by Steve Martins
“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies” but “The man who never reads lives only one[1]”. You guessed it, I love to start with quotes. That way my grandmother gets brag rights in her Scrabble group chat. I also love to read. I am not, however, a ‘universal’ reader: you wouldn’t ever catch me out reading just anything. You would, however, most likely see me reading an epic.
The epic is a literary genre that is really, really old. Take the Epic of Gilgamesh – that’s one of the oldest written stories of all time. And then there are other kinds of the epic. There’s epic horror, like Stephen King’s It; or there’s epic science fiction, like Frank Herbert’s Dune saga. Those are all great, but the kind of epic I truly worship is probably the newest iteration in the genre. Meet epic fantasy.
“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies” but “The man who never reads lives only one”. So says the boy Jojen Reed[2] to Bran Stark[3], the crippled heir to his family’s ancestral castle in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, an epic fantasy series of gargantuan proportions that I just finished reading last summer. That’s five books and 200 pages a day, all in two-ish months, if you care to try. So let me take you back to the origins of epic fantasy.
It began in Oxford with a professor in literature and the English language. His name was J.R.R. Tolkien. And J.R.R. Tolkien was sat in his study marking a sheaf of end-of-term exam papers – in his own words it was “an enormous, very laborious and unfortunately boring[4]” process. Picture the scene: the afternoon sunlight slanting through the window and Tolkien drowsily picking up another paper.
Only, to his delight, it was blank. Without thinking he scribbled the phrase “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit[5]”. This would become the opening line to The Hobbit, Tolkien’s first published novel.
Now, you would likely argue that The Hobbit is not an epic. It’s story that most of us have read as children, and I have to agree. But it is the success of The Hobbit and the demand for a sequel that gave us The Lord of the Rings.
And The Lord of the Rings is a revolution. What makes it so unique is that Tolkien wrote it as a sequel to another book that he had not yet written; a sequel to another revolution, so to speak. That’s what makes reading his works in order of publication so confusing. In fact, the prequel to the sequel (pardon the pun) wouldn’t be published until after Tolkien’s death by his son, Christopher Tolkien.
That book is The Silmarillion.
The worldbuilding, the lore – it’s beyond epic. It is so epic, that we do not even get any dialogue. (However, this can be a good thing: The Silmarillion with dialogue would be like reading our school’s Data Protection Rights Charter. And that would be a challenge, even for a Tolkien fan like me.)
The Silmarillion is a great example of the rich linguistics of Tolkien’s mythology. “Sil” means “light” or “star” and “maril” means ring. And The Silmarillion is literally a light of its own, a beacon to other writers of the epic fantasy genre.
The languages of Middle-Earth are what distinguish that ‘Secondary World’ from any other in the epic fantasy genre. Although attempts have been made by other writers of the genre (Robert Jordan comes to mind), Tolkien began inventing made-up languages as a teenager[6]. His subsequent involvement with the OED from 1918 to 1920 as an etymologist, not to mention his dedicated study of the classical, Germanic, and Indo-European languages served to further hone his craft. (It is believed that Tolkien’s understanding of Finnish and Old Norse is significant in his conceptualisation of The Lord of the Rings. In fact, the concept of an all-powerful ring is strikingly reminiscent of a tale from Norse mythology.[7]) Put differently, he had a considerable head-start, and by the time Arda (that’s the planet where Middle-Earth exists) began to take shape, these languages were as much a part of the history and geography of that land as the lays and half-finished poems that Tolkien produced. For instance, without Sindarin, or any of the other fictional languages Tolkien devised, there would be little or no distinguishing between a mighty Mallorn tree and an ordinary tree in the Shire.
To this day Tolkien remains unchallenged in the field of invented languages and his art provides a piece to the complex definition of epic fantasy, while simultaneously setting the bar so high that it has as yet remained tantalisingly out of reach to his successors.
The first revolution is always a reference for all future revolutions. One thing that all epic fantasy novels have in common is another sublevel of fantasy. Let me explain. In The Lord of the Rings, the patch of countryside known as the Shire is inhabited by the hobbits, a carefree folk who enjoy good food, ale, and laughter. It is rare for them to be faced with any real problems. Think of Sam, whose sweetheart is the barmaid, Rosie Cotton. Of course, Sam gets caught up in a quest that determines the fate of Middle-Earth: he joins the Fellowship of the Ring, he kills a giant spider, and he carries Frodo to the summit of Mount Doom. But my point is that Sam returns to the Shire, he returns to his home. And when he does it’s as if he had never left: Rosie is not yet married, and his love is not unreturned.
Now compare this to the drama of the mortal man Aragorn and the immortal Elf Arwen. She must choose to remain an Elf and leave Middle-Earth forever or become a mortal and stay with Aragorn. However, she would never see her family again: as an Elf, Arwen is destined for the Halls of Mandos in Valinor (Tolkien’s Garden of Eden), whereas Men are subject to mortality. Compared to this, life in the Shire really is a different kind of fantasy.
