(1971-1993)
Anderson, Poul.
The Broken Sword
. New York: Ballantine Books, 1971.
Sometimes, when I’m particularly weary at the end of a day’s efforts, when my head is aching and my bod fatigued, I enjoy just listening to a good story. Don’t particularly want to work at it, you understand, and really don’t want to be eased into that profoundest of critical judgments, sleep.
The Broken Sword
is a good book for such a time, for Poul Anderson, whatever else he may or may not be as a writer, has been from the very start of his career a damn good storyteller.
I remember how, years ago, my father would take my brothers and me out into the woods; and how at night, by the only light available—the moon and a small campfire—we’d gather round the warmth, hands and faces burning in the heat, backs a shiver with the forest chill—and he’d tell stories, grand, wondrous tales of adventure (mostly his own), of war and hunting and logging, of human foibles and human grandeur, of little things that made us want to laugh or feel sad. He was very good at what he did, and I’m sorry I could never convince him to write them down.
And somehow, in a very small but analogous way, I think that this was much as it must have been centuries ago, when violent men would gather together at the end of a (perhaps literally) bone-shattering day and call for the bards and the singers. They’d be entertained, by the gods, and pity the tunesmith who failed to do so: ridicule was the best he could hope for, laughter all he deserved.
The feeling of listening to an heroic saga produced by the skillful interposition of a personal narrator between story and reader is achieved remarkable well in
The Broken Sword
. Form, language, and story all work as one to simulate a Nordic air; particularly effective is the use by the major characters of short, unrhymed verses, or staves, in a regular trochaic meter: these are generally reserved for songs and charms, or times of particular stress and importance, such as the beginning of major battles or love scenes. In combination with occasionally semi-archaic language and phrasing, this sprinkling of poetry does much to imply the world Anderson attempts to create. It’s remarkable to find verse handled with any sort of finesse within the text of a larger fictional work; that both mesh as well as they do is a tribute to the author’s skill.
The tale itself fits the setting well. In a medieval world of elves and trolls and mortal men, Anderson mixes together a grand war, a curse, an ill-destined but truly wondrous love, a possessed sword, a few defrocked gods (and some others, including the Christian one, who are very potent indeed), and a berserker-doppelgänger, to produce an assortment of bloody battles, behind-the-scenes machinations, and cutthroat politics. The Nordic philosophy of subtle predestination permeates the story, and indeed, one wonders at times if the characters ever truly act with freedom, or if the story is all part of some vast chess game played by one group of the gods against another. And yet this, too, adds to the calculated effect, and heightens the tragedies that fill this book. The plot itself is so tightly spun that although the inevitable ending can be spied long ahead, one’s only desire is to reach the last page. And once finished, the book is put away with sadness.
In a new introduction to this revised edition (
The Broken Sword
was originally published in hardcover in 1954), Anderson half apologizes for a work written early in his career, in a style quite unlike that of his later work. You’re too modest, old man: you’ve written one hell of a good story, perhaps a minor classic in its field, and this reader, at any rate, is willing to trade a flagon of ale for the pleasure. Name your way house.
Anderson makes one final comment: “As for what became of those who were still alive at the end of the book, and the sword, and Faerie itself—which obviously no longer exists on Earth—that is another tale, which may someday be told.” Aye, let us hope so.
Carter, Lin, editor.
Golden Cities, Far
. New York: Ballantine Books, 1970.
I guess I’m just spoiled, or maybe a wee bit cynical, but whatever it is, I haven’t the patience these days to put up with a dull book. Even dull heroic fantasy. And whatever merits this book has (there are a few), I find myself quite unable to participate in the delights so joyously heralded on its cover. I feel almost guilty about this, as if I’ve deserted an old friend: Lin Carter’s gilded cane comes tap-tap-tapping on my shoulder, and turning, I find his pointed beard nodding up and down as he asks where my “sense of wonder” has flown. Quite truthfully, Lin, I don’t know; wherever it is, though, it’s not in your book.
Golden Cities, Far
is the third fantasy anthology to appear in the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series, in what seems to be an annual Fall event. Mr. Carter originally set the theme for these anthologies when he confined the first of his books,
Dragons, Elves, and Heroes
, to stories published before the advent of William Morris, leaving his second volume,
The Young Magicians
, to writers flourishing primarily in the twentieth century.
