Who Carries the Torch for Romanticism, Today?
The Romantic movement in the arts is always evolving. By its nature, as I will explain, it cannot exist without change. For example, today we see writers, filmmakers, and artists winning over new generations to the inspiration and sheer enjoyment of popular Romanticism with works of imagination in the genre called “fantasy.”
Literature began the Romantic Revolution in England, specifically the poetry collection, Lyrical Ballads, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. (Arguably, Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” included in that collection, remains the greatest poem in the English language.) From the beginning, Romanticism embraced change. The school it replaced was Classicism, which measured all works of art by their adherence to immutable standards defined in Ancient Greece and Rome.
Underlying Romanticism’s manifold and often paradoxical themes was the axiom of free will.
Underlying Romanticism’s manifold and often paradoxical themes was the axiom (we would say, “fundamental premise”) of free will. In the arts, human volition implied the crucial role of our choice of personal values to guide our lives. That ensured a commitment to change in subject matter and themes as well as in underlying philosophy or “sense of life.”
The Romantic revolution is commonly dated from 1780 to 1850, but it continued longer in different countries (e.g., France) and different fields (e.g., music). Perhaps the greatest Romantic writer of all time, French poet, dramatist, and novelist Victor Hugo, published four of his great Romantic novels, including Les Miserables, between 1862 and 1874. It was too early for the Nobel Prize in Literature (first awarded in 1901), but his admirer and translator, the legendary Polish novelist, Henryk Sienkiewicz, won the prize in 1905. He was the last Romanticist to be noticed by the Nobel committee.
Sienkiewicz was the last Romanticist to be noticed by the Nobel committee.
Philosopher and novelist Ayn Rand, committed to the highest literary expression of Romanticism, acknowledged that by the mid-twentieth-century, Romanticism in serious literature had been supplanted entirely by what she called “Naturalism,” but usually is termed “Realism.” Among the few exceptions in serious literature are the novels of Ayn Rand, including the modern classics, The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged.
Rand taunted the “literati” who valorized the “common man,” but dismissed popular values in fiction such as plot, heroes, a sense of man’s efficacy in achieving his values, and black-and-white morality.
But even as she kept alive the glory of serious Romantic literature, she acknowledged that as a movement Romanticism had a powerful and continuing presence in “popular” fiction such as detective novels (Agatha Christie, Mickey Spillane), thrillers (Ian Fleming), and other “genre” works. She praised and defended the best of these works as remnants of the Romantic movement favored in the marketplace far more than “serious” literature. She taunted the “literati” who valorized the “common man,” but dismissed popular values in fiction such as plot, heroes, a sense of man’s efficacy in achieving his values, and black-and-white morality.
Surveying today’s scene, we see popular Romanticism gaining everywhere. Detective, thriller, secret agent, science fiction, and other genre novels, usually portraying a hero’s triumph against all odds, have never lost their readership. Specific novels remain popular for decades just like, well, “classic” literature. A “classic” is a work that sustains its appeal over generations—and describes many works of Romanticism viewed as “popular,” not literary.
Arguably, the Romantic genre that has gained most in recent decades is fantasy.
Arguably, the Romantic genre that has gained most in recent decades is fantasy. For recent generations, fantasy is as gripping, compulsively readable, inspiring, colorful, and heroic—and as much an invitation to life’s struggle for great values—as anything the Romantic tradition has produced.
Certainly, fantasy has been part of Romanticism from the beginning: Frankenstein (1818) by Mary Shelley, The Castle of Otranto (1764) by Horace Walpole, Don Juan (1817) by Lord Byron, Wuthering Heights (1847) by Emily Bronte, Ivanhoe (1819) by Walter Scott, The Scarlet Letter (1850) by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and many more.
Contemporary fantasy, however, is decidedly different and thus difficult to declare “serious literature” even when works are acknowledged as powerful and exceedingly popular. Contemporary fantasy traces its roots to J.R.R. Tolkien, an Oxford scholar of language, literature, and philology who wrote The Hobbit (1937) and The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring trilogy (1954-55). The Hobbit usually is characterized as a book for children.
The Fellowship of the Ring is among the best-selling works of fiction of all time, with more than 150 million copies sold.
