Fantasy as narrative for virtual communities

Maureen Nimon

A surge in public interest in fantasy at times of uncertainty is too common a phenomenon to be of note in itself. It is, however, instructive to examine the relationship between the increased popularity of fantasy at a given time and the societies in which that increase takes place. Though the complexity of factors involved renders any study at best provisional and speculative, a researcher's exploration of possible explanations may extend understanding of the role of narrative in the construction of meaning and purpose in the lives of individuals and communities.

The paper proposes that most of us now live in communities the nature of which suggests reasons why fantasies grounded in traditional European myth, but incorporating modern ideologies and references, are displacing national histories as popular narratives. Support for this case is drawn from the current work of sociologists as well as from reference to the texts themselves.

Some of us older folk have the illusion of being still rooted in the community in which we grew up. We acknowledge dramatic change, but continue to believe in an enduring core of 'Australianness' persisting in our national community. The degree to which our interpretation of the world around us according to this belief differs from that constituted by younger people is not always evident, but our awareness of degrees of difference makes us interpret history quite differently from the way we were taught it. What 'Australianness' means to other members of the national community is not something I can assume to know because the most significant indicator of the decline of officially sanctioned versions of national history as the foundation of social identity, ideology and national 'voice', exists in the continuing public debate over what being Australian means. This debate, which suddenly intensified in the 1990s, indicates that at present there can be no national history, but there must be many, for the one Australia of my childhood is now a plurality of Australias.

Clearly the nature of 'Australianness' achieved prominence in the 1990s because the approach of the millennium and the staging of the Sydney Olympics focussed attention on issues arising from the increasing diversity of the communities in which we live. But public debates over national identity have not been confined to this country. I propose that issues arising from our physical membership of a plural society are amplified by our new memberships of virtual communities. Since the early 1990s, our use of communication technologies to extend the activities of our working lives and personal contacts beyond our physical location has reached a level of effectiveness that multiples the number of communities of which we are genuinely part. Further, it is the multiplicity of our communal memberships that fuels the appeal of fantasies that draw on myths common in their elements to many Western communities, yet presenting traditional stories and values in forms unlocked from time and place sufficiently to strip them of confining national associations.

The fantasy saga, updated to describe magical battles between bands of ordinary folk and the powers of Darkness rather than between gods and heroes, offer analogies of life removed enough in their imagery from defined reality to allow anyone to find in them a personal pattern of meaning, yet fruitful enough in shared associations, to serve as communally bonding narratives. They are particularly suited to people who find themselves increasingly bereft of widely accepted reference systems, historical, religious or national in origin, by which to guide their own lives and by which to communicate with others. Even if you are a member of a single, identifiable group, there are few in this country who consider their value systems absolute and beyond question and live accordingly. Most of us as individuals have our own beliefs and principles, but at the point at which our beliefs intersect with those of others, we are conscious that they are derived from our location in time and space and are not widely accepted as universal truths. If this is the challenge of our daily lives, tightly encased as they are by physical boundaries, how much more so is it the reality of our lives when the communities to which we belong are multiple and some are virtual? We become locked in a paradox by which we are simultaneously in contact with more people than ever, but by the nature of our varied relationships with them, more individual and isolated. For each of us becomes the singular reference point for all the communities to which we belong.

What are the consequences? Being an isolated individual is an exhausting existence because it requires each person to judge, decide and take responsibility for each action of the day. In the past, membership of a settled community with core shared assumptions in regard to reality and right-doing removed the burden of conscious decision-making from an individual in all but exceptional cases. We have lost the security and ease of our former certainties and this leaves us obliged to chart every centimetre of our own progress through even trivial events. How do we proceed?