Cities
is akin to the first volume, and includes material gathered from several cultures, East and West, covering a span of some 3000 or more years (c1500
b.c
. to the nineteenth century). Carter draws from what is obviously a vast storehouse of knowledge on the field to provide extensive notes, biographies, publishing histories, and running commentaries on each piece.
But the anthology fails to work, and it falls apart on the very point on which it is most touted: entertainment value. Any story, old or new, must be sufficiently interesting to hold the reader’s attention, or he or she will turn on the tube, pick up his newspaper, or whatever. The enthusiasm I felt for
Cities
may be summarized by a wide yawn and an ardent desire to go to bed.
It’s not that the stories are poor—they are all competent representatives of their respective periods—but what was great writing centuries ago is often only laughable today, a footnote somewhere in a dusty literature text. Perhaps the most indicting statement I can make about
Cities
is that it would serve admirably in that function, as a fine text for some future survey course in the antecedents of fantastic literature. There’s no sophistication in these tales: they are simplistic, naive, contrived; fairyland is just over the next hill with an odd name attached, viewed through the infamous rose-tinted spectacles. Simplicity is not a fault
per se
—William Morris is a fine example of a writer whose simply-drawn characters and settings mesh to produce some of the most memorable fantasy novels ever written—but when it results in lack of understanding and failure in story conception and realization, then the reader’s time is better spent elsewhere.
However, all is not rotten in Fairyland, and there is fiction of value to be found among the aureate towns. Three stories are worth note: the two selections from
Amadis of Gaul
, “Arcalaus the Enchanter” and “The Isle of Wonders,” are fascinating prose extravaganzas, and leave one hoping that the entire work will someday be reprinted under the unicorn’s head. “The Palace of Illusions,” a new prose translation from the classic epic,
Orlando Furioso
, is a curiously puzzling work that jumps from character to character and event to event in a foreshadowing of the Edgar Rice Burroughs writing technique, some 400 years removed. Although frustrating in its incompleteness, the story leaves one interested in reading the tale intact. Ballantine intends to publish the work in 1971.
In an introduction to
Golden Cities, Far
, the publisher tells us that “there is, perhaps, no reading matter so flagrantly devoted to pure pleasure than adult fantasy.” I agree. I only wish that Betty Ballantine had paid more attention to her own words. What I hold in my minds is potentiality unfilled. Lin Carter can do much better.
Morris, William.
The Well at the World’s End
. New York: Ballantine Books, 1970, 2 vols.
Some books survive just for their usefulness, and others because they are representative of their times, and there a few, a very few, that outlast the years from sheer beauty of composition. William Morris’s
The
Well at the World’s End
is such a book: its calm brilliance, its quiet, gentle people, the almost-medieval world, one step the other side of reality, are enough to take one’s breath away. In some respects it is neither an easy book to read nor to judge: originally published in 1896, it is long, one of the longest heroic fantasies ever penned; it is written in a purposely archaic tongue, created and patterned (but not quite the same as) late medieval English; its pace and rhythm are considerably slower than most modern readers are accustomed to; and its plot and resolution, which seem on the surface perhaps overly simplified or romanticized, are in reality exceedingly complex and interwoven. Yet for all these “defects,” if they are defects,
Well
remains one of the finest examples of its genre, a true classic of imaginative literature.
Superficially, this is a quest story, telling of one Ralph, son to the Kinglet of Upmeads, and how he came to the Well at the World’s End, and what became thereof; but it would not be stretching matters to say that the book celebrates the journey of a boy into the world, and his discovery of himself and what it means to be a man—a journey that every man must take. As such, the work has universal application and meaning, particularly in a time as seething and unsettled as our own. It may be difficult for us to visualize the Victorian period as one of upheaval, but to Morris it certainly was. He deeply resented the materialism of his age, the mass-merchandizing which he believed dehumanized the ordinary worker into just another cog in the industrial machine. In the face of continual change, Morris found only one thing constant: the beauty of a simple and uncomplicated way of life, a beauty he believed was incarnated in the medieval period, a beauty he embraced with his entire soul. In a way he never grew up.
This is not a book to swallow down in gulps. Sip at it slowly, gradually—let it softly overcome your mind. You will find both sex and violence here—Morris was far from being a prude—but you will also uncover something rarely seen in today’s literature: a deep sense of peace and surety in man and his world. And wonder, wonder that something so filled with beauty could exist in words. There are those who say it is impossible to love a book. However that may be, if it
is
possible, here is one well worth the devotion.
