they floated for a moment, and then the long falling began. Her legs twined about his, he reached and found her breasts. He caressed her hips, her thighs, felt her open like a flower to his touch, felt himself wild, rampant, entered her. They fell. […] End of longing, with the ground rushing now to meet, the walls streaming by; no regret, much love, power, a certain hope, spent desire, and only the one sorrow for which to grieve in the last half second, as the final earth came up to meet him.

Abba, he thought, incongruously. And met.” (398-9)

Ovid’s Metamorphoses tells of how Adonis was the lover of Venus. He was gored by a boar in the groin and died from his wounds, but from his blood, a new flower grew as a memorial: the anemone, noted for its red petals. In The Wandering Fire, Kevin was marked for his destiny likewise by a boar that tusked him in the groin. His sacrifice mirrors the death of Adonis and is in keeping with the mythologies of fertility and sacrifice surrounding the archetype of the Dying God that Sir James Frazer describes in The Golden Bough. The Dying God, like the Dying King, perishes for the sake of the land, and so, replenishes it and saves its people, much as Jesus Christ died for the redemption of sins.

Kay’s treatment of Kevin’s sacrifice does more than echo Chant’s depiction of Oliver’s sacrifice–it offers a gloss on the episode. The sexual symbolism not yet explicit in Chant finds explicitness in Kay, revealing how Kay’s later work holds conversation with the classic fantasy tradition.

fionavar cover

Works Cited

Chant, Joy. Red Moon and Black Mountain. New York: Ballantine Books, 1970. Print.

Kay, Guy Gavriel. The Fionavar Tapestry. Toronto: HarperCollins, 1995. Print.


Red Moon and Black Mountain by Joy Chant

Red Moon and Black MountainLast January, Dorothy Bray, a professor at McGill University where I study, handed me an old Ballantine Adult Fantasy classic: Red Moon and Black Mountain (1970) by the well-named Joy Chant. Rediscovering the Ballantine fantasy books proved to be a nostalgic romp through territory supposedly familiar to all of us who read and love fantasy novels. The Ballantine series was where the motifs and cliches of the genre supposedly had their birth, but my experience was not of reading yet another derivative fantasy novel. Those who pick up Joy Chant are in for something deeper.

Joy Chant, although otherwise obscure, is an author of classic heroic fantasy. Her work is a product of the generation more or less directly succeeding the likes of J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Lord Dunsany–at least, that is how the Ballantine series markets itself. Here the tradition of heroic fantasy is pure. There’s no steampunk, cyberpunk, slipstream, or New Weird; historical fantasy, urban fantasy, and magic realism are likewise nowhere to be seen. This is the fantasy of the hippies and the anti-Vietnam protesters. There is something fundamentally distinct about this period of fantasy, still untouched from the complex generic fusions and postmodernisms of later generations. There is a nostalgia here I never experienced myself, being too young to witness these novels’ actual publication, but it has nonetheless left its mark on me indirectly. These novels were the fantasy Guy Gavriel Kay and Charles de Lint grew up reading. It was the fantasy several of my McGill professors grew up reading, namely Profs. Bray, Brian Trehearne, and Sean Carney, among others no doubt.

(An excellent history of fantasy up until the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series is given by Jamie Williamson in a book published by Palgrave Macmillan called The Evolution of Modern Fantasy.)

Ballantine for better or worse made fantasy what it has become today, by marketing authors who could write novels in the bestselling styles of Tolkien, Lewis, Dunsany, E.R. Eddison, and other fantasists from earlier in the century. I am inclined to think there would be no shelf space at your library or bookstore labelled ‘fantasy’ if it were not for this series.

Joy Chant’s contribution to the development of the genre was small but one of high literary quality. It may not be easy to get your hands on a copy of Red Moon and Black Mountain, but if you happen upon it at a second-hand bookstore, you will discover a novel written in the high style of Tolkien but with child protagonists worthy of Lewis–who, by the way, Chant represents realistically and profoundly. Like YA novels today, Red Moon and Black Mountain can be enjoyed by adults as well. Indeed, Lin Carter writes in his introduction that he was convinced, after reading Chapter 3, “The Battle of the Eagles”  “that this was not only not going to be  a children’s book, but also that it was going to be a masterpiece” (x).

