3.5 ⭐
“Look at him! Look at him! He has begun a story without a beginning, and it will never have any end. He! he! he! Look at him!”
Phantastes (1858) by George MacDonald is touted, by a number of online publications, as being the first ever “Fantasy” novel written exclusively for adults. It’s a bold claim; personally, I’d argue it’s more an adult fairy-tale as any fantastical elements are borrowed from mythology/folklore rather than having been developed in the mind of the author. Regardless, a developmentally important, but seemingly all-too-often overlooked, work in the (for lack of a better term) “genre”.
MacDonald himself is the subject of almost feverish praise from C.S.Lewis, who happens to have written the introduction to my edition of the novel. Lewis says:
“It must be more than thirty years ago that I bought… the Everyman edition of Phantastes. A few hours later I knew that I had crossed a great frontier”.
In another, not at all surprising connection, it was the MacDonald family, as a whole, who urged Lewis Carroll to get his book, ‘Alice’s Adventures Under Ground’ at the time, published, and George himself who encouraged Carroll to lengthen the tale which was originally only half the length.
The novel itself is both fairy-tale and spiritual allegory and there are definite parallels to Carroll’s later work. However, where Alice tumbles into Wonderland, Anodos (MacDonald’s protagonist) finds himself in Fairy-Land, a decidedly darker and drearier setting which is reflected aptly in Anodos’ state of mind throughout the novel. It is rich with moral lessons but avoids, for the most part, being overly moralistic. It is dense with symbolism which, at times, can be mercifully transparent but at others, equally as elusive; the many and varied interpretations of the work attest to this. Given the apparent lack of any really in-depth study this work has attracted, perhaps it is destined to forever remain a subjective symbolic experience.
Towards the beginning of his travels through Fairy-Land, Anodos brings to life a white lady of alabaster (Pygmalion/Galatea style) by singing to her, after apparently inheriting the vocal/musical talents of Orpheus. As with every woman/female being in this novel, Anodos falls hopelessly in lust with her and the bass line of the tale is Anodos searching for this lost beauty. The seemingly simple plot, however, is anything but, frequently taking on the characteristics of an incoherent and wildly unpredictable fever dream. To take a passage from the story itself:
“it seemed to me, all the time, as if I were hearing a child talk in its sleep. I could not arrange her story in my mind at all, although it seemed to leave hers in some certain order of its own.”
See, one of MacDonald’s main focuses is on belief; the idea that as we grow older, our ability to imagine/to believe is compromised due to an intellectual skepticism (I would argue an informed one vs. 'ignorance is bliss' which occasionally seems to be what MacDonald is aiming for) and false ideals promoted by the societies we live in. This side of Anodos is symbolised by an insidious shadow that attaches itself to him partway through the novel. A manifestation of the fear, lust and greed that clouds his vision, the shadow quite literally prevents Anodos from seeing aspects of the Fairy world when these attributes expose themselves. This shadow ties in wonderfully with other symbolic aspects of the novel. In his “darkest hour” Anodos actually begins to relish in the company of the sinister shadow; MacDonald’s attempt to highlight the arrogance and close-mindedness of non-believers?
“In a land like this, with so many illusions everywhere, I need his aid to disenchant the things around me. He does away with all appearances, and shows me things in their true colour and form. And I am not one to be fooled with the vanities of the common crowd. I will not see beauty where there is none. I will dare to behold things as they are. And if I live in a waste instead of a paradise, I will live knowing where I live.”
At times it seems evident that MacDonald is expressing some grievances with comments he must often have had to deal with in his own life:
“you speak like a sensible man, sir. We have but few sensible folks round about us. Now, you would hardly credit it, but my wife believes every fairy-tale that ever was written. I cannot account for it. She is a most sensible woman in everything else.”
“But should not that make you treat her belief with something of respect, though you cannot share in it yourself?”
Anodos’ journey, his pilgrimage, is one from disenchantment (with Fairy Land? with God?) to spiritual rejuvenation; a reuniting with the spiritual divinity; to paraphrase Lewis, a “baptism of the imagination”. However, it is also one of self-sacrifice. One in which he grows as an individual from the materialistic 21-year-old with unrealistic ideals of love and beauty to a man who recognises true love from the superficial and what it means to love without need for reciprocation:
I knew now, that it is by loving, and not by being loved, that one can come nearest the soul of another; yea, that, where two love, it is the loving of each other, and not the being beloved by each other, that originates and perfects and assures their blessedness.”
“how many who love never come nearer than to behold each other as in a mirror; seem to know and yet never know the inward life; never enter the other soul; and part at last, with but the vaguest notion of the universe on the borders of which they have been hovering for years?”
MacDonald’s prose is just wonderful, if at times a little flowery. Perhaps periwinkle prose would be a decent enough way to describe it; definitely heavier than lilac but not quite purple… I digress. Often, a mundane, altogether unremarkable scene is brought to life with great vibrancy thanks to the man’s delicate wielding of the pen; not only environments but atmospheres, which are expressed equally as palpably.
The regularly interspersed poems, on the other hand, were less to my liking. The quality prose lent me an unjust sense of anticipation that one of the many poems sprinkled throughout the work would blow my socks off but I found them to be, almost without exception, dull and unmoving.
Fingers crossed some of my friends list decide to pick this one up; my notes on the symbolism of different aspects are of a little more depth that what I’ve supplied in this review and I’d love to see what alternate interpretations others come up with. Happy reading! :)
Indeed, my ideal soon became my life; whereas, formerly, my life had consisted in a vain attempt to behold, if not my ideal in myself, at least myself in my ideal. Now, however, I took, at first, what perhaps was a mistaken pleasure, in despising and degrading myself. Another self seemed to arise, like a white spirit from a dead man, from the dumb and trampled self of the past. Doubtless, this self must again die and be buried, and again, from its tomb, spring a winged child; but of this my history as yet bears not the record. Self will come to life even in the slaying of self; but there is ever something deeper and stronger than it, which will emerge at last from the unknown abysses of the soul: will it be as a solemn gloom, burning with eyes? or a clear morning after the rain? or a smiling child, that finds itself nowhere, and everywhere?
“I have come through the door of Dismay; and the way back from the world into which that has led me, is through my tomb. Upon that the red sign lies, and I shall find it one day, and be glad.”