Fantasy and Metaphysics

A tea party with the Mad Hatter

What is real? 

In our culture, we confront this question daily. We look at our red-headed waitress and wonder what color her hair is--really. A dog in a fedora--is that picture real or is it Photoshopped? That soulful song playing on Pandora--is it a real saxophone or a synthesizer?  We get an email asking for a donation and we wonder if the charity is real or a scam. We look at paper money--in a currency that is no longer asset-based--and we wonder if the money has any real value.

I was a small child when my family got our first television set. Magical black and white images flashed on the screen. How did those little people get inside the box? A commercial for cherry pie prompted me to walk up to the tv and put my hands on the pie. Then I tried to wipe my hands off on my dress, and everyone laughed. I guess that was one of the first times I had to confront the nature of reality.

Fantasy literature gets at the heart of metaphysics, the branch of philosophy that asks, "What is real?" 

Fantasy asks us to accept—for a time, while we’re reading a story—something fantastic as real. That a spider can spell words with her web. That a girl can step through a looking glass into another world. That animals can talk. That once the earth was inhabited by elves, dwarves, hobbits, and the occasional curmudgeonly wizard. 

A furry-footed hobbit

I just returned from a writing conference that opened with a mixer to introduce the writers to each other. We each had to choose a random question to answer from the questions on printed cards. My question was, "Do you feel an allegiance to any other country than the one you live in?"

I asked in return, “Does Middle-earth count? 

Someone said, “For you it does.” 

Okay, I admit it. Some of my most meaningful experiences have happened aboard the Dawn Treader with Reepicheep the mouse. Or trekking across the red plains of  Malacandra with a language professor named Ransom. Or fighting dragons with the Wizard of Earthsea. Or tessering through time and space with Meg Murray and Calvin O'Keefe.

What is real? In the movie The Matrix, machines have achieved global supremacy and imprisoned the surviving men in a “reality” generated by a computer program. And in The Truman Show, a man grows up from baby to adulthood without knowing his life is being lived on the set of a reality show. It's kind of hard to watch these stories without wondering just how real our own reality is. 

In fact, fantasy is probably the best vehicle for pondering serious questions about reality.

When I read a Grisham novel, I find myself in a world of lawyers and courtroom shenanigans. Though the stories are fictional, I have some sense that they could actually happen. The world of a Grisham novel is not all that different from the world I live in. I guess you could say that world is fairly realistic.

But when I read fantasy, I am often transported to a world quite unlike my daily experience. I may find myself on a different planet or a parallel universe where fishes grant wishes and carpets can fly. The fantasy world may be nothing like the "real world," or it may be just like it--except that marshmallows have magic powers or a junkyard is a portal to another dimension. 

I believe it is this sense of other-worldliness that helps us to step out of our ordinary lives and thereby see our own world more clearly.

Is this the ultimate escapism and denial--to cast off even the laws of physics and the limitations of my daily life?  I think it's much more than that. 

It's a way of thinking about what's real and about what really matters. It's a way of sneaking a glimpse into a higher kind of reality than the one we often know in this life--a reality where the weak are strong and the poor are rich; where foolish things confound the wise; where death is a beginning, not the end; where love and justice prevail; where happy thoughts can make you fly.

What is real? This is a question with no easy answer. It's a dialogue that has been going on for ages of man. And fantasy is a great way for writers and readers to continue the conversation.

The End Is Near--Save the Books!

Forget toilet paper, duct tape, and beef jerky.

The apocalypse is coming. You need to stock up now. . .on books! And possibly a few shelves from IKEA for storage. Or maybe a lot of shelves. Hey, it's your future.

I figure that when the aliens spray us all with stupid-gas, we'll need to have some sense and sanity preserved in the pages of print books. (Kindle doesn't count. The aliens can scramble the signal.)

The end is near, my friends. The Stark Raving Mythopath recommends that you keep the following books where you can get at them at all times.