However, the wider world often seeps into this sublevel of fantasy. In The Lord of The Rings, Orcs scour and burn the Shire, and in Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series, monsters shatter the peaceful setting of Emond’s Field. In both cases, the characters living in their sub-fantasy world do not know of, or believe in, the threats of the wider world before their lives become suddenly upended. As the Elf Gildor tells Frodo: “The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence yourselves out”[8].
And the reader is similarly afflicted: sooner or later we must realise that we are only reading, and the real world must take over. We are forced to put the book down, and with it our fantasy world, to resume our everyday tasks. In spite of this, this second life that we briefly lived may have a deeper effect on us than you might think: it sows the seeds for future revolutions; I believe that each one of us can start a revolution – it is up to us to strive and aspire. Tolkien began developing made-up languages well before he became a published writer. These evolved into the more complex languages and scripts that we first glimpsed in The Lord of the Rings. I firmly believe that each revolution begins at the individual level.
Taking all this into consideration, you may be tempted to find parallels between Tolkien’s mythology and our own world. Indeed, many scholars and critics have done exactly that. The Second World War would seem an obvious choice – after all, The Fellowship of the Ring (that’s the first volume of The Lord of the Rings) was first published a mere nine years later. And then there are obvious similarities, right? The Ring must be a symbol for the atomic bomb, while Mordor is surely a representation of Nazi Germany, just as the Shire is the British home front.
Nevertheless, if Tolkien were here today to hear this, he would likely have a fit. Not only is he known for answering testily to such statements in interviews, but he has also provided logical explanations which demonstrate such conclusions to be erroneous and altogether false. In a 1968 BBC interview, Tolkien stated that “people do not fully understand the difference between an allegory and an application”[9]. The foreword to the second edition of The Lord of the Rings (a pamphlet characteristic in its length) is even more blunt: “As for any inner meaning or ‘message’, [the novel] has in the intention of the author none. It is neither allegorical nor topical.” Although Tolkien states that he had written the crucial ‘The Shadow of the Past’ chapter “long before the foreshadow of 1939”, giving the benefit of the doubt, he adds that if The Lord of the Rings were inspired by World War II, “the Ring would have been seized and used against Sauron” while the treacherous wizard Saruman would have “made a Great Ring of his own with which to challenge the self-styled Ruler of Middle-Earth”, and the struggle between the two would have “held the hobbits in hatred and contempt: they would not long have survived even as slaves”.
That is the core of epic fantasy; it is why I love it so much. You see, as opposed to other works of speculative fiction where the worldbuilding isn’t so tight, epic fantasy is written from the start with the intention of producing ‘pure entertainment’: it is something that may be enjoyed purely for what it is, rather than to serve as a platform for the writer’s own allegorical views. Naturally, all writers draw their inspiration from that which they encounter in everyday life – be it in art, history, or current affairs. Yet the nature of epic fantasy succeeds in filtering this out, leaving a story whose plot has become so interconnected that any attempt at unravelling it is futile, and any argument based thereupon may be easily rebuked.
This brings me to my next point: that revolution breeds more revolution, and epic fantasy is no exception. It is cyclical in nature, just like in The Wheel of Time books.
Twenty-eight years ago, a book would be published in the U.S. that would redefine our notion of the genre. It is a masterpiece, although you might be more familiar with the television series that it inspired. That book is George R.R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones. At the time, readers were expecting a different spin on Tolkien’s epic, but one that retained the same themes and general aesthetic. Much like The Wheel of Time series and The Lord of the Rings are on the same side of the same coin. An English teacher once told me that ‘all good writers steal’, and I have to agree. Up to a point. In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien writes about the “Misty Mountains[10]” but in The Wheel of Time series Jordan writes about the “Mountains of Mist[11]”. Isn’t that taking it too far? GRRM seems to think so. If you pick up any of his novels, you’ll see. True, there are fire-breathing dragons and ice zombies, but neither are invincible. They are limited by the by what their own magic can do. Furthermore, GRRM has invented a universe that is driven by its characters; a universe where the worldbuilding is checked by the author’s dedication to creating medieval realism, rather than a Tolkienesque epic. Take A Game of Thrones, a blend of fictional historical fiction and epic fantasy. Magic is undoubtedly a defining element of any work of fantasy, but like Tolkien, GRRM keeps his magic at a minimum, making the struggles of his characters more plausible. By setting limitations unto his story, GRRM has distinguished himself from the wave of ‘Tolkien-imitators’ of the 1960s; A Game of Thrones (indeed, the entire A Song of Ice and Fire series) is now recognised as a staple of the second generation of epic fantasy writing.