The three Powell children, Oliver, Nick, and Penelope, are off exploring an English country road when they pass a gate and inexplicably tumble into a secondary world known as Vandarei. Nick and Penelope find themselves alone on an icy mountaintop. Oliver, their big brother, is no where in sight. Fortunately, Princess In’serinna rescues them with her retinue of bodyguards on their way to witness a battle between the white and black eagles, the result of which battle will foretell the fate of the land. The dark lord Fendarl has been bound within Black Mountain, but the wards that hold him at bay wear thin and he is preparing to test the terrible power he has mastered against the magic of the Star-Born.

Meanwhile, Oliver finds himself among the Khentor, a race of nomad plainsmen. He becomes Li’vanh to them, adopting to the Khentor way of life, forgetting his old name, Oliver Powell. Since he clearly does not come from Vandarai, Li’vanh is viewed as a deliverer from another world. A man, where in England he had only been a child. Tuvoi, the Chosen One.

As the red moon waxes, Fendarl begins to mass his forces and the power of the Star-Born wanes. An epic catalogue of the armies of Vandarei marches forth to do battle against the dark lord and its massed horde. In the ensuing battle, Oliver will be forced will confront his destiny, at a dear cost.

Joy Chant writes in the style of classic fantasy, a refined, formal mode that is, however, not unfamiliar with techniques of stream of consciousness to grant immediacy of emotion to what the child protagonists are feeling and sensing. Every sentence is measured and intoned consistently with faultless delivery. It is the kind of style to expect from a Ballatine classic.

The vulnerability of Penelope and Nick is lovingly rendered and they are believable as children who suddenly find themselves wrapped up in a strange, frightening world. Penelope must conquer her fear of heights and Nick is chased by wolves in one harrowing scene. By the end of the novel, the reader has the sense that the characters have matured and conquered their fears, although it is Oliver who ages the most profoundly in the end.

Underworld as Otherworld: Combined and Uneven Development in Charles de Lint’s Urban Fantasy Fiction

Today I will be presenting on urban fantasy and how it relates to the conditions of combined and uneven development.

Modern fantasy as a literary form has diversified since The Lord of the Rings (1954) and its subsequent paperback imitators. Stereotypically set in medieval or pseudomedieval kingdoms with dragons, elves, and faeries, these paperbacks were rarely set in cities, but usually in the countryside or in a sublime, pre-Raphaelite wilderness. As a form, what provided the historical impetus to the rise of modern fantasy, as early as the late nineteenth century, was the rise of literary realism and the modern novel, the techniques of which authors began to apply to older, or residual forms, such as chivalric romance and epic. Fantasy is therefore a quintessentially modern form even though its settings might be throwbacks to medieval forms. With urban fantasy, a subgenre that originated in the 1980s, fantasy continues to employ residual literary forms such as fairy tale, folktale, romance, and epic, but places the fantastic content within a modern milieu—the contemporary, usually North American, city.

Moonheart            Charles de Lint, a Canadian author resident in Ottawa, has been called the Father of Urban Fantasy. Fantasy novels set in the modern world have older antecedents, such as the supernatural detective stories of Charles Williams, but ‘urban fantasy’ per se, as a market category, emerged during the 1980s, when de Lint wrote many of his classic works, including Moonheart (1984). De Lint’s fiction sets fairy tales, myths, and folktales derived from Celtic, Romany, and Native American traditions—as well as urban legends—within urban space, with novelistic, modern protagonists who interact with mythical, otherworldly figures. Instead of imposing the plot of a conventional fantasy novel onto urban space, de Lint is interested in how ordinary people interact with the fantastic and the numinous on their own terms, and he does so with a social conscience.

