Never did like the story. A young girl taking up with a reputed serial wife-killer. I grew up with the Grimm version, though there are many versions of this story all over the world from England to Japan . The tale, I believe, originated in France . But whatever, wherever, whenever, I never liked its simplistic thrust of an abusive and domineering man even though the portrait—and the warning—are still relevant today. There will always be women drawn to such men, some, for instance, taking them for husbands and lovers, while knowing the risks. Some go after violent prisoners, write to them, even marry them. One hopes their stories have happy endings.  

While there are many versions of the story, (some have Bluebeard charismatic and charming, a diplomatic Don Juan), the man generally proves himself a cold-blooded killer, murdering his wives and disposing of them in graphic, often creative ways. In all the tales, his latest potential victim is a young and naïve girl whom he takes off to his dark and remote castle. In the version that I knew, Bluebeard was not a charmer, was disliked by the girl’s parents, and when she eloped, her father and brother took arms and rode after them, in the end saving her from certain death.

Why don’t I like this story? Apart from the warning to avoid guys with bad reputations, I do not find any great depth to the tale, nor much dimension in the two main characters. The young girl is the next victim, Bluebeard a sinister villain. The chief attraction is suspense.

The Hungarian composer Béla Bartók took this story and turned it into a study of a young woman and her complex motives for playing with fire. The victim is Bluebeard, not her. The work is the opera, Bluebeard’s Castle.

How is the story transformed? What gives extra dimension to the story itself, to the two characters in it? And what makes it high fantasy in the best and truest sense? It starts out in the usual way. At curtain rise, Bluebeard enters his fortress with Judith. The door slams shut behind them, cutting out the daylight, and the locks grind into place.

It soon becomes apparent, however, that the castle is no literal fortress but a metaphor representing the man's psyche and in short order this rich and ruthless and powerful man is under siege.

Judith at first comes across as a wide-eyed innocent, simply wishing to open up the castle to let in daylight and fresh air. Until she sees a row of seven doors, all locked. Lightly at first, Judith asks to open them. Bluebeard resists, then gives in. As he does so, there comes a chilling sound, a breath, a sigh, a moan: from the castle itself. As she enters each space, Bluebeard asks not "What do you think?" but "What do you see?" a strange question until you realize that she is not looking into real, physical space but into Bluebeard's mind. The first door leads into his torture chamber (his cruelty). The second gives onto his armory (his ruthlessness, his will to win at any cost). The third to his treasury, (his love of wealth and power). The fourth to his garden, a splendid place all for show. The fifth door opens onto a high place from which she can overlook his vast realm of meadows and mountains and rivers and woods. At first, she is enchanted, even overwhelmed by these spaces—until she sees that each  is tinged blood. Not the one behind the sixth door, though. That hides a cavern housing a lake whose water is grey, unreflecting, and emitting eerie light. When she asks what it is, he merely says over and over, "Tears, Judith, tears, tears." Expressing remorse for past actions, maybe, or grief for his wives. In Hungarian, it is "Gurnyac, Judith, gurnyac, gurnyac," and that is what I named Torc's bloody kingdom in The Atheling.

One after another the reasons come for her desire to pick him apart: she loves him, wants to help him, wants to lift the darkness off him, is plain curious, wants to make a change in his life. She's coy, playful, insistent, coquettish. But as each door opens, she gets more demanding.

When she asks him to open the final door, he balks, and now the claws come out. Gone is the girlish laughter and coy manner. Her voice is harsh, her face is hard. She demands angrily that he open it. She knows his secret, she says, everyone does. The whole countryside is rife with rumor that he murders his wives—she locked in there with him!

Bluebeard listens impassively, then all at once, he is resigned. He opens the door and tells her to look inside. Beyond stand his three former wives alive, resplendent—and consigned to their places forever. The first, he tells her, came to him at dawn. The second at noon. The third at evening. And she, Judith, came in the starry night. Of all his wives, he tells her, she was the best. And she will rule them all. He crowns her with robe and coronet and shuts the door on her forever.

In other words, Judith is history with all the rest, having made the fatal mistake of many in relationships, male and female alike, badgering partners about past affairs: "How much did you love him/her, Do you love me just as much? Do you still love her/him as much as me?" and not allowing truth to come voluntarily, if ever.

Neither character is particularly savory. Bluebeard’s past is dark. Today he'd be a business baron, an investor or manufacturer making a fortune off others’ backs. Foreign invasion, empire, occupation, international profiteering: everybody's had a go at some time or other and it still goes on, not too far removed from how Bluebeard might have made his pile.  And Judith is no more likeable. She ran out on a secure, loving family and a fiancé, eloping with a highly questionable man of whom her family did not approve for all his wealth and power, and knowing full well the danger. She lost him, of course, taking up her place in the lineup of past loves.