To be human is to be aware of oneself as a corporal being located in space and time. For all the magnification of our personal powers by technology, we are cocooned in a space defined by our physical abilities and our personal resources. What we see, feel and do at any single moment is created by the interaction of our senses and our environment

Reality is, according to Schopenhauer, brought into being by our acts of will. 'It is the stubborn indifference of the world to my intention ... that rebounds in the perception of the world as "real" - constraining, limiting and disobedient' (Bauman 2000, p.17). To live, then, is to engage in a process of judgment and decision-making. While some activities vital to our continued existence, such as breathing, generally proceed without us having to engage in them consciously, most of each day now requires of us a stream of judgments to be made and decisions to be taken.

This intensifies the stress of our lives as the measure of our equanimity stems in large part from the percentage of our daily decisions we can subordinate to habit, a habit being a decision once taken that was sufficiently effective in its results to persuade us to apply it again and again. The more a decision becomes a habit, the more comfort it provides by smoothing a measure of uncertainty and effort from our day. It is true that habits blank out certain parts of our lives, removing them from scrutiny and the possibility of improvement, but though habit may be viewed as potentially deadening in this way, we must also concede that habit can be liberating. 'To imagine a life of momentary impulses, of short-term action, devoid of sustainable routines, a life without habits, is to imagine indeed a mindless existence' (Sennett cited in Bauman 2000, p.21). Thus habits free our minds to explore other issues, other dimensions.

Today the pursuit of happiness by means of the diminution of stress in our lives is made ever more difficult not by the dissolution of community and culture, the source of our values and criteria of judgment, but by the multiplication of them. We do not float, as individuals, detached from the specifics of social groups with their defining myths and practices, but instead our multiple community memberships enforce on us the consideration of several, and often jarring, standards of conduct. History, the stories of the past as told in any given community, had previously functioned to make sense of the present. Those stories most central to a group embodied guidelines to action, endorsed social structures and practices, and while they could be restrictive, they were also supportive in that they limited the burden of an individual's responsibility for choice. But once the deconstruction of these stories called into question 'the possibility of objective knowledge' and announced 'the death of certainty' (Thomas 1994), the individuals set free have had to live with greater measures of uncertainty and insecurity.

Moreover, communications have melted time and space so that the person physically beside us may be someone of whom we lose all awareness as our attention is transported elsewhere. Mobile telephony forces the phenomenon upon our consciousness. Not only does the mobile phone blur the spheres of public and private, in a real sense it removes the speaker from the place he or she is presently in. 'The speaker is not with us, nor we with him [sic]. The momentary community of those in the same place or situation is shattered by these connections which place some persons in two places at once and no two individuals in the same two places' (Woollacott 1998).

The current popularity of SMS text-messaging and chatrooms provides evidence that the communities which young people create through modern communication technologies have a substantive importance concealed by the convenience factor of instantaneous communication. If the technologies are thought of only as ways by which we conduct our normal lives more easily, their potential to transform relationships between individuals and the immediate world around them is veiled. For example, much gossiping occurs via these means. But it is gossip with new characteristics created by the media employed. Thompson asserts the social importance of gossip as 'an activity through which the norms and values of groups can be reaffirmed without being explicitly asserted' (Thompson 2000, p.26). Mobile telephone and chatrooms make possible the gossip that sustains many virtual communities. But the nature of the communities constructed by communication technologies is more unstable than the 'best friendships' of 8 to 10 year olds. They are shifting, ephemeral and deceptive, communities which are formed and dissolved by the initiation and cessation of every communication act, ones in which a person can parade in carnival mask and garb, posing as a shadow of some fancied or experimental self. The communication technologies of today have made real the parallel universes posited by mathematicians and written about by science fiction and fantasy writers. Their ready availability has opened the doors to multiple lives for every one with access to the keyboard and the phone. Certainly, I doubt that many mobile phone owners could give a more convincing account of how the technology of their phones works than they could of the magic that 'operates' Harry Potter's broomstick in flight.