Urban fantasy lends itself to an analysis framed by the concept of combined and uneven development because it can claim to represent an uneven modernity in its content as well as its form. But first we must ask, “What is combined and uneven development?” The Warwick Research Collective, referring to Leon Trotsky’s History of the Russian Revolution, describes combined and uneven development as “a situation in which capitalist forms and relations exist alongside ‘archaic forms of economic life’ and pre-existing social and class relations” (WReC 11). Uneven development rears its head whenever you see a high-rise financial district skyline within close proximity to seemingly ‘backwards’ and impoverished slums, or when agrarian farmers are wrenched from the cotton fields they have tilled for generations right into the disorienting presence of advanced industrial machinery. Capitalism must be understood as a world system that encompasses the whole globe under a single, though uneven, modernity—not just as a European development that has spread outward across the globe, bringing modernity with it. This understanding refutes the idea that some societies, especially former colonies, are somehow ‘backwards,’ or behind modernity. Although societies across the globe experience the modern age differently, they are all irreducibly modern, part of one combined system. Neocolonialism may establish hierarchies between one singular modernity and another, but this simply makes it an uneven, combined system, rather than two distinct systems.

How does all this tie in to urban fantasy? Just like the world-system, the form of all modern fantasy is itself combined and uneven, since it joins residual forms that originated in pre-modern periods with the modern novel. In a sense, this is true of all novels, even in realism, where displaced romance forms the novel’s deep structure. But modern fantasy differs from realism because it displays this structure upfront, often as a self-conscious imitation of pre-modern forms, the magical content of which, however, it retains. These disjunctures deepen in urban fantasy, which blends the pre-modern and the modern on the level of content as well as form. The disjuncture between elves, mermaids, fairies, spirits, and goblins coexisting with a modern, urban setting becomes explicitly represented and narrativized in urban fantasy. We can read this disjuncture as an allegory of the combined and uneven system.

This system also describes the dynamic in the hierarchy between the city and the country that urban fantasy mediates. The city dominates the countryside but this relationship nonetheless joins the two spaces. In a similar way, urban fantasy appropriates the pastoralist content of fairy tales and folktales, joining residual, rural culture with the dominant urban culture. This combination of disjunctive content allegorizes the hierarchical relationship of the city over the country. However, urban fantasy does not simply reflect urban dominance as much as it appropriates the natural and the rural to awaken a utopian desire for a less alienated existence within the urban.

Western culture, as Cat Asthon describes in her essay on de Lint in The Canadian Fantastic in Focus, traditionally treats the idea of nature and wilderness as a cure for alienated modernity. However, de Lint’s fiction recognizes the truth that an escape to pure nature is an escape from history and responsibility. Nature is, after all, a cultural construct produced by humans, an aspect of modernity even though it describes a non-human world. Instead, de Lint adopts an urban environmentalism in which his fiction seeks what spatial theorist Henri Lefebvre would call a “renewed right to urban life” (“Right to the City”).

Henri Lefebvre’s concept of the right to the city, which counters urban alienation, finds common cause with the politics of de Lint’s urban fantasy. “The right to the city is like a cry and demand,” Lefebvre writes, a revolution of space that places “appropriation over domination, demand over command, and use over exchange” (“Space as a Social Social Product”). Since the city dominates space and nature by transforming it into exchange value—for example, by exploiting natural resources for export and by constructing vast condo projects—Lefebvre calls for the production of socialist space, in which the working classes will use, or appropriate, space for themselves. Nature is the source of all use value, and asks for nothing in return. The city will become a healthier environment if people can use it, rather than it using them.

In the remainder of my presentation, I will demonstrate how two of de Lint’s books—the novel Mulengro (1985) and the short story collection Dreams Underfoot (1993)—respond to the call for the right to the city while also representing the conditions of combined and uneven development in North American cities, specifically Ottawa and de Lint’s fictional city of Newford.

20160308_162556-1Mulengro is a ghost story about the community of Rom living in Ottawa, mixed with a police procedural subplot. A series of gruesome “Gypsy” murders around Ottawa has the cops lost for any plausible explanation. Janfri, a Romani fiddler, watches his home burn down with the Rom symbol for marhime, meaning unclean, painted on his house. Since the Romani are nomad, owning a home is a sign of defilement, an unacceptable adoption of Gaje, or non-Rom, ways—or at least this is what the arsonist’s gesture implies. As the criminal murders more Rom, the elders decide to flee the Ottawa. They know the culprit to be a ghost named Mulengro, a survivor of the Nazi persecutions who has come back to cleanse the Rom from their Gaje ways. Ola, a Rom who practices draba, or magic, flees her house after being attacked by local ruffians, and Mulengro targets her. She hides out with Zach, a hippy living off the land in cabin country. Eventually Janfri makes a final stand with her and the police against Mulengro and his feral wolf minions.

