A rough-and-ready distinction
Reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to Samuel:
He’s interested in, of all things, its physics – e.g., why a person (or an Oompa-Loompa), having drunk a “fizzy lifting drink,” should rise into the air.
Why does an ice-cube rise in a glass of water?, Samuel asks. It’s the right sort hunch. I’m impressed.
What blows Samuel’s mind is that, in Charlie, chewing a stick of gum produces the same sensory/nutritive effect as eating a three-course meal. I’m not sure he realizes it isn’t possible.
And the detail that really gets him is that, at one point during the second “course,” the gum tastes like a baked potato. Why this should impress Samuel so much, I don’t know.
That the gum turns Violet Beauregarde into a blueberry interests him less.
That she could be de-juiced back to near-normalcy interests him somewhat more.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
I once knew a college student who was very interested in The Lord of the Rings – for its metaphysics (her word).
Like, why Elves and Men differ as to mortality?, I asked.
Yes, she said.
That strikes me as the wrong approach.
Could this be one way to distinguish fantasy from science fiction? I.e., is physical or metaphysical inquiry appropriate for science fiction but not for fantasy?
Things you couldn’t inquire about in that spirit (at least, not lamely):
Homer
Hamlet
Gulliver
M. R. James
Jekyll & Hyde
Alice
The Curdie books
Narnia (I haven’t read Michael Ward’s Planet Narnia)
Harry Potter (too many ad hoc creatures and spells)
The Borrowers
Charlotte’s Web
And, I’d say – despite all the “world-building” – The Lord of the Rings.
By contrast, Lewis’s “space” books more readily invite physical/metaphysical scrutiny. So does Slaughterhouse-Five. So does A Wrinkle in Time. So too, perhaps, might Watership Down, which I haven’t read.
So does Dante, goodness gracious; the Divine Comedy is metaphysical SF with all the is dotted and ts crossed.
And H. P. Lovecraft goes further down this path than one might expect.
The Charlie books are an interesting case. There are physical explanations for some of the phenomena. These explanations don’t hold up for very long, and they’re articulated with something like the Alice books’ madcap irreverance; but they have a prima facie plausibility. It’s appropriate to try to work out their laws – if you’re a child. Not so much if you’re grown up.
He’s interested in, of all things, its physics – e.g., why a person (or an Oompa-Loompa), having drunk a “fizzy lifting drink,” should rise into the air.
Why does an ice-cube rise in a glass of water?, Samuel asks. It’s the right sort hunch. I’m impressed.
What blows Samuel’s mind is that, in Charlie, chewing a stick of gum produces the same sensory/nutritive effect as eating a three-course meal. I’m not sure he realizes it isn’t possible.
And the detail that really gets him is that, at one point during the second “course,” the gum tastes like a baked potato. Why this should impress Samuel so much, I don’t know.
That the gum turns Violet Beauregarde into a blueberry interests him less.
That she could be de-juiced back to near-normalcy interests him somewhat more.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
I once knew a college student who was very interested in The Lord of the Rings – for its metaphysics (her word).
Like, why Elves and Men differ as to mortality?, I asked.
Yes, she said.
That strikes me as the wrong approach.
Could this be one way to distinguish fantasy from science fiction? I.e., is physical or metaphysical inquiry appropriate for science fiction but not for fantasy?
Things you couldn’t inquire about in that spirit (at least, not lamely):
Homer
Hamlet
Gulliver
M. R. James
Jekyll & Hyde
Alice
The Curdie books
Narnia (I haven’t read Michael Ward’s Planet Narnia)
Harry Potter (too many ad hoc creatures and spells)
The Borrowers
Charlotte’s Web
And, I’d say – despite all the “world-building” – The Lord of the Rings.
By contrast, Lewis’s “space” books more readily invite physical/metaphysical scrutiny. So does Slaughterhouse-Five. So does A Wrinkle in Time. So too, perhaps, might Watership Down, which I haven’t read.
So does Dante, goodness gracious; the Divine Comedy is metaphysical SF with all the is dotted and ts crossed.
And H. P. Lovecraft goes further down this path than one might expect.
The Charlie books are an interesting case. There are physical explanations for some of the phenomena. These explanations don’t hold up for very long, and they’re articulated with something like the Alice books’ madcap irreverance; but they have a prima facie plausibility. It’s appropriate to try to work out their laws – if you’re a child. Not so much if you’re grown up.