The pursuit of happiness, the one right that remains self-evident because of its marketing applications, becomes more arduous as the burden of personal responsibility for one's choices grows and along with it, the possibility of failure. Peter Drucker, respected in the business world for his predictions of the new economic future, predicts that 'the next society will be a knowledge society' and that one of its chief characteristics will be 'the potential for failure'. He argues that the upward mobility of the knowledge society will come at a high price because 'not everyone can win' (2001, p.4) and there can only be winners if there are losers. This was not true of earlier societies to the same degree. 'The son of a landless labourer who became a landless labourer himself was not a failure. In the knowledge society, however, he is not only a personal failure but a failure of society as well' (2001, p.11). While Drucker's picture is oversimplified, Bauman agrees that as we move 'from the era of pre-allocated "reference groups" into the epoch of "universal comparison"', the responsibility for failure falls primarily on the individual (2000, pp.7-8) as does that for the 'pattern-weaving' which is necessary to endow life with meaning (Bauman 2000, p.8). Theoretically we are therefore all the more free and empowered. In practice we are certainly more alone.

Being alone strips each of us of identity since identity is composed of our relationships to others - in person, in time, in space. Communities are bonded by narratives that absorb individuals into a shared world-view that provides them with ideals and shows them through story how to put those ideals into action. This function of narrative has long been recognized. In Sharpe's London Journal in 1849, the comment was made that 'nations make their own gods and heroes, and ... they attribute to them the perfection of those good qualities which are more or less conspicuous in themselves' (quoted in Barczewski 1997, p.179). In 1997 Barczewski posited that 'every nation requires a "national history" in which the community's evolution and existence is explained and validated'. She goes on to point out that national histories consist 'not only of - or not even primarily of - actual historical events' (p.179). The transformation of the role of the myth of Anzac in today's Australia, as evidenced by such books as Soldier Boy (Hill 2001) and In Flanders Fields (Jorgensen and Harrison-Lever 2002), illustrates the truth of this claim (Nimon 2001).

Once we recognize the truth of this, it becomes easier to accept the substitution of fantasy based on European myth for national history as the predominant popular narratives. Yet we need to go further and accept the porous and migratory nature of boundaries between history, legend and religion. It is only in academic history departments that some have dared to claim their history as a pure strain. In the nineteenth century, national history for the populace was written as 'true stories', the label itself signalling that history concerned important events was written so as to show their national significance, thus in the process, transforming them into legend. Leaders such as Wolfe (Schama 1990) and Nelson were portrayed in ways that constructed them as heroes whose biographies were as figurative and polemic as those of saints who had preceded them as model lives for the people, or the accounts of heroes of ancient legend. In fact an argument could be mounted that the similarities in the use of iconography and technique show that, as legend was the history of oral societies, so Southey's biography of Nelson (1813) and biographies like it, were the sagas of a literate community.

In the early twentieth century, historians such as J. B. Bury rejected the romanticized style of the narrative dramas of earlier historians, declaring that history 'is a science, no less and no more' (Curthoys and McGrath 2000, p.ix). They worked to uncover the definitive account of what really happened by collecting and weighing 'objective facts' which they would fit together like jigsaw pieces to reveal a pattern. The borders which gave shape to the jigsaw puzzle were the realities of British culture as the time perceived them, framing truths which these historians never questioned, but which enabled them to write 'scientific' history.

Academic enquiry since their time has undermined the validity of the assumptions from which they worked. It will probably not be far into the future before those who come after us find it surprising that, at the end of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first, we as academics are prone to assume that reason governs our lives and those of the people around us more pervasively and persuasively than it does. We are accustomed to the idea that 'paranormal beliefs increase in popularity when there is social turmoil and personal insecurity' and that 'the popular influence of astrology ... has persisted(C. French quoted in Boztas 2001, p.37). We were bemused when Nancy Reagan consulted an astrologer, but probably less so when Princess Diana did. We note the popularity of New Age thinking with its raft of notions from numerology to aromatherapy. Do we need to acknowledge that we subscribe to the fallacy that such beliefs are features of an ignorant past, driven out by public education, that superstition has been banished by scientific realism? In our evolving societies, as failure becomes more firmly the burden of the individual, it is likely that the followers of astrology will increase, as 'the fatalistic nature of the system can ... take away responsibility for failure' (Boztas 2001, p.37). In times of confusion, people will seek metanarratives that are meaningful for them. When there is no dominant metanarrative, those in vogue will be diverse and contradictory. What some consider fantasy may be truth for others.