The Fellowship of the Ring is among the best-selling works of fiction of all time, with more than 150 million copies sold. It is acknowledged to have had a huge effect on modern fantasy, but, like The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings has characters that remind one of the best Walt Disney cartoon characters. A library of works now exists arguing for the serious themes, symbols, analogies, mythology, poetry, and inventive philology in Tolkien as well as his implied commentary on religion, the nature of good and evil, death and immortality, German legends, archaeology, and so on. The Lord of the Rings trilogy was adapted into three movies (2001-03), all directed by New Zealander Peter Jackson. The first, The Fellowship of the Rings, won four Oscars, and hundreds of other nominations. The international movie database, IMDb, classifies all three movies under the genre: Action, Adventure, and Drama.
Much the same may be said of the works of Tolkien’s close friend and associate at Oxford, C. S. Lewis, author of the popular Chronicles of Narnia fantasy series. From the seven books, three were adapted—The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Prince Caspian, and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader—which collectively grossed over $1.5 billion worldwide.
As suggested, for example, by sales of Tolkien’s works, now translated into some 43 languages, the conquest of this new type of fantasy over new generations of readers today has been complete. Fantasy novels are now a huge genre, regular bestsellers, and inspire equally popular big-budget movies and TV series.
What has changed, and greatly, is what “fantasy” means today. There is indeed no shortage of Tolkien imitators—following in his footsteps was British author J. K. Rowling, with her Harry Potter series. Both the huge popularity of her books and their primary audience of young readers remind us of Tolkien.
But fantasy today has diverged in crucial ways from the Tolkien-Lewis-Rowling tradition.
But fantasy today has diverged in crucial ways from the Tolkien-Lewis-Rowling tradition. As I have said, this field of fiction is huge and active, so “anything” may be found in it, but I will comment on a few of my favorite fantasy novels that also happen to be big bestsellers and even household names.
Among my favorites, to date, are the Game of Thrones series; the trilogy The Hunger Games; the novels of Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind, and The Wise Man’s Fear; and a few other bestsellers. My purpose, when I began, was to explore a new Romantic genre. Very soon, I was turning the pages as compulsively as any other reader enjoying the “escape”—but, in reality, “inspiration”—of Romantic literature. Romantic fiction presents readers with more difficult, urgent, and crucial struggles than “real life.”
In The Name of the Wind (2007), Kvothe, orphaned and alone as a child, facing an often-brutal world, creates his character, his chances in life, and his exultant adventures. The moral fundamentals never change. He comes from the most rejected and despised “minority” of the era—the equivalent of the European gypsies, in our time—and triumphs not only as an individual but in the name of redeeming his people, the Edema Ruh. There is little in this novel that is “generic.” In whatever role Kvothe finds himself—child beggar, university student, musician, scientist, lover, or warrior—the action is sophisticated and complex.
One intriguing comment on fantasy novels insists that the defining characteristic of the genre is a “magic system.” That is true in Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, George Martin, and Patrick Rothfuss. Perhaps more interesting still is that the shortlist of characteristics of fantasy fiction includes a “power structure/system of government.” In Tolkien and Lewis, that is not a factor. In all contemporary fantasy fiction I have read it has been a factor. It represents the core conflict in The Hunger Games.
It would be interesting to compare this novel and its sequel with some great Romantic “literary” novels. Usually, such novels differ from the popular in the seriousness of their themes, depth of psychology, and effectiveness of writing style. But to that must be added, I think, the criterion of complexity, especially the subtlety and novelty of conflicts. By that criterion, Rothfuss can present, although not consistently, a challenge to any “serious” Romantic literature.
I am new to fantasy literature as a genre (although I was long ago a fan of the Narnia series) and not prepared to comment on the issue of style as differentiating “serious” from “popular” fiction not only in Romanticism but Realism. I enjoyed the style of Game of Thrones, Hunger Games, and the two Rothfuss novels. I think that for enjoyment of style as such, not only style as an indispensable tool, the Rothfuss novels kept arresting me to attend to style.
The extravagance of invention, which Ayn Rand always characterized as “inexhaustible” in Romanticists, is George Martin’s trademark—and nowhere as evident as in his cast of heroes.
The hugely popular series by George R.R. Martin, Song of Fire and Ice (often referred to by the title of the first book, Game of Thrones), has spawned five novels since 1991 (each more than 1,000 pages). Taking for its setting an entire world of countries, peoples, castles, kings, powerful ruling families, dragons, and murderous spirits of the dead, Song of Fire and Ice follows ultimately hundreds of characters. The challenges Martin conjures up for these characters are always life- and sanity-threatening. The extravagance of invention, which Ayn Rand always characterized as “inexhaustible” in Romanticists, is George Martin’s trademark—and nowhere as evident as in his cast of heroes.