Mulengro denies the Rom the right to the city. His reasoning for committing the murders is that he sees the Rom’s impoverishment as a result of their being marhime, owing to their adoption of Gaje ways—in a word, because of their modernizing. However, the novel’s resolution makes clear that cultural identities are not so clear-cut, that it is possible and even favourable to partake of modernity and retain connection to traditional ways of life, including magic. The Rom are a non-modern culture living a quintessentially modern life. Furthermore they are subjected, like the native peoples of North America, to a settler culture that seeks to manage and even criminalize difference.

What are we to make of the role Mulengro himself plays, a revenant who consumes the souls of doomed Rom? The imagery of consumption calls upon vampire lore—and the Gothic vocabulary in Marx that references vampiric capitalists who extract surplus value from the working class. Mulengro harasses those Rom who own real estate and thus live between the worlds of capitalism and the Rom pre-capitalist, handicrafts mode of production. In other words, he consumes the souls of those most aware of the unevenness of modernity. As the Rom become incorporated into the capitalist economy, most importantly through the real estate market, they experience sudden change. The replacement of use value with exchange value in their increasingly commodity-filled lives leads the Rom to feel cognitive dissonance between the capitalist system they inhabit and their traditions, where a belief in ghosts and the law of marhime still holds sway. Mulengro’s horror represents a structure of feeling among the Rom, a social formation in the process of developing. The ghost is an allegorization of how their society experiences the turmoil of poverty while living on the margins of modernity.

20160308_162621-1            I now turn to Dreams Underfoot, which is more centrally focused on urban experience. Here the urban underworld becomes a faerie Otherworld unnoticed by most denizens of Newford, although occasionally glimpsed by the bohemian artists, street kids, and homeless men that distinguish de Lint’s fiction. The Tombs, for instance, used to be a developer’s dream for a sprawling yuppie paradise, but when this late capitalist urban planning venture failed, the ruins of the city blocks that were demolished remained behind—now a refuge for winos, bag ladies, and the homeless. The Tombs, abandoned by the city government after the attempt to produce exchange value from its space, has now fallen into a state of nature or wilderness and become appropriated by the underclass. Although it is a dangerous area of the city, the Tombs is where the underprivileged can tactically appropriate their right to urban space.

A space they share with colourful characters derived from fairy tales and urban myths. In one short story, “That Explains Poland,” a young photographer finds Bigfoot in the Tombs, which is not so unusual a discovery, because of the various disenfranchised people who live in this wilderness-like area. In another story, “Winter was Hard,” the presence of certain genii loci, or spirits of a place, in the Tombs contributes to making the city a tolerable place to live, while their departure signals the moment the city takes on a more haunted, less homelike character. The right to the city is thus tied directly to the presence of these pre-modern fairy-like creatures. They are pieces of agrarian European folklore transplanted to a North American city and they directly oppose alienation. If we believe in them hard enough, they might come back and restore the city.

The story that concludes Dreams Underfoot strongly suggests that de Lint sees his own fiction as a way to counter urban alienation and foster a sense of community. The fictional urban fantasy writer Christy Riddell, a stand-in for de Lint, finds his muse in Tallullah, the spirit of Newford itself. But Tallullah must leave Christy because of the rise of urban crime and a loss of connectivity among people, which drives her away. In the end, Christy holds the hope that his story collections might restore a sense of community to city dwellers and bring her back.

Dreams Underfoot and Mulengro both use fantasy to question the Enlightenment epistemology and to assert that if this epistemology does not extend to everyone, everywhere, equally—if, for example, it is still possible for people to believe in ghosts and fairies—then modernity itself cannot be evenly developed. While a text asking you to believe in fairies and spirits might seem flaky, seeing as this gives us no solid program to reclaim the city, such faith does awaken the desire to see the postmodern, uneven city restored from its ruins. It implies that there is more to modernity, and that the residual survives and coexists with the modern. De Lint’s fiction arouses our desire to become instruments of social progress. This is the utopian imagination and the power of fantasy.

This concludes my presentation, which could not have been possible without the financial assistance of the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. I thank them, and I thank you for listening.

The following has been a transcript of a talk given at the English Department of McGill University’s MA colloquium on 10 March 2016 in Montreal.