This is high fantasy at its best, created by one of the finest composers of the twentieth century, an opera delivering as bonus  fifty-some minutes of riveting sound!

 The performance that drove this piece is a new release from Decca: Bluebeard’s Castle, Kolos Kovats (bass); Sylvia Sass (soprano) London Philharmonic Orchestra: Georg Solti, Decca, 0743254, DVD, 8/8. I got it through Crotchet.com in U.K. An all-Hungarian affair, the singing: stunning. Solti: mind-blowing. All transcending the clunky staging as Bartok did the folk tale. Transcendental all around!  

For follow-up on Bluebeard, try http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2386/is_v108/ai_20438234

3/12/08

FORM & CONTENT

A visitor flew in the other day from Houston . A male, satellite communications specialist with Lockheed Martin. A long trip. Occupying the other two seats on his row were two college students, working on a school assignment. One was writing a children’s fantasy story, the other was illustrating it. The trip took long enough for him to see a very fine castle take shape: ramparts, blue sky, white puffy clouds, bushy trees, birds flying overhead. Turrets, moat, and all.  

The story was about, and here was what bothered him, the usual maiden and the usual knight on the white horse come to rescue her.  

The visitor is not a fantasy fan. He reads what’s “real.” (In this day and age no one seems to know that high fantasy is concerned with the deepest aspects of the human psyche, and the most vital issues of human existence.)  

But even perceiving fantasy as escapist light entertainment, he wondered aloud to me why in this day and age the story had a medieval thrust.  

It seemed ironic to him that two girls were writing about an age in which members of their sex would not have been expected to attend school, to learn to write or even to think critically and analytically in their ivory towers. Not to manage their own affairs, have independent means, be allowed to go about the world without escort. Sad, he said, and even sadder that they didn’t realize that in creating such a story they were perpetuating attitudes that should be long dead.  

He asked me what I thought.  

Oh, boy. I replied that however far the concept of fantasy has devolved, it still should reflect the mores of the folk for which it is written. In its earliest form, high fantasy held up paradigms of human behavior. First came the oral tradition, tales which later were written down,  the heroic sagas of heroes, of ancient gods from Norway to Greece, Odin and Zeus reflecting and magnifying the strengths and weaknesses of ordinary mortals. Much later, in the streets and market places of Europe, morality plays showed an illiterate populace how it should behave. In the churches, the parables of Jesus held up examples of good spiritual practice for the congregations to follow. And evolving from them into writing, allegories and fables served as secular examples of good social conduct. Bunyan, Aesop and Fontaine bear witness to their lasting value, as their  stories are just as valid as when they were written. 

As the first novels continued to develop, (e.g. Pilgrim's Progress) and as other writers followed suit, rules emerged. Today, some scholars love to cite them as a sort of code: the anatomy of high fantasy. While it is good to know those rules, it is not useful to follow them rigidly. Swift wrote Gulliver's Travels as satire. It deviates roundly from the rules. Yet in form it is pure high fantasy in the best tradition even though there is, say, no quest, no one to be rescued, no peril of epic proportions to be overcome. Its picaresque sections are mordant, even prophetic (Laputa). Most people read only the Lilliput story and remember it as a cute tale about giants and little folk. They see only the content, not the form. That big man tied with hundreds of little strings: a great being brought down by small attachments. Bribes, watering down a noble vision? Expectations from a troubled populace? Election campaign compromises? Dealings with K Street? Swift was a political animal. And who sees the punch in the battles between the Big Endians and the Little Endians, people decimating one another over trifles? It's happened again and again in this very decade, here and overseas, sometimes on an epic scale. And who today knows that the Yahoos were represented as the bestial human race compared with the civilized talking horses, the Houyhnhnms? (An unfortunate choice of name for a popular web agency, you might say!).

There is in fantasy both form and content. High fantasy comprises extended metaphor, designed to entertain, not to preach, but to offer wisdom and insight through the actions and personalities of the protagonists. A good fantasy book is remembered long after its age, because the human psyche does not change that much. The people of Beowulf’s era, of Chaucer’s era, of Bunyan, and Swift are all much of a muchness; how they feel hasn't changed. Don't agree? Check your newspapers. The form has worn well. The story, the action, is still the tip of the iceberg, the deeper meanings lurk below the surface for those who have mind and patience enough to seek them out. The better the fantasy, the more layers there are, to last the reader from six to sixty and beyond.  

