Monthly Archives: November 2020

Why We Need Dystopian Fiction

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Some literature seeks to highlight current social problems to bring about change. The most effective examples include works by Charles Dickens. Oliver Twist, for instance, highlighted the appalling conditions of workhouses, and the problem of nineteenth century UK poverty in general, amid a gripping and dramatic narrative. Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift sought to expose contemporary injustice and hypocrisy through fantastical satire. However, dystopian fiction occupies an altogether different role in the literary landscape. Dystopian fiction seeks not to affect change, but to warn against change for the worse, as a check and balance.

The best dystopian narratives have etched themselves so powerfully into the popular consciousness that they have become a kind of shorthand argument that prevails against foolish or dangerous ideology. George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four is the ultimate example. Someone says they think more snooping and surveillance is a good idea, and the notion can be rebutted as “Orwellian” or “Big Brother”. It might be suggested by proponents of both political wings that certain books should be banned or censored. Again, one can cite Orwell, with reference to censorship and “newspeak”, robbing people of narratives (and indeed the words) to express themselves. The legacy of Nineteen Eighty-Four has helped protect western society from the worst excesses of authoritarianism.

Other dystopian tales have exerted a similar power. Margaret Atwell’s The Handmaid’s Tale has long been adopted by feminist groups as a warning against gender-based oppression in a potential religious autocracy; a danger that seems particularly feared in the United States. Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange jabs other raw nerves, with warnings about encroaching state control over individuals, particularly with reference to the brainwashing of young Alex. Then there’s Franz Kafka’s The Trial, which warns against frightening, impenetrable legal bureaucracy. Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games warns against a return to Roman Empire style bread and circuses dictatorship, whilst at the same time inviting allegorical comparisons between the west and exploited developing nations. Speaking of The Hunger Games, dystopian fiction recently has had particular resonance in the young adult market, with The Hunger Games, The Maze Runner, Divergent, and various other titles.

I still think Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World features one of the scariest warnings in literature, as it resembles the modern west in alarming ways. The novel depicts a world where entertainment, pleasure, distraction, and trivia are deliberately deployed to distract the masses. However, for me, one of the most frightening prospects in dystopian fiction remains Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, which features a world where all books are banned.

Given current problems in the world, I’m not surprised at the enduring popularity of dystopian stories. This is a good thing. We now need future shock dystopian fiction more urgently than ever. People everywhere – and politicians in particular – need to read these books, think, carefully consider where we are headed, and avoid these appalling futures at all costs.

Ten Literary Protagonists I Relate To

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Following on from my list of ten great literary villains, here are ten great literary protagonists. I should be clear upfront that these aren’t characters I necessarily consider the definitive ten greatest, but they are ten favourites. More specifically, they are ten protagonists I personally relate to in some way. Here they are, in no particular order of merit.

Harry Potter (the Harry Potter series by JK Rowling) – I don’t know anyone whose favourite character in Harry Potter is Harry Potter. My own favourite in JK Rowling’s saga is the enigmatic Severus Snape, with whom I also have something of an affinity. However, Harry is the protagonist, and I’ve decided to include him here for a number of reasons. He is deliberately written as something of an everyman – an access point for the reader to the magical world – but there are key elements about his character that I very much relate to. His hatred of bullies, for instance. Or his fondness for oddballs like Luna Lovegood or Neville Longbottom. Like Harry, I also had something of a reputation for breaking rules at school.

Jane Eyre (Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte) – Jane Eyre casts a huge shadow of influence over many of the imperilled heroines of my own gothic mysteries. Abused and downtrodden as a child, and subjected to mistreatment inflicted by hypocritical religious oppressors, Jane nonetheless rises above her painful past, despite the many dark turns in her tumultuous romance with Rochester. I admire Jane’s indomitable courage and ability to pass through suffering and trials. However, because my own childhood featured a plethora of run-ins with cruel religious hypocrites, I find that element of her story particularly relatable.

Matilda (Matilda by Roald Dahl) – Typically the protagonists in Roald Dahl’s novels are overshadowed by more outrageous characters (Willy Wonka and The BFG are both more interesting than Charlie and Sophie, for instance). However, in the case of Matilda, her intelligence and telekinetic powers make her a delightful exception. Obviously, I relate to her love of books, and also her disdain for boorish grown-ups with no appreciation for beauty, literature, or art in general. In that respect, Matilda’s family are truly monstrous.

Bilbo Baggins (The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien) – My identification with Bilbo begins with his love of routine, home comforts, and being left in peace and quiet. Like Bilbo, I don’t much care for the idea of adventurous travels, but I tend to enjoy them once I reluctantly undertake them. Most of all, I greatly admire the way Bilbo tries to find a peaceful solution to the foolish stand-off between Thorin, the Elves and the people of Laketown. His efforts are doomed, and ultimately irrelevant once the goblins attack, but I like to think I would also try to be a peacemaker in such circumstances.

Hazel (Watership Down by Richard Adams) – This classic of animal fiction involves rabbit Hazel leading a group of refugee rabbits in a dangerous search for a new home, following the apocalyptic visions of his friend Fiver. This leporine quest culminates in a confrontation with Stalin-esque General Woundwort. Why do I relate to Hazel? Mainly because of the way he is thrown in at the deep end, becoming a reluctant leader through guesswork and mistakes. Leadership is a key theme of the novel, and Hazel’s desire for freedom and genuine care for those under his protection contrasts with the fascist attitudes of Woundwort. Hazel is also a rabbit of great vision, who in a key moment of the novel, proposes a peaceful solution to General Woundwort. As with Bilbo in The Hobbit, I’m a big believer in finding common ground and making peace.