While both Tolkien and GRRM interrogate the internal struggle of good versus evil, it is the latter who truly focuses on the ambiguity of the human character and turns the dial up to eleven. In A Song of Ice and Fire, there are characters like Melisandre[12], a fanatical priestess who commits acts of wanton violence for a cause she believes is just and will save humanity. As readers, we are confronted with a moral dilemma; one made all the more unnerving by GRRM’s impeccable characterisation: we want to justify the person’s actions, horrible as they may be, because we understand, if not agree with, their motives and agenda. It is this rather than armies of soldiers in gleaming armour fighting hordes of the Dark Lord’s evil and ugly minions that has once again revolutionised the genre.
My point is that it is the differences, not the similarities, that distinguish one revolution from another. And why is that? Well, take a look at epic fantasy: it would be impossible to boil down all the elements of the genre into a single book, or even into a series of books. I love A Song of Ice and Fire as much (or nearly as much) as The Lord of the Rings. I have them on the same shelf in my room. This is because they both offer different things: today I’m in the mood for the beauty in Tolkien’s mythology, but tomorrow I might be in the mood for GRRM’s gritty take on medieval realism, where you can never be sure that your favourite character will make it to the next page (or whichever character is still alive, as chances are that the person you have been rooting for has already met with an untimely demise). That is what makes epic fantasy so compelling. That is what keeps the genre alive. That is what makes room for future revolutions.
Now, you might not necessarily be a fan of epic fantasy, be it in print or on the screen, and that’s OK. You see, epic fantasy is just another revolution. It is one of billions of revolutions we have encountered since the dawn of Time. And just like any other revolution, epic fantasy might mean a great deal to you – I know it does to me – or it might not, which is also fine.
But it remains a revolution, and from it we can learn of other revolutions, of future revolutions yet to come. And not only those in literature – all disciplines begin with a revolution. Epic fantasy began with The Lord of the Rings, which has acted as a template for other writers, be it Robert Jordan or George R.R. Martin.
Revolution is a beating heart. It beats once as we get The Lord of the Rings. It beats twice as The Wheel of Time series is published. It beats thrice as A Game of Thrones hits the shelves. And if you put your hand against your chest, you will feel a smaller heartbeat succeed the first. It is the same for epic fantasy: there are countless, fascinating worlds that we, the fans of epic fantasy, cannot wait to discover, overshadowed as they may be by the greats.
Because this is the rhythm of revolution.
Notes:
[1] George R. R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons – Part One: Dreams and Dust (London: Harper Voyager, HarperCollins Publishers, 2012), 526 | ISBN: 978-0-00-746606-1
[2] George R. R. Martin, A Clash of Kings (London: Harper Voyager, HarperCollins Publishers, 2011), 297 | ISBN: 978-0-00-744783-1
[3] George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones (London: Harper Voyager, HarperCollins Publishers, 2011), 12 | ISBN: 978-0-00-744803-6
[4] BBC Archive, “1968: TOLKIEN on LORD OF THE RINGS | Release | Writers and Wordsmiths | BBC Archive”, YouTube, uploaded March 8, 2022, https://youtu.be/rre7zQGcldI?si=uPw-h6GLeA2xYnT7, at 0:19-0:26.
[5] J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (London: HarperCollins Children’s Books, 2013), 11 | ISBN: 978-0-00-745842-4
[6] BBC Archive, “1968: TOLKIEN on LORD OF THE RINGS | Release | Writers and Wordsmiths | BBC Archive”, YouTube, uploaded March 8, 2022, https://youtu.be/rre7zQGcldI?si=uPw-h6GLeA2xYnT7, at 3:39-3:44.
[7] https://youtu.be/ByCTeTI3SDg?si=7SHhOF6c5PpTNgna
[8] J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (London: HarperCollins Publishers, 2007), 83 | ISBN: 978-0-261-10325-2
[9] BBC Archive, “1968: TOLKIEN on LORD OF THE RINGS | Release | Writers and Wordsmiths | BBC Archive”, YouTube, uploaded March 8, 2022, https://youtu.be/rre7zQGcldI?si=uPw-h6GLeA2xYnT7, at 4:59-5:03.
[10] J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (London: HarperCollins Publishers, 2007), 3 | ISBN: 978-0-261-10325-2
[11] Robert Jordan, The Eye of the World (London: Orbit, 2021), 9 | ISBN: 978-0-356-51700-1
[12] George R. R. Martin, A Clash of Kings (London: London: Harper Voyager, HarperCollins Publishers, 2011), 18 | ISBN: 978-0-00-744783-1
Steve Martins lives in Belgium, where he writes after hours. He has self-published a series of short stories on Amazon KDP (Those Who Were Sought and Other Tales). His TEDx talk “Epic Fantasy Writing” was an opportunity to share his enthusiasm for speculative fiction with an audience.
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