(1975)
Wisconsin. The State Historical Society, Madison Library. Author-Title Catalog
.
New York: Greenwood Press, 1974, microfiche.
This is another in an apparently unending series of library catalogs issued during the last decade by various reprint houses. And, in the sense that it provides access to the rather specialized holdings of this lesser-known library, it is to be welcomed, particularly by interlibrary loan departments. This kind of publication must by its very nature have a limited audience; the more specialized the library, the less need will be evidenced for its catalog. In this particular instance, the Library of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin has large holdings in regional history, local genealogy and family history, American history (especially of the Wisconsin region and the Old Northwest), the American Trade Union movement (the John R. Commons Collection), plus extensive newspaper resources from colonial times to date. Still, the appeal of the catalog will probably be primarily local, with some additional interest from very large university or public libraries specializing in labor or American history, and possibly from highly-developed genealogy collections. There will be much less interest from the medium-size college library, or from most public libraries.
The material itself is divided into two parts: an author-title listing on fiche, and a bound subject catalog. Not having seen the latter, I will confine my remarks to the fiche publications. From the eight samples I was provided, it appears that the catalog is divided into three sections. The first is a simple author-title listing. Part Two is an index to city directories arranged by state, city, and date of publication. The third section, a newspaper listing, appears to be arranged by country, city, and title, but the sample provided is too brief for me to be certain. Each fiche contains thirty images. A typical image includes three columns of cards produced from the library’s main catalog. Legible headers provide access to the content of each fiche.
On the whole, the catalog is hard to read and even harder to follow. While the fiche themselves have an acceptable reduction ratio, and appear to be of good physical quality, the original typed material is in many instances quite faint, and no micro-reproduction handled on this kind of scale can really improve on the original. One must work very hard indeed to follow the progression of entries from one column of cards to another. The newspaper listing is perhaps the easiest and clearest section to use; however, it comprises only a small part of the whole, and is not typical of the rest in quality. Even a dedicated scholar would be hard-pressed to spend more than a few moments working through the main part of the catalog.
The advertisement included with the set states that the bound subject catalog includes a special introduction by Charles Shetler describing the collection in detail and explaining the use of the catalog. But, unless he provides details I have not already seen, I cannot recommend this set to any but the most specialized libraries, or those located in or near Wisconsin itself.
(1979)
Allard, Yvon.
Paralittératures
. Montréal: La Centrale des Bibliothèques, 1979.
Allard’s monumental bibliography provides thorough coverage in French of what he calls “paralittératures,” or genre literatures, including fairy tales, fantasy (encompassing horror and supernatural fiction), adventure and suspense stories, romances, historical novels, detective and spy novels, westerns, science fiction, and humor. Each section includes an introductory essay outlining the history of each genre, plus general background information. Then Allard provides an annotated bibliography of reference works on that particular genre, including specialty periodicals, historical studies and critiques, a selected list of important book reviews and critical articles from a wide variety of sources, a brief author dictionary, with a critical evaluation of each author’s career and a bibliography of further sources of study, a list of publishers’ series, mention of important anthologies in each field (listed by title), and, as a major part of each chapter, a selective, annotated bibliography of major fictional works in each “paralittérature.” The latter are arranged in alphabetical order by author, then by title of the work in French: French or Canadian publishers are cited for the main entries, and complete bibliographical and price information is provided for each book. The titles of English or foreign-language original editions are mentioned after the French versions. A few important books that have not been translated into French are listed under their English-language titles and publishers, as are most of the nonfiction sources included. Allard’s annotations are brief, descriptive, and often witty, with summary evaluations; on the whole his judgments seem fair and balanced. This book is particularly important for the large number of French and European authors included who have not had their works translated into English, and whose careers as SF writers are therefore unknown to most historians of the genre. Many of these writers deserve wider dissemination of their fictions.
Paralittératures
is attractively bound in green cloth. The text is readable and nicely balanced in a double-column format, with the use of boldfaced type easily to distinguish the authors’ names from the works being annotated. A comprehensive index of authors and titles occupies the last hundred pages of the book. This is a major contribution to the study of popular literature, a mandatory purchase for all academic libraries worthy of the name. American scholars have long neglected European genre literature; Allard’s bibliography demonstrates that there is much here worthy of further consideration. A thoroughly fine piece of work.