Did you like this article? You might also like:

Part 1: A Multicultural Utopia: Historicizing New Fantasy in Charles de Lint’s Moonheart

Part 2: A Multicultural Utopia: Historicizing New Fantasy in Charles de Lint’s Moonheart

Forests of the Heart by Charles de Lint

World Fantasy Convention 2015, Part II: My Interview with Charles de Lint



One Thousand and One Hockey Nights in Canada

Canadientalism–that’s Orientalism, but Canadian. Instead of a discourse of largely European imperialist knowledge production aimed at defining the “exotic East,” Canadientalism is a discourse of American imperialist stereotypes aimed at defining the essential nature of the “exotic North.”

In the visual arts, we see Orientalism perpetrating stereotypes of the Arab, everything from turbaned thieves with splendid scimitars to veiled harem seductresses. Spicy aromas wafting around bazaar stalls, jewel-encrusted onion-domed palaces, vivid green gardens of paradise, and the licentious inner sanctuary of the harem–all these are part of standard Orientalist set design.

Canadientalism, on the other hand, is more corny and a whole lot less sexy (unless you have a thing for men in uniform). It perpetrates stereotypes of the Canadian, everything from scarlet coated Mounties with saddled steeds to bucktoothed Laurentian beavers. The aroma of spruce wafting from a lumberjack’s cabin, snow-encrusted igloo homes, vivid green national parks, and the chilly interior the hockey arena during playoff season–these are the stereotypes Americans attach to Canada because they find our apologetic complacency favourable to their imperial interests.

Whereas the Arab is a symbol of terror for many Americans these days, the Canadian is a symbol of timidity. The Americans would never invade their neighbours to the North, at least not as easily as they’ve done in the Middle East, but Canadians can generally be trusted to go along with whatever the Americans decide to do. Sorry, but there’s nothing threatening about a bunch of maple syrup-glazed doughnut eating, Tim Hortons coffee-drinking igloo dwellers. Except maybe Don Cherry, with his exotic suits gleaming like Damascene silk.

Above all Canadientalist texts, one stands above all as a paragon of literary exoticism: The One Thousand and One Hockey Nights in Canada. Loosely based on The One Thousand and One Nights, OTOHNC recounts the story of a Prime Minister embittered by Quebec separatism and the heroic MP who filibusters Parliament with a storytelling marathon that lasts for exactly one thousand and one nights. When the last story is told, the PM is fully cured of his jealousy, after learning so many stories about the whelps who have had it worse off than he has.

On the three hundred and fifty-sixth night, a tale is recounted of a French-Canadian university student and Habs fan who is then transformed into a beaver when he accidentally triggers the wrath of a jinni. The beaver travels to Ottawa to convince the chief of the RCMP that he is human. Seeing that the beaver has above average intelligence and can even play chess, the police chief makes the beaver his own personal pet. This leaves it up to the police chief’s mistress, an Indian princess, to plead on behalf of Mr. Beaver for the return of his humanity.

The following illustration is based on an actual illustration of The One Thousand and One Nights by H.J. Ford, a talented English illustrator active at the turn of the twentieth century. It was a quick sketch in which I hoped to pastiche this illustrator’s style with a kind of humour reminiscent of Kent Monkman’s style in his painting The King’s Beavers, on display in the Canadian exhibit at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts.



Original illustration by H.J. Ford


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What are the Seven Pillars of Wisdom?


T.E. Lawrence

Steadily, I am reading through T.E. Lawrence’s military memoir Seven Pillars of Wisdom, and I had to ask myself, “What are these seven pillars of wisdom anyway?” Nowhere in the text does he ever mention these seven pillars. What were they and what could they possibly mean?

My quest lead me down an interesting path of discovery, into the Bible and the works of Robert Graves, whose nonfiction book The White Goddess will have interest to readers of fantasy literature, since it is a source text behind much of the druid and bardic lore that went into making classic Celtic fantasy, and, I imagine, still goes into more recent fantasy as well.