Emily Dickinson

After the Media Meltdown, in a world gone gray and non-specific,  you’ll need poetry to bring back the colors, images, and beauty. Poetry will restore the meaning in the mundane, the exotic richness of the commonplace. Keep some William Wordsworth, John Donne, Maya Angelou, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Emily Dickinson at arm's length.  In the Day of Darkness, you may need "a certain slant of light" to help you find your way.

When dust storms of fuzzy thinking assail, take shelter in collections of essays by J. B. Priestley, Lewis Thomas, Carl Sagan, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Dorothy Sayers, Douglas A. Hofstader. . . . And here’s the beauty of it. You can disagree! Judges on reality shows may tell you how to think, but good essayists invite you to enter into a dialogue with them. They want you to think—for yourself! I know. It's crazy. 

Ah, but when the killer bees of information overload attack--quick--through the wormhole (or rabbit hole) into a fantasy world where you can forget the facts and find the truth! A Wrinkle in Time. The Great Divorce. Lord of the Rings. Alice in Wonderland. The Book of the Dun Cow. It’s not escapism. It’s a way of getting to the very heart of what's real. (I love you, Charles Wallace!)


Earth falling into the sun? Overcome by a sudden surge of too much gravity? The only antidote is levity. You'll need humor by Mark Twain, Dave Barry, Garrison Keillor, Andy Rooney, and Erma Bombeck. This is no laughing matter. It's survival of the funniest.  

When the Video Vampires drink your dreams because you're not young, beautiful, and computer-savvy, turn off their tapioca transmissions and read novels. Peace Like a River, The Brothers Karamozov, The Number One Ladies' Detective Agency. Frederick Buechner's Godric. You can live thousands  of lives and gain wisdom in each one. When it comes to heroes, one size doesn't fit all, and your size is just right.

And don’t forget the children’s picture books! Babar and His Children. The Velveteen Rabbit. Where the Wild Things Are. Owl Moon. Madeleine. Anansi the Spider. The Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde. . . . Feast on simplicity and pure delight. We didn't "grow out" of childhood--we were banished. And we need to get back before the Shadow Government condemns us to eternal adulthood. Yuck.

Feel free to make substitutions within these categories, but do stockpile the good stuff. How else will you feed your soul in the Day of Doom and Dimwittedness?

You may mock now, but when the aliens/zombies/major networks come to suck out your brains, you need to be prepared.

And don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Buried Alive!

Hel-l-l-l-l-lp! Somebody. Anybody?

He’s trying to kill me — the mean monster with the big stick. Please. You gotta get me out of here. Gasp! I’m running out of air. I’m – hack, cough – waaaaaaah! I’m dying!

You know, I had a pretty good life once. I was just too dumb to know it. I got to hang around the pack with my friends — Daisy, Bud, Clem, the whole gang. It was clean and dry and comfie. 

Oh sure, sometimes Bud rubbed me the wrong way, and Clem could be Mr. Crankypants first thing in the morning. But Daisy was always cheerful, and all in all, it was a great life.

That is, until the day the monster came.

First, he tore the roof right off our pack. We thought it was a tornado. Or zombies coming to suck out our brains
— though Clem said I needn't worry about that.

Then the two-legged leviathan took his pointy thing and dug a grave. Just my size. And then he buried me alive! No, really! It was so Stephen King. I tried to scream. I tried to run. But it was like a dream when you yell but nobody can hear you.

Bl-yeck! Dirt in my ears, dirt in my eyes. I’ve even got dirt in my no-no-nose. A-choo! Not to mention. . .pee-yu! Can you smell that fertilizer!  Grr-oss! What did I ever do to deserve this torture? Nothing—that’s what! Eeeew! Was that a worm?


I think I'm starting to crack. Just this morning, I was stretching my legs — when suddenly I remembered —what the heck! I'm a seed — I don’t have legs. So what are these long, spindly things growing from my south-side? This is re-e-eally creepy. I just don’t know who I am anymore.

