By S.C. Bryce

In this essay, I'll give a summary of the book and then explain my reactions.

A. Summary of Wizardry

Miéville's Introduction provides an apt description of the book, likening it to a wild and sometimes frustrating tour by a frenzied librarian whose knowledge and insights bring fresh perspective on a hackneyed genre. Miéville also warns the reader that this perspective will not be agreeable to all, but should at least cause reconsideration of the accepted values of the genre and whether something else (something more) should be demanded.

Moorcock's Forward discusses how fantasy is subject to the whims of fashion, with its popularity and acceptance waxing and waning. He notes that many critics look down upon fantasy as a genre while exalting works that embrace fantastical elements. He decries commercialization, which he blames for the current boom of indistinguishable and substandard works. He traces the history of the genre from Icelandic, Greek, Mesopotamian and other ancient sagas, through the 1700s, 1800s, and into the modern eras. In this history, he explains what each period brought to the form we now know.

In the Forward, Moorcock also sets forth his thesis: good fantasy should allow for self-reflection and self-understanding, as well as wit, epic elements, irony, poetry, objectivity, metaphor, and insight into the human condition. "The romance's [his word for fantasy] prime concern," he writes, "is not with character or narrative but with the evocation of strong, powerful images; symbols conjuring up a multitude of sensations to be used (as mystics once used distorting mirrors, as romantics used opium or, latterly, LSD) as escape from the pressures of the objective world or as a means of achieving increased self-awareness." (Wizardry, p. 20) This thesis is developed throughout the work.

The 1700s saw the development of Gothic Romances, which replaced the emphasis on chivalric sensibilities with one on terror. Those writers (like Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein) examined themes such as pure good versus pure evil, light versus darkness, beauty versus hideousness, nature versus science, and imaginings of the soul (including its acquisition and loss). Moorcock argues these works were reactionary, simultaneously suspicious of science, progress, and religion. Overall, I found this insightful chapter to be a wonderful antidote to my ignorance.

Chapter 2: The Exotic Landscape was for me one of the most fascinating portions of Wizardry. Moorcock explores the under-appreciated importance of landscape and the under-use of exotic landscape in current fantasy. He argues that landscape is an intrinsic part of fantasy, able to serve as a metaphor, a foil for the characters, and an external manifestation of the characters' psychology. He praises some of the most enduring images in fantasy (for example, barren, beautiful Mars or the decaying wasteland) while decrying others (for example, Tolkien-esque pastoral England). Like the other chapters, this one wandered as Moorcock discusses, among other subjects, writing in contemporary English compared to what he describes as imitation high English prevalent in faux-medieval Europe type fantasy.

Chapter 3: The Heroes and Heroines is another of many highlights. Moorcock examines negative stereotypes abused in fantasy, particularly sword & sorcery and its brethren. For example, Moorcock traces the use of the "Noble Savage" (a term brought into the mainstream by 18th century French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau), which evolved from a simple sidekick or foil (in, say, Edgar Rice Burroughs's Tarzan stories) into the protagonist (for example, Robert E. Howard's Conan). He looks at "gentleman heroes" like H. Rider Haggard's Allan Quartermain. He dismisses most fantasy heroes as permanent adolescents, compelled by their authors and fans to act impulsively, immaturely, unintelligently, simplistically, and violently—all in response to primeval forces such as lust, greed, and honor. Neither authors nor protagonists pause to consider the consequences.

If heroes have been condemned to be "brutes" by many authors, then heroines have been condemned to be "cute." Moorcock decries the one-dimensional treatment of female characters in fantasy, who are allowed to be little more than "unbelievably beautiful goddesses, treacherous jades or silly slave-girls." (Wizardry, p. 55) More than offensive and "feeble-minded," Moorcock successfully argues that these portrayals of men and women reflect attitudes that are "frighteningly dangerous," (Wizardry, p. 96) particularly given that a large portion of the audience for such works is adolescent boys and young men.

Moorcock's explanation for earlier, flat portrayals of men and women (not to mention sex and sexuality) in fantasy is fascinating. He blames the psychotic personalities of reclusive bachelors from broken homes who were early influences in the genre, such as Edgar Allen Poe, H. P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith. Of course, Moorcock also blames the misogynistic culture which produced these authors and finds hope of change in changing times. He encourages authors to strive for creating whole, mature human beings—"living individuals" (Wizardry, p. 100)—and argues that readers demand it. Chapter 4: Wit and Humour discusses "the art of ironic comedy." Moorcock distinguishes between jokes and ironic comedy, clearly appreciating the appropriate use of both in fantasy. He argues that comedy is under-represented in fantasy because writers fail to recognize humor as an essential tool to humanize, clarify, intensify, and provide a break from the moral narrative. He uses Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast series to illustrate the best in melodrama, irony, and comedy and uses J. R. R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings series to illustrate humorless drivel tainted by too much self-importance. Moorcock also mourns the few authors specializing in fantastic comedy, congratulating Terry Pratchett and others for their work parodying fantasy stereotypes.