There is nothing peculiarly “for young readers,” here, with horrifying descriptions of violence, disease, torture, and poverty, and also not-very-restrained language. But typical of Romanticism, the characters are unique and colorful—larger than life heroes and villains—and the plot sustains suspense for thousands of pages. This series, of course, goes right back to one of the earliest and strongest traditions of the Romantic era: the portrayal of a nobler time of knights and ladies. There is plenty of that in Song of Fire and Ice, but with equal time for medieval horrors of murder, mutilation, and nightmare cruelty—in case you are looking for the struggle between good and evil.
The Hunger Games trilogy (2008-10), by Suzanne Collins, felt to me like a pure Romantic literary experience. It also had for me the intrigue of a dystopian novel of dictatorship and rebellion against it. Katniss Everdeen, 16 years old in the first book, is a Romantic heroine. I cannot imagine a young reader, today, not responding to her unstudied heroism, the assumption that she will fight against anything—including the surreal dictatorship—for her life and personal values.
The author, to me, makes it believable that in the end she wins, bringing down the existing dictatorship—and then putting an arrow in the heart of the new “freedom leader” who suddenly proposes continuing the worst practices of the dictatorship. Emotionally, I bought it all. That is the imagination and skill, the craft, of top Romanticist authors. This trilogy is categorized as “young adult, a huge sub-genre, but I swear that YA, here, means only that the sex is limited to kissing. These novels are no more inherently limited in readership than Lord of the Flies, which, after all, is exclusively about teenage characters.
I am not surprised that The Game of Thrones series and The Hunger Games trilogy became TV sensations. Where on TV, today, do we find genuine heroes (imaginative or real), conflicts over crucial values, the portrayal of the world as inexhaustibly exciting, and battles that are agonizing but ultimately successful (and worth winning)?
Escapism? Return to one of my favorite characters, Kvothe. He is born to the Edema Ruh, wandering performers of the lowest social status who automatically are accused of any theft, kidnapping, horse rustling. After his family is murdered by demons (this is fantasy), he survives, overcomes all obstacles to get an education, and becomes a magician, musician, and warrior—but never forgets his origins.
As a man, traveling through a forest, he encounters what he believes at first is a tribe of Edema Ruh. He soon perceives that they are bandits who killed a band of Edema Ruh and took their wagons. At a village performance, they lured away two girls that now are repeatedly raped.
When he realizes this, Kvothe poisons the dinner pot. He demands he get the two girls for the night but puts them in his tent and sleeps outside on guard. When he hears the bandits moaning and crying out from the poison, he stalks them and kills them all. Then, he brings the girls, wagons, horses, and all goods and money of the bandits back to the village where the girls live.
He endures attacks by the villagers who accuse him of abducting the girls. That is quickly halted when the girls, enraged, ask why the villagers did not rescue them but Kvothe did?
Having returned the girls and given their families everything, Kvothe gets ready to leave. The mayor of the village suddenly asks: “But can’t we do something for you?”
Kvothe answers: “Remember it was bandits who took them… And remember it was one of the Edema Ruh who brought them back.” (The Wise Man’s Fear)
New Romanticists writing fantasy do not dodge issues such as collectivism versus individualism. Or the brutality of dictatorships that view individuals like Katniss Everdeen as mere pawns. If this is “escapism,” it is an escape from helpless submergence in the masses to become, like Katniss Everdeen, ready to combat an evil dictatorship to protect [herself and?] those she loves.
Ayn Rand turned to fantasy (specifically, dystopia” in her novelette, Anthem, to dramatize certain ideas. The fantasy involved, however, is wholly traditional, not contemporary in the sense we discussed. The singular theme is the individual mind, the engine of all human progress, trapped in a world of collectivist submergence of any hint of individuality. In the final analysis, that is the power of fantasy in fiction: It can create a world that starkly, without ambiguity or even nuance, pits values against each another.
In fiction, the border between fantasy and “reality” is not easy to locate. (After all, “fiction” means not factual.) Ayn Rand deemed Victor Hugo’s novel, The Man Who Laughs, set in late seventeenth-century England, the greatest novel in world literature. It also is the Hugo novel closest to fantasy, with one lead character who is remarkably like Kvothe.
Those who have kept alive their ability to respond to the individual’s struggle to achieve his or her values (and children most often begin with that perspective) will thrill to the growing—and changing—Romantic literature of fantasy.
About the Author: Walter Donway
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