Seven Pillars of Wisdom is a detailed, factual account of Thomas Edward Lawrence’s stint as liaison officer between the British forces and the Arabs in the Eastern theatre of the First World War. Arab officers rebelled against their Turkish commanders in order to declare open revolt against the crumbling Ottoman Empire and win their national independence from their mismanaging provincial oppressors stationed in Damascus. Lawrence–better known as Lawrence of Arabia–fought a manoeuvre war with the Arab commanders, rallying disparate tribes of nomads to fight as a united nation.

In this memoir, poetic observations of the harsh, magnificent landscape accompany an account of the day-to-day marches across the land to outflank and outmanoeuvre the Turks. Lawrence instructs the rebels to lay charges and detonate explosive gel under the train tracks that ferry supplies to the Turkish garrisons and towns. Moments of still peace and contemplation of strategy accompany moments of sudden violence, all described with the highest literary sensibility. It reads like an epic fantasy novel in its length and description of Lawrence’s extensive journeys, but the content is cold, hard fact written in a masterful style.

The twenty-first century is an age that that has not only seen a revival of an independent, but brutally medieval caliphate, but also one that has seen the struggle of multiple Middle Eastern peoples for national independence, such as the Kurds, who continue to fight ISIL. Some Kurds even fight the Turks from whom they desire to wrest independence–much to their chagrin. Such struggles have diversified and grown infinitely more complicated since 1917, but the struggles happening today may be traced to that much-rued Paris treaty signed after the conclusion of the Great War.

But enough historical background. Down to business. The most well-known reference to the seven pillars of Wisdom is in the Bible:

Wisdom has built her house, / she has hewn her seven pillars. (Proverbs 9.1)

The purpose of the reference is to characterize the persona of Wisdom as a woman who has prepared a feast. Only the wise are invited to this banquet; the foolish are unworthy.

This reference makes sense in relation to the jewels of profundity spread throughout the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Lawrence becomes immersed in the Arab viewpoint on the war, on religion, and on life itself, picking up on the wisdom of the Bedouin and Howeitat elders:

“Why are the Westerners always wanting all?” provokingly said Auda. “Behind our few stars we can see God, who is not behind your millions. […] If the end of wisdom is to add star to star our foolishness is pleasing.” (289)

While this captures something of the dynamic between Eastern and Western ways of thinking, what do seven pillars have to do with this wisdom?

Wikipedia makes clear that Seven Pillars of Wisdom was the title for a previous book Lawrence had been planning to publish before the war broke out. It was to be a scholarly work about the seven greatest cities of the Middle East: Cairo, Smyrna, Constantinople, Beyrout (Beirut), Aleppo, Damascus, and Medina. This manuscript never saw the light of publication. Lawrence destroyed it. To worsen matters, he would also lose his first manuscript of Seven Pillars of Wisdom in 1919, at Reading train station. Just in time for Christmas. It has never been recovered and would have been 250,000 words in length. And I thought losing a USB key was rough.

In the memoir that eventually saw publication–painfully rewritten by a shellshocked Lawrence overwhelmed by the demands of his own celebrity status as a war hero–the author makes reference to these seven cities, either in one way or another. Damascus, for instance, was the centre of Turkish control over the Arab Middle East and one of the Arab Revolt’s main targets. Even today, age-old Damascus is the capital of war-ravaged Syria and the headquarters of Bashar al-Assad. Owing to the new focus of his book, Lawrence skims over any further significance he may have attached to these seven cities.

Now, while I acknowledge the poetic value of calling the seven cities “pillars of wisdom,” the phrase does strike me as unconventional. Why was Lawrence so insistent on this title for his memoir? Did the seven pillars of Wisdom carry some other kind of meaning?

To provide an answer to this question–or the beginnings of an answer–it might be pointed out that the seven pillars of Wisdom are also mentioned in Robert Graves’s The White Goddess.

Graves was a renowned war poet, just as Lawrence was a wartime writer. Their connection and sharing of ideas deserves to be excavated deeply by scholars. Perhaps they already have written studies of which I’m unaware.

Graves reviewed Lawrence’s memoir and edited the poem that opens Seven Pillars of Wisdom. The poem is “To. S.A.” and may have been addressed to Selim Ahmad, a young Syrian boy. It is written in such a way that it could address the Arab nation as a whole:

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands

and wrote my will across the sky in stars

To earn you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,

that your eyes might be shining for me […]  (ln. 1-4)

Freedom is a word seven letters long. Each letter represents one pillar in Wisdom’s house. Thus, Freedom is a kind of wisdom, or perhaps it is wisdom that makes you free.