Chapter 5: Epic Pooh is arguably the most notorious of the essays. In it, Moorcock mercilessly criticizes J. R. R. Tolkien, Richard Adams (British author of Watership Down, Shardik, and The Plague Dogs), and others who write in "mouth-music," a "lullaby" language that he likens to children's literature. (Wizardry, p. 124.) For Moorcock, this style lacks tension, vitality, and punch.

He also criticizes these authors for hating modernity and longing for a vanished, pure, natural, pastoral England that never actually existed. He claims they are willing and hypocritical tools of authority, trying to brainwash unsuspecting readers (particularly youth) into accepting "middle-class" and "Christian" values, which Moorcock leaves undefined. Again, Moorcock longs for reality, humanity, vitality, originality, poetry, and metaphor—all of which he finds lacking in these works. Instead, returning to the themes of Chapter 3, he praises some children's authors for defined juvenile characters who are more mature, sensible, and intelligent than their adult counterparts created by "epic Pooh" writers.

Chapter 6: Excursions and Developments considers the resurgence of popularity of fantastic fiction in the 1960s, its survival of a genre market crash in the 1970s and 1980s, and the current revival. Moorcock also examines fantasy's influence on and entry into the mainstream culture, as well as fantasy's spread into general literature, music, movies, games, comics, and other formats.

Wizardry concludes with, among other things, appendices and Vandermeer's Afterword. The appendices consist of eight reviews penned by Moorcock about some of his favorite works. The main purpose of the appendices, it seems, are to act as a positive counterbalance to Moorcock's scathing commentary on the current state of fantasy.

VanderMeer's Afterword echoes Miéville's Introduction, complimenting Moorcock on his encyclopedic knowledge, passion for the genre, and contributions to it while apologizing for Moorcock's acerbic style.

B. Reaction to Wizardry

Some of the weaknesses of Wizardry could have been resolved easily and it seems to me to be a testament to Moorcock's orneriness that they were not. For example, in the Forward, Moorcock declares that he has no intention of defining terms for the reader or trying to persuade the reader to his points of view. The first is unfortunate because it makes reading Wizardry, particularly the dense Forward and Chapter 1: Origins, unnecessarily difficult. The reader is left to wonder what the difference is, if any, among epic fantasy, romantic fantasy, romantic fiction, magic realism, science fantasy, speculative fiction, heroic fantasy, and artificial romances (just to name some of the terms used). Given Moorcock's implication that there are important distinctions, it would have been helpful if he had been inclined to tell the reader what they are. This refusal to explain extends to authors, works, and concepts; references are dropped throughout Wizardry without any context or clarification, leaving the reader (presumably less well-traveled in the genre than Moorcock) no more enlightened. This on-going problem is one of the most serious structural flaws of the work because it limits what the reader can learn from Moorcock's impressive familiarity with the genre.

The second declaration in the Forward is unfortunate because, to this reader at least, it rings false. What is the purpose of writing such vehemently opinionated essays and reprinting them time and again, I wondered, if not to explain the author's point of view and to influence the reader's? Notably, Moorcock does not offer an alternative motivation.

On another note, the essay on humor had me wondering about whether the dearth of irony in fantasy is related to the dearth of characters who are "living individuals." Does Moorcock's bachelor-genre explanation apply here? After all, it seems to me that the same factors that would prevent a socially stunted author from creating "living individuals" would also prevent him from penning sophisticated irony and, perhaps, making full use of exotic landscapes.

Moreover, it is too bad that the validity of Moorcock's criticisms is weakened by his style. His Forward, for example, quickly reveals to us that Miéville's warnings regarding Moorcock's perspective and the tone of the book are severely understated.

For example, Moorcock appears to bear a bitter grudge against J. R. R. Tolkien. He never passes up an opportunity to insult Tolkien, his friends, his admirers, his fans, his imitators, his legacy, and his place in the fantasy literature pantheon. Indeed, Moorcock seems to manufacture such opportunities and apparently relishes in the insults. Tolkien is given no credit for his works or contributions. To a slightly lesser degree, Moorcock handles C.S. Lewis (author of the Narnia Chronicles) the same way. They and others are hammered for their happy endings and, as described above, hatred of modernity as well as nostalgia for a lost, unspoiled age. Their characters are dismissed as under-developed children, their words stifled and humorless, their plots full of wholesome morality.

