Let these changes make you more holy and true
Talking with ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nineweaving about her upcoming panels at Boskone, I said that I hoped someone would talk about Lloyd Alexander's Prydain on "The Magic Goes Away," because the ending of The High King (1968) is one of the only times I don't hate that trope. She asked why and I textbricked:
It came up at the panel on existentialist Lloyd Alexander at Readercon: it works for me because Alexander ties the departure of magic not to nostalgia or the end of a golden age but to the idea of responsibility and reality, reckoning—it is not always painful—with the world as it is. Gone are the Sons of Don who only ever remained in Prydain to hold the line against Arawn, a counterweight of preternatural good against supernatural evil, and with the vanquishing of the latter, the former would unbalance the world if they stayed. Gone are the magical implements that would till a field or weave a tapestry without the touch of human hand, but they are replaced by the inestimable treasure of the secrets of craftsmanship that Arawn stole long ago from humanity, which Taran explains are all the more precious because, unlike the ownership of individual enchanted objects, they are accessible to everyone and can be endlessly shared. I hated for years that Eilonwy had to choose between enchantment and everything else she wanted from her life, but Fflewddur with his oft-invoked kinship to the House of Don doesn't even get the choice, even though the ultimate renunciation of magic was foreshadowed by his funny, heartbreaking, crucial sacrifice of his harp, finally making himself responsible for his own flaws instead of relying on enchantment to keep him from having to do the work of growing up. (He still gets the last word in spirit: "And, in time, only the bards knew the truth of it.") Even though the story opens in a world of oracular pigs and books of prophecy and enchanted swords and warrior zombies et cetera et cetera, its magic is not in the end stronger or stranger or more wondrous than people themselves. There's a pang at its loss, but it's not even that there's so much else left when it's gone, there's so much unfolding into the space it left. It's not easy, but it's the world. The world is all we have. We make it the best we can. I like that much better than Tolkien's idea—reflected in Boskone's wording—which I cannot but imagine was inflected by his Catholicism, of a Fall.
It matters so much to me, the world that we have. I hate living in a time when so many people would deny it in favor of a world that never was or a world they imagine will come. I see the environmental signs, "There Is No Planet B," but it's not only the planet. It's our lives.
nineweaving about her upcoming panels at Boskone, I said that I hoped someone would talk about Lloyd Alexander's Prydain on "The Magic Goes Away," because the ending of The High King (1968) is one of the only times I don't hate that trope. She asked why and I textbricked:It came up at the panel on existentialist Lloyd Alexander at Readercon: it works for me because Alexander ties the departure of magic not to nostalgia or the end of a golden age but to the idea of responsibility and reality, reckoning—it is not always painful—with the world as it is. Gone are the Sons of Don who only ever remained in Prydain to hold the line against Arawn, a counterweight of preternatural good against supernatural evil, and with the vanquishing of the latter, the former would unbalance the world if they stayed. Gone are the magical implements that would till a field or weave a tapestry without the touch of human hand, but they are replaced by the inestimable treasure of the secrets of craftsmanship that Arawn stole long ago from humanity, which Taran explains are all the more precious because, unlike the ownership of individual enchanted objects, they are accessible to everyone and can be endlessly shared. I hated for years that Eilonwy had to choose between enchantment and everything else she wanted from her life, but Fflewddur with his oft-invoked kinship to the House of Don doesn't even get the choice, even though the ultimate renunciation of magic was foreshadowed by his funny, heartbreaking, crucial sacrifice of his harp, finally making himself responsible for his own flaws instead of relying on enchantment to keep him from having to do the work of growing up. (He still gets the last word in spirit: "And, in time, only the bards knew the truth of it.") Even though the story opens in a world of oracular pigs and books of prophecy and enchanted swords and warrior zombies et cetera et cetera, its magic is not in the end stronger or stranger or more wondrous than people themselves. There's a pang at its loss, but it's not even that there's so much else left when it's gone, there's so much unfolding into the space it left. It's not easy, but it's the world. The world is all we have. We make it the best we can. I like that much better than Tolkien's idea—reflected in Boskone's wording—which I cannot but imagine was inflected by his Catholicism, of a Fall.
It matters so much to me, the world that we have. I hate living in a time when so many people would deny it in favor of a world that never was or a world they imagine will come. I see the environmental signs, "There Is No Planet B," but it's not only the planet. It's our lives.
Re: "No Planet B"
I see a connection here to fantasy role-playing games both in when they started, in the mid-1970s, and in the personal situations of many players.
Re: "No Planet B"
That sounds about right to me. I think it is necessary to have refuge. But that doesn't mean the world isn't still there, and the people who behave as though it isn't frighten me.
(I fortunately know a majority of gamers who are quite reality-connected, although if you mean that the concept became popular in a time of great instability, I would absolutely buy that.)
Re: "No Planet B"
https://apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap200214.html