But the content for goodness’ sake must change. For while the psyche remains stable, the environment shifts. Today, our surroundings are changing more radically and at a greater speed than than at any time within our recorded memory. Doesn’t take much wit to look around and notice that. Today we need different paradigms, templates, if you like. Different themes to which we can refer and by which we can measure ourselves.  

I remember vividly the joy of , (after having viewed the token princess image in earphone braids and white draped gown in the holograph), seeing the real Princess Leia spring into action in Star Wars I. Loud, demanding, bold, independent and strong, chewing out the luckless males come to rescue her. Shocking, and wonderful. And that not a book but a movie, oh so right for its time.  

So keep the form. Create a world symbolic of what you’re trying to say. But change the content. No more princesses in turreted castles, please. Grimm's Fairy Tales may be true to the human spirit but reflect a world which is mercifully dead. Fantasy serves not only to show us ourselves, but to point the way ahead, to change. Let’s get out the warrior women, the caring males, the strong, independent people of both sexes living here and now. Let’s reflect their endeavors, and celebrate them, and … let’s be simply…relevant, I said, said I.

The Lockheed man agreed.

2/8/08

Never too late.

I have finally given The Chimes of Alyafaleyn the ending it deserves. I have developed the fourth part, bringing it into proportion with the other three. In this revised and expanded edition, the reader now meets the folk under the Jagged Mountains, and they have a role in putting things right. I became so involved with them, their way of life, especially some of the people down there, that I regretted coming up out of the book as I have no other, ever. I have also expanded sections of the earlier parts, especially those relating to Tamborel's gift of tuning. Gifted people usually assume that others perceive as they do and it comes as a shock to learn that there are degrees of separation. 

Readers who have not yet come across the book can hit the link to its page -  the pic above. I would describe the mood of the book in places as Dickensian dark and have styled the cover accordingly. A child who narrowly escapes having her ears pierced - and I don't mean the lobes - and her eyes put out, for her own good, yet! is hardly going to make a smiling cover. A young man who discovers that she has almost (inadvertently) brought about the destruction of their world is not inclined to look too happy, either.

Two factors to consider: why, when things are going to a bad place in a bucket, do people often do nothing? Or too little, anyway. That's inertia. Applied to people, it does not imply stillness, it signifies an inability to change gears. The other is the consideration of holism, now regarded as a trendy New Age tag but which was coined in 1926 by a military general, General J.C. Smuts  who ended up the Prime Minister of South Africa. Here are definitions of both words from the quote page of the book.

n. inertia:. . . the inherent property of matter by which it continues, unless constrained, in its state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line. Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary.

Holism, hol’izm, n. the theory that the fundamental principle of the universe is the creation of wholes, i.e. complete and self-contained systems from the atom and the cell by evolution to the most complex forms of life and mind.—n. holist. –adj. holist’ic. [Gr. holos, whole; coined by General Smuts.] Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary.

Reading around the events of Supertuesday  last night, I came across an interesting observation in an article by Caryl Rivers (Women's eNews on truthout.org) concerning the media's treatment of Hillary Clinton. Of all the candidates, she just keeps getting bashed across the board. What's this to do with a high fantasy book on a literary web page? Let me quote:

The effect of male domination in the media created very uneven coverage of the Democratic political race, especially on cable, where the enthusiasm for the Obama campaign has been palpable and the dislike for Hillary Clinton obvious.

Some of this, of course, the Clinton campaign earned by the appearance that it had injected race into the South Carolina campaign in a skuzzy way.

But it's also got to do with the ongoing might of historic male narratives, which make heroic roles the preserve of men.

Joseph Campbell, the scholar of mythology, has claimed that women could not make The Hero's Journey because they were the objects, not the protagonists, of a quest.

Mythological females are often figures of dread. There's the Medusa, whose glance could turn a man to stone; the sirens, who lured Odysseus to his death; Pandora, who released all the misery of the world when she opened the box that bears her name, and Eve, who of course got men kicked out of paradise.    (clip)    

 "We happy few, we band of brothers," - to quote Shakespeare's Henry V -  pointedly does not mention sisters.

This hit me, because although the high fantasy formula strictly requires it, I do not subscribe to the concept of male dominance except perhaps in their possessing  as a rule greater physical strength. My high fantasy heroines - Harga, Mylanfyndra, Anya, and my low fantasy ones - Meg, Frankie, Shira, Hesta, Annhilde, have all undertaken quests of noble and  vital importance requiring great courage, resourcefulness and fortitude on a par with any hero. So, I asked myself last night,  had I inadvertently given Caidrun the role of damsel in distress? Siren? Medusa?