Although I am not certain how Robert Graves edited this poem, he may have left the mark of his own ideas upon it, either directly in the editing process or by influencing Lawrence in other ways, such as through their correspondence. Since Lawrence was a bookish man as well as a soldier, he might have read Graves’s poetry and nonfiction works himself. Whatever the case, Lawrence’s poetic use of the seven pillars motif and his correspondence with Graves cannot be entirely coincidental. Not when Chapter 15 of The White Goddess is entitled “The Seven Pillars.”

Any deeper connection between Seven Pillars of Wisdom and The White Goddess evades me. I’m going to call the connection suggestive and leave it at that. But in case you were curious about what Graves does say in “The Seven Pillars,” let us hear it:

the seven pillars of Wisdom are identified by Hebrew mystics with the seven days of the Creation, with the seven days of the week. (259)

But since this is a book about ancient druid rituals and Welsh bards, a miscellaneous trove of Celtic lore, Graves finds a correlation with Irish tree symbolism.

The seven sacred trees of the Irish grove are “birch, willow, holly, hazel, oak, apple and alder” (259). Each tree corresponds to a day of the week and a deity of the classical pantheon. Alder corresponds to Saturn (Saturday), apple to Venus (Friday), oak to Jupiter (Thursday), willow to the Moon, or Circe (Monday), holly to Mars (Tuesday), birch to the Sun (Sunday). The seventh tree, hazel, corresponds to Mercury and its day falls in the middle of the week, on Wednesday. Wednesday in English is named after Odin (Woden), the Norse god of wisdom, which means his sacred tree, the ash, may be substituted for Mercury’s hazel. Not accidentally, Mercury is also a god of wisdom. Hence, you have the seven pillars of wisdom. You might imagine each tree in Wisdom’s house being carved from one of each type of wood–provided Irish trees could grow in ancient Israel.

Is there any connection between these gods, the days of the week, the planets, the sacred trees, and the seven greatest cities of the Middle East? The numerical symbolism is certainly striking and suggestive. What it means is anyone’s guess.

To conclude, it is interesting to casually note that Graves provides a classical Latin message hidden within the acronym of the first letters of the sacred Irish trees. Perhaps this will give us our final hint about the connection of Graves to Lawrence of Arabia.  “Benignissime, Solo Tibi Cordis Devotionem Quotidianam Facio.” In English, this reads, “Most Gracious One to Thee alone I make a daily devotion of my heart” (260).

A line that Lawrence could well have spoken to his dear Selim, as a message to the Arab people.




Thank you, llamaladysg, for providing T.E. Lawrence’s original poem:

Most of Robert Grave’s changes were in the third stanza. This is the original version as written by T. E. Lawrence. I much prefer this one.

To S.A.

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands
and wrote my will across the sky in stars
To gain you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,
that your eyes might be shining for me
When I came.

Death was my servant on the road, till we were near
and saw you waiting:
When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me
and took you apart:
Into his quietness.

So our love’s earning was your cast-off body,
to be held one moment
Before earth’s soft hands would explore all your face
and the blind worms transmute
Your failing substance.

Men prayed me to set my work, the inviolate house,
In memory of you:
But for fit monument I shattered it unfinished, and now
the little things creep out to patch themselves hovels
In the marred shadow
Of your gift.

The third stanza in the version that Robert Graves edited runs as follows.

“Love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage

ours for the moment

Before earth’s soft hand explored your shape, and the blind

worms grew fat upon

Your substance.”

While I agree that the first lines of the third stanza in Lawrence’s original poem flow more easily, I agree with Graves’s call to concretize Lawrence’s original verb, “transmuting,” into the more vivid verb clause, “grew fat upon.”


The tooling on the hard cover of Seven Pillars of Wisdom reads “the sword also means cleanness and death.”

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Works Cited

The Bible. New Revised Standard Version.

Graves, Robert. The White Goddess. London: Faber & Faber, 1988.

Lawrence, T.E. Seven Pillars of Wisdom: a Triumph. 1926. London: Penguin, 1962.

Seven Pillars of Wisdom.” Wikipedia. Accessed on 6 February 2016.