But are these sweeping criticisms as valid as Moorcock claims? Does Moorcock ever discuss why these works—if truly meritless—would be so popular and, for many, resound so deeply? Not really. For example, wasn't a theme of The Lord of the Rings the maturation of the carefree hobbits in the face of unspeakable horrors, their utter loss of innocence? That danger can come even into your hobbit-hole? That individuals have responsibilities to society? What about leadership, loyalty, and sacrifice? What about what happens when these things are lost? What about greed, corruption, slavery, and slaughter? What about failure? That one can't go home from war unchanged? That some pains never go away? What about a Frodo so scarred that he can no longer live in his society, but is forced to live apart forever—is this a happy ending?

Even if Moorcock's criticisms are valid, I asked myself, so what? What's so horrible about happy endings, lush countryside, and even longing for a fictional age of innocence? Can't some works offer simply enjoyment, with wholesome, moral, or even bland entertainment their only merit? Why can't fantasy's prime concern be character or narrative? Can it be true, as Moorcock implies, that the only acceptable "reality" is one in which characters are "sceptical [sic], sardonic and world-weary" (Wizardry, p.148) as they torture themselves through a decayed urban landscape while the reader alternatively laughs and nods knowingly at the irony? I, for one, am glad that this "reality" does not match my own. How sad it would be if it did! And what would then happen to the originality, vitality, and multi-dimensionality that Moorcock argues is so desperately lacking? Is it not just as limiting to restrict the genre to Moorcock's version of reality as it is to restrict it to C.S. Lewis and company's?

Moreover, Moorcock does not hesitate to ascribe to Tolkien, Lewis, and their cadre sinister, cowardly, or otherwise ignoble motivations, writing as if he had intimate knowledge of their supposed "conspiracies" to infuse him with their middle-class values. I was left with two impressions: the first of the skull-caps in John Christopher's Tripods series (through which alien invaders pump propaganda to enslave humanity) and the second of the Inferno, the classic vehicle through which Dante Aligheri (embittered by his numerous social enemies in pre-Renaissance Florence) turned vengeance for perceived or real wrongs into literature. The result was that I did not so much adopt Moorcock's fierce (and sometimes funny) opinions of Tolkien et al., as much as wonder what they could possibly have done to affect him so profoundly. I was left with little doubt that Moorcock would have placed them (as traitors to the genre) in the maw of Dante's beast along with Brutus (traitor to Caesar) and Judas (traitor to Christ)—all under the guise of scholarship. Moorcock's charges are clearly heartfelt. But how much of Wizardry is ingenious insight; how much just sour grapes?

My feelings were exacerbated by Moorcock's failure to distinguish between fact and opinion and by his unacknowledged contradictions. Moorcock's arguments against commercialization smelt strongly of the latter. As a supporter of used bookstores, I also lament that rows upon rows of sub-par fiction churned out by hacks are taking advantage of the public's current taste for the genre—to the detriment of readers and the genre. But I also wondered about Moorcock's role in (and profit from) all this. Moorcock's most famous and influential (and, in my mind, unparalleled) character, Elric, has appeared in graphic novels, artwork, and role-playing games. Elric's name has been loaned out to other authors to produce homages. He has been resurrected from a poignant and powerful death (more precisely, prequeled) to appear in additional stories. A movie is in the works, in large part due to the incredible technical and commercial success of Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings films (how's that for irony!). And surely a big movie will result in another edition of the Elric books, along with the usual product licensing? Another Moorcock character, Jerry Cornelius, has also appeared in film and in works by other authors. Isn't this commercialization? If it isn't, why not? If it is, why is Moorcock less culpable than anyone else?

I also wondered about Moorcock's debts to Tolkien. As I understand it, the Elric Saga was written as a response to Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. If true, then without The Lord of the Rings Moorcock's most famous character would never have existed. Furthermore, Tolkien serves for many as an introduction to fantasy. Surely, there are many who would never have discovered Elric (and Moorcock) if they had not been exposed to Tolkien. And, again, there's that movie deal…