While in writing The Chimes, I saw Tamborel and Caidrun as having equal importance, at the end of the first edition Tamborel did, in fact, have the quest, and Caidrun was its object, a la Campbell. And now I know why I never considered the book properly finished. Because in truth they both had equal roles to play, both undertook that quest, although they each started out at different times, from different directions. Although Caidrun had messed up, and Tamborel found her and bailed her out, it was not the whole story. 

As Tassar, a head miner put it, aware that Caidy was the trouble’s very cause, 

“Me, I take the long view. Consider this: what was the greater ill? What was our real affliction? Whatever happened this past two years, whatever hardship there was, whatever effort we still must make to put things right—if none of that had happened, would the ways lie open now? Would those Upsiders be here? Would we all be joined? Tamborel, you said you came to crack us open, and that is what you did.” 
“I came to find Caidy. And the heynim,” Tamborel insisted doggedly.
“So you thought. But that was only part of it. Think what you really did. And ask yourself who sent you.” Tassar pointed up. “The Powers, Tamborel. The Powers. They used you to serve Their greater Will.” 

There's humor there. In spite of all he's learned about the world outside, Tassar still stubbornly believes in a higher power. In spite of all that happens, Tamborel still believes that what you see is all there is. That the chimes keep the world in balance, not some unseen higher force. The point is that intially if Caidrun had not gone on her quest to find the makers of the chimes, the two halves of that world might never have come back together. Some readers may never guess, why should they because the story is the thing, that in the back of my mind in writing the book was the idea of mind/body balance, the inner and the outer, the need for harmonious connection, for communication between the two to make a healthy whole. Alyafaleyn is a model for this concept writ large. 

Caidrun found the way down into the mountain where no others could or would, Tamborel followed in her footsteps, and together, with the help of the under-mountain folk, they wrested things back into balance.  

And this writer, too! 

Enjoy the February rains. Here's to green and growing things!

1/10/08

Rushing into the New Year! 

Changes, additions. Two new books added to the list: a FPI Atheling. And a beautiful Friends in Time. (See cover above, the link to its page.) Thanks to stupid tax laws passed 20 or so years ago, books now have the same kind of shelf life as sausages and homogenized milk. But books do not go "off." They simply cost to sit in the warehouse. That's why FPI. To keep my books available and fresh, not tattered relics traded on Amazon and eBay, and also to produce them the way I want, from start to finish. It's fun and rewarding.

I've also formatted most of the FPI books for the Amazon Kindle, another learning curve. They're not the same, by intent. They can't be, to my mind, for they are expressed in a virtual medium, and in html. The fonts are all reduced to Times New Roman, and designed to flow down the screen or whatever it's called. No choice as to the size of graphics. But trial and error teaches the way for a good read in that form. The text, the story, is everything. It can't replace the printed form, has no room yet in the formatting process for graceful gesture. Upshot: the books have now an alterative format and are more widely available at a reasonable cost - no paper or ink or glue or upgraded printers and finishes and binding materials and processes, etc. etc. to drive up the price. And no sweat, once the book is "published."

I'm working on Briony's ABC right now. Be ready in a few days. Working on The Hesta to add to The Atheling and The Orborgon. And in between, taking a look at The Chimes with an eye to finishing it properly, adding the chapters I never did get to write, of the underground people Caidren stayed with when she disappeared. 

10/25/07

When is a Book? 

November 1st marks a jubilee occasion on many fronts. It marks the completion of Gom's quest, through The Stargate of Lantyn.  The Stargate also marks the confluence of the Gom and Ulm series, two tributaries comingling at last. As if the actual completion of the book itself were not enough, it's special in several other ways, too. It is our first Green Book. Rivetless, it is almost all printed and bound using recycled materials. The cover alone is the first recycled photo cover paper ever: Greenpix from Red River Paper. The colored illustrations inside, printed on matte photo paper, revert to the age-old method of affixing the pictures to the book page - a luxury long gone in this mass-producing machine age. We even splashed out on the end papers: mica-encrusted paper suggestive (we hope!) of the stargates themselves.

From now on, all the books will be produced using this same format, pioneered by The Stargate. Producing this successfully has provided us with a template for the future.

The Stargate, as with all the previous books, is handbound with the best materials available to us. As much love and effort have gone into making the book as went into the creating and crafting of the story itself. 