Fantasy has always been a significant part of popular narrative even when it has not been recognized as such. Earlier popular forms, such as Westerns, John Wayne war movies or James Bond adventures were in essence romanticised elements of national histories. Currently popular fantasy is based on traditional European myths and legends which were once the histories of oral communities, but which have been loosened from their specific origins by the eclipse of the groups which generated them. (Icelandic sagas, being the exception, underline the general claim.) It is pertinent to the case being made that Tolkien wrote The Lord of the Rings from the fragments of Anglo-Saxon tradition not annihilated by the Norman Invasion. His work can be seen as an imaginative archaeological reconstruction of what has been lost. At the same time, his acknowledgment that his stories were also shaped by the wars of his lifetime makes them resonate with meanings derived from one of the most disastrous half centuries in human history.

Tolkien's work also becomes a history for the present by continuing the trend of twentieth century history to celebrate the heroism of the ordinary person and by discarding the nineteenth century tradition of history as the lives of great men. For example, Tolkien's story aligns well with the 'civil religion' which Inglis describes Australians' observance of Anzac to be (1998, p.458). Anzac, as interpreted in the film Gallipoli, centred on 'the pointless sacrifice of 7th August', not the landing on 25th April. This makes the Anzacs of the film 'victims, not victors. They are not even, visibly, killers: we do not see one Turk shot or bayoneted' ( Inglis 1998, pp.439-440). In this way, they become primarily men who volunteered to fight for what they believed in, who stood together and who acted with courage, whatever the odds. Tolkien's work is even more encompassing, when the fellowship which forms to protect the ring embraces different races (Ellis 2001, p.7).

The Lord of the Rings also offers a portrait of the comfort zone we must leave if we are to achieve anything, let alone something of momentous import. Aside from its function of rural idyll, Hobbiton's appeal arises from its construction as a world of favoured habits which offer predictability and freedom from stress. Most readers of The Lord of the Rings would like to visit Hobbiton and stay there for awhile, but they would remain amused outsiders. Life there is no more stimulating than that to be found in the land of the lotus eaters and ordinary people begin their journeys towards self-discovery by leaving its borders. Hobbiton, the Home of Habits as well as Hobbits, is a place we need but in which we know we cannot spend our lives. It is an Eden representing the past of certainties from which we have been expelled.

The national histories of Europe have always been permeated with religious ideology. The decisions taken by national leaders have been interpreted as embodying God's destiny for His people and contributing to divine plans for the world at large. The battles between good and evil, between light and dark, that are core to the fantasy of saga are imbued inextricably with religious associations. Philip Pullman examines the role of religious influences in life's struggles in his Northern Lights trilogy. His reinterpretation of the Fall of the Angels, intermingled as it is with elements from northern European mythologies, is less radical than it first appears. It asserts that the twentieth century democratic belief in free will informed by knowledge and a willingness to take responsibility for one's actions, is the source of salvation. Though the chief among the oppressive institutions which Pullman's heroes fight is that of a church representative of organised religion, it is not religion itself that is the enemy. However, religious themes give a gravity to Pullman's work that nothing else could. Religious story can also be used to give meaning and form to saga in a light-hearted, even jocular fashion as Pratchett demonstrates with his Moses figure, leading his people to a promised land, in Truckers (1990).

