The Limitations of Allegory

lotr

JRR Tolkien famously wrote about his dislike of allegory in the foreword to The Lord of the Rings. Here is what he had to say:

“I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done so since grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history – true or feigned – with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. I think that many confuse applicability with allegory, but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.”

I don’t have quite the same issue with allegory that Tolkien had, since I think part of his problem came with the insistence of readers that The Lord of the Rings was an allegory of World War II (amongst other things). I maintain that it is intellectually lazy to read allegory into any literary work unless it is the stated purpose of the author. For example, CS Lewis intended The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to be an allegory about Christianity. George Orwell intended Animal Farm as an allegory of Soviet Russia. However, The Lord of the Rings was never intended as an allegory of anything.

Conversely, it is true that Tolkien’s experiences – particularly of encroaching industrialisation destroying the countryside, as well as World Wars I and II – informed the writing of The Lord of the Rings. His Catholicism was also a key factor, and Tolkien admitted as such in later letters, claiming that in retrospect he could see how these life experiences had influenced his work, regardless of the fact that he never intended it as an allegory.

Therefore, his remark about applicability to my mind makes perfect sense.

In my own writing, I have not written any deliberate allegories. But I know readers have made all manner of metaphorical applications, sometimes confusing them as allegory. For example, George goes to Mars has been read as a pro-feminist, anti-Islamic fundamentalist allegory. I certainly didn’t have that in mind when I wrote it. I simply wanted to write a thrilling science fiction adventure story for children and young-at-heart adults. Yet it is true that my own views are often inherent in my work, and can be detected to a greater or lesser extent. Equally they can sometimes be misconstrued, and that begs the question as to whether or not I have failed as an author. The bottom line is readers will interpret George goes to Mars (or any of my novels) any way they please, perhaps in ways I might even disapprove of.

I have almost finished an animal fiction adventure novel about wolves in Alaska, which I may well decide to fast track for release later this year. Reading back over my first draft, I suspect some may well read political allegories into it. But again, I must emphasise this is not my direct intention, and therefore it is not an allegory, however much readers may wish to label it as such. I do not wish to reduce my work to a single message or lesson, claiming it as allegory, since that would be reductive. Rather, I would prefer the reader to decide what to make of the story, and allow for multiple interpretations.

Too much realism

I am not a fan of realism for the sake of realism. Nor was legendary film director David Lean, who once said films should feel like dreams. I would argue the same should be true for novels, and I am not a fan of stories that strive for realism at the expense of dramatic satisfaction, regardless of the genre.

As a reader I find it deeply frustrating when interesting dramatic situations and conflicts are swept aside in an unsatisfactory way in the name of realism, often in critically acclaimed novels. Atonement is a good example of this. Just because in real life the lead characters could easily have died in a sudden bombing that intrudes on the narrative mid-plot – before certain injustices could be properly explored and resolved – doesn’t make it a good dramatic choice. That may have been the point, but if so it’s a deeply frustrating one.

Charles Dickens had the right idea. He loaded his books with relevant, challenging social themes, making them “realistic” in the sense that you could feel the grime under the fingernails of Victorian Britain. But at the same time his works are deeply satisfying, superbly crafted tales that do not place “realism” above all else.

Some argue that whether or not a novel or film should submit to realism depends on subject matter, but I don’t think that is true. Lawrence of Arabia is about historic fact, but nonetheless feels like a dream, in accordance with the ideals of its director David Lean. The appalling Victorian social injustices exposed by Charles Dickens in Oliver Twist are wrapped within the framework of a narrative that feels almost like a fairy tale.

As an aside, I find that large doses of realism actually work very well in fantasy writing. The shocking sudden deaths in Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy are a good example of this. The film Pan’s Labyrinth is another example, with the gritty realism of the Franco’s war against communist guerillas providing a backdrop to the fantasy elements. They may seem like oil and water but in fact they compliment one another perfectly.

In my own writing, I am currently penning an animal fiction novel about wolves in Alaska that combines elements of realism with more metaphysical elements. Time will tell whether or not I succeed in this, but at no point in any of my writing do I strive for realism at the expense of all else. Like David Lean, I want my stories to have a magic to them, regardless of the subject matter. I want them to feel like dreams.