This book is a celebration. Of going one's own way. Of making each book a unique work of art according to the author's vision. Of completing an idea started many years ago. And of creating a beautiful treasure that will last long and withstand much hard use (it has been test driven by a remarkable 6 year-old called Anya - named for Anja of Lantyn - who not only has read the book at least a dozen times, knows most of the characters as as does the author, but also helped proof-read it at copy-editing stage!)

9/26/07

Old times, new times.

I came across two small readers poring over  Richard Scarry's 'Cars and Trucks and Things That Go' the other day. Turning the pages, picking out which ones they were going to get. Where from? I asked.  Eyebrows went up. Walmarts, of course!

We're making changes to our book format. Rivet Books is giving way to Green Books. We're printing from now on on recycled  paper.  The text will be printed on Greenline paper, (see greenlinepapers.com) and the covers on GreenPix photopaper from Red River Papers (redriverpapers.com). In honor of Wycan--one of his gifts is restoring dead trees--we're printing The Stargate of Lantyn on Genesis birch. Maybe we're the first to print book pages on flecked paper. The flecks are distinctive and non-intrusive. And perfect for the Stargate which is in part concerned with restoration and regeneration.

We're offering all Rivet Books at a 10% discount until they're gone. 

9/8/07

In Memoriam

This past week marked the death of  Madeleine L'Engle. But while she is gone, her work remains. Any good book gains from rereading. A great book? You can dip into it again and again. The stories she created decades ago remain as fresh and powerful as ever, her concern for this world and its inhabitants resonate even more strongly today. For the thrust of fantasy, high or low, goes way beyond the surface of the tale and is timeless. Its symbolism, its deeper meaning, flies  to the heart. Its images score the mind and last forever. L'Engle believed firmly in good overcoming evil, saw that at any given moment on  Earth forces detrimental to its evolution, forces greater and more powerful in size and influence than those who would resist such constraints, are at work, and that the struggle is endless. Some would see religion in her work. Mrs. Who, Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Whatsit are not angels of an ancient cult but natural creatures of light stemming from our unimaginably vast and mysterious universe.  Her writing reflects not strait dogma such as that of C.S. Lewis, but rather a deep and flowing spirituality transcending sect or creed, and spelled out through the trials of brave and frightened children. She believed as I do that the greatest evil on Earth is the will of some to twist us all into one uniform shape, to force us all through a single giant cookie cutter. 

3/4/07 

Gom is almost finished, the first draft, anyway, and only just in time. The trillliums are up, the cuneatum - the big red sessile. Not just the young ones. Big clumps of those who ought to know better. They didn't read the book that says "March - April." They've already been pushing up for around 10 days now! This morning they're covered in a light drift of snow. The woods are calling, I can't resist for too much longer.

Speaking of books, I bought a clutch of reference books on mosses, lichens, and liverworts. A very good collection that hangs together, each supplementing the other. Moss Gardening, by George Schenk, Forests of Lilliput, by John Bland, and the sleeper, Gathering Moss, by Robin Wall Kimmerer. Both the former are really handy references, the Schenk has the most useful pictures. When I first opened the Kimmerer book, I set it aside. Flipping through, I found so many autobiographical snips - picking daughter up from the airport, a niece having a meltdown in the middle of a parking lot. Where, I asked myself, were the mosses? However, I had bought it, and coming to the end of the other moss books, and being of a frugal nature (waste not, want not) I reopened the Kimmerer and began to read. Wow. Abandon watches, time-tables, hot-shot frame of mind all ye who enter there! Kimmerer is not only a stunning writer, she has a truly holistic mind. She writes in the classical essay form: postulation, which seems to have nothing to do with the subject in hand. Cut across country to talk about something else entirely, and suddenly, pow! it all comes together, bringing new insight to one's view not only of mosses and lichens and liverworts, but to the whole world: history, evolution, ecology, politics, name it. And all the while the tone is light and clear and entertaining. My favorite chapter so far is on her spending a summer up to her armpits in a river, (Kickapoo) broaching her doctoral thesis, trying to keep everything from floating away while sorting out the mysteries of why bands of mosses lining a cliff face over the river grew where they did, and why there were constant bald patches of rock that never got covered. It was there, in the middle of her farcical self-portrait of a woman standing apparently babbling to a cliff face - she abandoned the notebook(s) for a small tape recoder - that she connected with a man doing a thesis on the west coast (concerning tidal pools) and a new scientific principle was born: the Intermediate Disturbance Hypothesis.

Whether you are "into" mosses doesn't matter. This book is about us, all of us, what makes us tick, how we are inseparable from and firmly embedded in the universe around us.

This is a great book by a great writer. We need more!

3/31/07 

home