To assert that myths widely known in western countries have become reintegrated into personal belief systems of people whose working and social lives are fragmented by contemporary technologies may seem in itself fanciful. Yet such a position is supported by Castells' ( Himanen, Torvalds, Castells 2001) argument that we now have 'as the semantic framework of our lives', a 'real virtuality',

Virtual, because it is based on electronic circuits and ephemeral audiovisual messages. Real, because this is our reality, since the global hypertext provides most of the sounds, images, words, shapes, and connotations that we use in the construction of our meanings in all domains of experience (p.170)

It has been reported that Jedi Knights 'have gained official recognition as a religion in the UK Census 2001' (http://www.theregister.co.uk/content/28/22113.html), while cars driving around Adelaide have been observed with number plates beginning Jedi Knight.

Lule (2001) draws our attention to the role of myth in the interpretation and presentation of news stories in all media, offering case studies of seven 'master myths' that determine what the 'news' reports. In doing so, he reminds us that 'myth is not false belief. Myth is not an untrue tale', but a means of 'telling the great stories of humankind for humankind' (p.15)

My discussion of actual fantasy texts is brief and incidental. However, this has arisen from the nature of the key point being made. Since my main argument is that the current popularity of a certain style of fantasy can be partially explained by the nature of recent changes in our social identity, I have spent most of the paper presenting my view of what these changes are. I have also argued that the inspiration and emotional satisfaction some derived from imagined mythical history is not especially bizarre if we acknowledge that popular history has always been mythologized, even when it contains some accepted fact. This is a case that cannot be made primarily from examination of the texts themselves.

References

Barczewski, S (1997) 'Nations Make their Own Gods and Heroes': Robin Hood, King Arthur and the development of racialism in nineteenth-century Britain, Journal of Victorian Culture, 1997: 2 (2) pp.179-207.

Bauman, Z (2000) Liquid Modernity, Cambridge: Polity Pr. with Blackwell.

Boztas, S (2001) Dons reach for the stars, The Australian, Higher Education Supplement, 20th June, p.37.

Curthoys, A, McGrath, A (eds) (2000) Writing Histories: Imagination and Narration. Monash, Vic: Monash Publications in History, School of Historical Studies, Monash University.

Drucker, P (2001) The Next Society: a survey of the near future, The Economist, 3rd November, pp.3-18.

Ellis, D (2001) One tale to rule them all and in the darkness bind them, (Interview with PhD student, Kerrie Le Lievre.) The Adelaidean, December, 2001, p.7.

Himanen, P, Torvalds, L, Castells, M (2001) The Hacker Ethic and the Spirit of the Information Age. London: Secker and Warburg.

Hill, A (2001) Soldier Boy. Ringwood, Vic.: Penguin.

Lule, J (2001) Daily News, Eternal Stories. The Mythological Role of Journalism. NY: Guildford Press.

Inglis, K S (1998) Sacred Places: war memorials in the Australian landscape, Carlton Sth, Vic: M.U.P.

Jorgensen, N, Harrison-Lever, B (2002) In Flanders Fields. Fremantle: Sandcaster Books.

Nimon, M (2001) True Stories and 'the death of certainty', Orana, 37: 3, pp.4-7.

Pratchett, T (1990) Truckers, Corgi.

Pullman, P His Dark Materials (1995), The Subtle Knife (1998), The Amber Spyglass (2001), London: Scholastic Children's Books.

Schama, S (1990) The many deaths of General Wolfe, Granta: History, 32 Spring, pp.13-56.

Southey, S (1925 [1813]) Life of Nelson, London: A C Black.

Thomas, K (1994) Coming to terms with the death of certainty, The Guardian Weekly, 18th September, p.28.

Thompson, J B (2000) Political Scandal: power and visibility in the media age, Cambridge:Polity Pr. with Blackwell.

Tolkien, J R R (1990) The Lord of the Rings. London: Harper Collins.

Woollacott, M (1998) Weighed down by information overload, The Guardian Weekly, 15 March, p17.
http://www.theregister.co.uk/content/28/22113.html (accessed on 1st August, 2002.)

Dr Maureen Nimon is a member of the School of Communication, Information and New Media, of the University of South Australia. Her primary interest in children's literature is in the social function of books for children and young people.

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