Moreover, some of the traits Moorcock rails against as hallmarks of bad writing are found in his own works, including Wizardry. These traits include poorly constructed sentences, meandering logic, "awful seriousness," commercialization, and (particularly in Wizardry) childishness masking as literature (I refer here to the almost random insults hurtled at the many authors dismissed without adequate reasoning). Also, nearly all these traits are found in abundance in Peake's Gormenghast, which Moorcock suggests is the epitome of what good fantasy can be. Just as Moorcock never misses an opportunity to insult Tolkien, he never misses an opportunity to praise Peake. Yet the Gormenghast books (however full of ironic comedy and remarkable imagery) were nearly unintelligible in parts. I remain unclear why dense, convoluted, obtuse, and frustrating writing is castigated in one case, but lauded in another. Likewise, Peake's absurd characters often engaged in absurd behavior (could anything be stranger than Flay the butler's feud with Swelter the cook?). Are they more "whole" and real than Tolkien's characters? Notably, Tolkien's heroes volunteer to sacrifice themselves to their responsibilities (even taking on additional burdens) while Moorcock's Elric and Peake's Titus run away from their royal duties, lamenting the unfairness of it all. Who, then, is producing mature heroes and who is producing perpetual adolescents? Although certainly there are works published of unabashedly poor quality, isn't it possible that—sometimes—the difference is preference rather than merit?

Despite its weaknesses, I agree with Miéville and VanderMeer that the strengths of Wizardry are legion. Moorcock writes with authority born of experience, knowledge, wisdom, and his own unrivaled place in the genre. Wizardry introduces the reader to under-appreciated writers. Numerous excerpts help illustrate Moorcock's points. The work is full of lines that cause thoughtful pauses, such as: "A writer of fantasy must be judged, I think, by the level of inventive intensity at which he or she works." (Wizardry, p. 47) Reading Wizardry was a true learning experience, and many of Moorcock's points resonated strongly with me.

Moorcock's complaint that "brutes" and "cutes" are not realistic portrayals and his call for realistic and rounded characterization is refreshing. He seems, however, to have missed a possible explanation for their absence: it is, of course, simply easier to write about "brutes" and "cutes" than it is to create these whole humans Moorcock wishes to see. Characters with depth are difficult to create and make believable. They also require a thorough understanding of human nature and an ability to communicate it. Most of us are simply not that talented.

I also found the "brutes" and "cutes" argument to be particularly of interest, given I'd had a similar discussion on David Eddings's Belgariad series. There, a woman named Merel is repeatedly described as arrogant, cold, and formalistic toward her husband, one of our band of heroes. The habitually light-hearted Barak is saddened by her rejection and we, the readers, are expected to sympathize with him. I was shocked that the cause of this rift was that he, in a drunken rage, broke down the door of her bedroom and raped her. This explanation was given in passing and without any sympathy toward Merel because, after all, Barak apologized. She is criticized by influential characters (including women), who essentially tell her to get over it and that there are more important things in life to worry about. While she is rebuked for her anger, he is never rebuked for raping her. She eventually relents, bemoaning all the wonderful time with her loving husband that she lost because of her stubbornness.

What shocked me most was that, because this drama is played out in the background of the Belgariad, I had not noticed it as a teenager. Nor did I notice that other female characters were told (by female characters, no less) that having a few children would mellow out their personalities or, alternatively, fill out their embarrassingly under-sized breasts. Nor did any of the fans of this series I have asked notice this. How could this be, I have wondered, given that David Eddings is one of the most popular and widely read fantasy authors today and that the Belgariad is his flagship series? Disturbingly, when I visited an internet message board discussing rape in fantasy, many of the participants could not remember if their favorite heroes were rapists.

It is rare enough that purveyors of popular culture recognize or accept any responsibility for the wares they put on the market. Too often, the public is met with Charles Barkeley-esque pretenses of "I am not a role model" from those who are cashing in on their influence. Using the Eddings example, what does it say when a writer suggests a husband may rape his wife without losing any of his heroic virtues, so long as he offers a sincere apology afterward? What does it say when a writer portrays a rape victim as arrogant and cruel because she does not forgive her rapist? What does it say when these criticisms of the rape victim come from a powerful female character? Or from a female author (Leigh Eddings, David Eddings' wife, has later been credited as the co-author of the Belgariad)? What does it say that few seem to notice or care? Isn't this exactly what Moorcock warns is offensive, "feeble-minded," and "frighteningly dangerous"? (Wizardry, p. 96).

Perhaps the greatest legacy of a work like Wizardry is sparking such discussions. While I disagree with his style and some of his analysis, I certainly recognize that Moorcock's ultimate goal in Wizardry is good. Moorcock clearly believes that the ravaged genre can be salvaged. He clearly wants fantasy to rise above its flat, played-out stereotypes. He wants authors to be more original, to love and care about their characters, to develop them into full people. In short, he wants authors to be better writers, and fans to be more critical readers and more discerning consumers. And certainly it takes no small amount of courage (or conceit) to confront the pillars of fantasy's temples, asking readers to reconsider their favorite authors and works. Moorcock surely succeeds in demanding more from the genre and challenging us to do the same. Whether you ultimately agree with him or not, he will provoke you to think—and this is reason enough to make Wizardry a worthy read.