Sherlock Holmes (Various Sherlock Holmes short stories and novels by Arthur Conan Doyle) – I am not anything like as clever as Sherlock Holmes, but I include him here not for his intelligence but for the occasional flashes of deep, humane compassion beneath the logical exterior; something I hugely admire. Stories such as The Blue Carbuncle, The Devil’s Foot, and The Abbey Grange feature him allowing guilty parties to get away with their crimes due to extenuating circumstances, and I must say I cannot fault his decisions. He has the wisdom to realise sometimes the rigid parameters of mere human law cannot bring justice. Conversely, when Holmes has himself inadvertently become the instrument of justice, I cannot fault him there either. The superb conclusion of The Speckled Band is a case in point, where he says his actions (which led to the death of the villain) are unlikely to weigh very heavily on his conscience. Furthermore, like Holmes, I can be hugely obsessive to the exclusion of all else when pursuing a goal.

Winston (1984 by George Orwell) – I could imagine myself ending up much like Winston, if I lived in the kind of totalitarian regime Orwell envisioned in this seminal work. As it is, I’m already rather world-weary and cynical; particular about politics (on both the left and right), authoritarian ideologies, causes, activism, foolish self-appointed revolutionaries, delusional cultists and fanatics, and Orwellian notions such as so-called cancel culture. I’ve also included Winston because of some of his unworthier impulses, lest the more virtuous characters on this list paint me in an inaccurately sanctimonious light.

Pip (Great Expectations by Charles Dickens) – I don’t include Pip in this list so much for his kind actions to runaway convict Magwich; a deed that ultimately results in him obtaining great wealth. I include Pip for more negative reasons. I confess that I relate to some of the snobbery he exhibits in the story, and the way he pays a bitter price for it. As Dickens so astutely writes: “All other swindlers on earth are nothing to the self-swindlers, and with such pretences did I cheat myself.” I also relate to Pip’s painful romantic obsessiveness; a trait I also confess I once shared.

Jo March (Little Women by Louisa May Alcott) – Jo March is on this list because she is a writer, and so am I. Many incidents in the novel chime with my own “journey” (if you’ll forgive my use of an obscenity) as an author. For example, being the recipient of blunt constructive criticism. Or perhaps the scene where Amy burns her manuscript (still unforgivable, as far as I’m concerned) is akin to when my computer dies, and my work hasn’t been backed up. I swear my computer can be just as vindictive as Amy, and has a vendetta against me because of my somewhat Luddite attitudes and technological ineptitude. At any rate, I love Little Women, but I particularly love Jo.

Winnie the Pooh (Winnie-the-Pooh by AA Milne) – I have a deep personal sympathy for the bear of little brain, mainly in view of his obsessive love of food; a love shared by yours truly. His inner monologues about how he eats a little honey, goes away and thinks about it, eats a little more, and so on, are so utterly delightful, and are deeply resonant. The absolute pinnacle of Pooh’s hilarious honey habit surely comes in the story where he and Piglet try to catch a heffalump. Amid the hilarious farce that ensues, there’s a wonderful section where Pooh sniffs the jar of honey intended to snare the heffalump, to test if it really is honey. He then tastes a bit, just to make sure (after all, he had seen cheese a similar colour, and heffalumps might not like cheese). Having established the honey is indeed genuine, Pooh decides to eat a little more, just to make sure it is honey all the way to the bottom of the jar. Then the jar gets stuck on his head, and a terrified Piglet mistakes him for a heffalump. Marvellous stuff. Silly old bear.

What My Villains Reveal About Me

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In storytelling, a great antagonist is as important as a great protagonist. The most satisfying narratives feature determined, active characters facing off against equally determined opposing forces.

A recent article on this blog listed ten of my favourite literary villains. Here are three antagonists from my own novels that I suspect, in retrospect, personify what I take a dim view of, drawn from personal experience, as well as political and spiritual outlook. Whilst some villains in my stories must remain anonymous, for fear of spoilers (particularly those in my gothic mystery horror/thriller novels), these three I can talk about upfront, without ruining the plot.

Graham Brooks (The Birds Began to Sing) – Although he isn’t the main villain, and only appears in one chapter during the first act, Graham Brooks is small-minded, petty, power-crazed, two-faced, and vindictive. He represents everything I despise about modern business management, with his meaningless targets, character assassination performance reviews, ghastly corporate lingo, and utterly phoney belief in so-called “teamwork”. I also took the opportunity to depict how much I loathe people who insist “problems” are “opportunities” (see what I did there?). As my protagonist Alice observes, alcoholics don’t have drinking opportunities.

Imalik (Echo and the White Howl) – Imalik is an ambitious and extremely dangerous wolf, who enters into a Faustian deal with a mysterious and malevolent supernatural force. He murders the pack Alpha, and forces other packs in the surrounding land into a union by systematically slaughtering the elk, moose, and other prey in their terrain, thus making them dependant on him for food. Imalik’s totalitarian dictatorship can be read as an allegory of any fascist state you care to name, especially those that have deliberately created food scarcity as a means of control. I didn’t intend Echo and the White Howl as anything more than an adventure story about wolves in Alaska, but in retrospect, some of my despair at short sighted political stupidity and greed over issues like overfishing may have crept in.

Benjamin Smiley (Children of the Folded Valley) – Of the many villainous faces of religious oppression in my stories, none are more diabolical than Benjamin Smiley. Exactly how he came to lead the mysterious Folded Valley Fellowship can’t be revealed here, suffice to say he is a master manipulator who preys on the weak and emotionally vulnerable, as per all cult leaders. His apparently miraculous powers of healing hold his congregation rapt, ensuring his more dubious activities (including assertion of sexual rights over whomever he chooses) go unquestioned. Benjamin Smiley is based on a number of real people I encountered during childhood, adolescence, teenage years, and even adulthood. Abuse of religious power remains the number one theme I return to in my novels, time and time again.