So, get this, Mr. Cruel and Unusual.  I’m not gonna take this lyin' down. No sirree. I’m breakin' outta this joint. I'm pushing up with this sort-of-horn-thingie growing out of my top. Yeah, I know. Weird, huh? That’s okay. Once I break through, I’ll hitch a ride back to my old life, back to the pack. I’ll show you! Any minute now. . .push, push, harder, harder, pant, pant, ughhhhhh. . . .

LIGHT! Beautiful, warm, delicious light! Do I hear an angel choir? I’m free, I’m free!

Daisy! Is that you, old friend? I thought I’d never see you again! Hey — you look different! I always thought you were cute, but Girl — you are drop-dead gorgeous! What happened?

No, don’t joke with me. I’ve had a rough couple of weeks. You don’t know what he did to me.

No way! No. Freakin'. Way. That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. You mean. . .I’m a flower? Wow. Who knew? Beautiful? — me? Shut up! You're making me blush!

Daisy, look out! The monster's back! Um, gardener guy — whatever. What’s that big bucket with the spout? Is this more torture?

Ahhhhhhh. That feels so-o-o-o good. Didn’t know I was so thirsty. This is like champagne and a shower all in one. So, he takes care of us? How cool is that!

Hey, Bud! You're here too? Sch-weet! Nah, I wasn’t scared. I had it figured out all along.

Woo-hoo! I can’t believe the view from up here on this stalk. Clouds and sky. I can see the whole garden. Hi, Clem! I see you made it. This is freakin’ amazing.

Um. . .Daisy? Daisy! He's back. But what’s he got this time? This doesn't look good.

Clippers? What do you mean — pruning? Eeeeks. Those things look dangerous. 


Hel-l-l-l-l-lp! Somebody. . . .Anybody?

 I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat 

is planted in the soil and dies, it remains alone. 

But its death will produce many new kernels

—a plentiful harvest of new lives. 

John 12:24 NLT

Happy Birthday, C. S. Lewis!

A man is walking through the English countryside at sunset. It’s six more miles to the next town, and the sky ahead is slate gray.  Bound by a rash promise he made to a woman he just met, he wrangles through the thick hedge of a foreboding farmhouse. He musters his courage and rings the bell. 


No answer. He rings again. Hearing the sounds of a struggle, he runs around to the back and finds a young man trying to get free from two older chaps. After dubious explanations, the traveler is invited inside. 

Then the real story begins. The man—named Elwin Ransom—is drugged and abducted. What began as a journey of a few miles becomes a journey of millions—yes, millions—of miles. What began as a trip to a neighboring town becomes a trip through the vastness of space to new worlds. Ransom will meet life forms both alien and supernatural. He will meet himself and discover his true destiny.

So begins Out of the Silent Planet, by C. S. Lewis—volume one in his acclaimed “Space Trilogy.” Ramson, a Cambridge don and a philologist who happens to love long walks in the country, is a lot like Lewis himself. Professor Lewis also loved walking tours, covering 20 miles a day in good weather, and he knew what it was like to be in the predicament of not being able to find a place to stay for the night. Perhaps such an experience sparked the creation of this story.

C. S. Lewis

And like Ransom, Lewis visited other worlds—if only in his fertile imagination. One day an image popped into his head--a faun wrestling with packages in the snow. Sound familiar? That was the beginning of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The Greek myth of Cupid and Psyche  was the inspiration for Till We Have Faces, set in the mythical kingdom of Glome. Lewis even ventured to Heaven and Hell--in The Great Divorce and The Screwtape Letters.

As a young man, Lewis was an atheist, but through the influence of J. R. R. Tolkien and other friends, he became first a theist and then a Christian. In Surprised by Joy, he describes himself coming to faith-- "kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance to escape." Yet, despite this shaky beginning, he became one of the greatest Christian apologists of the twentieth century. 

November 29th is C. S. Lewis’s birthday. I celebrate all the things he was—a broadcaster, an apologist, a scholar, an original thinker. But most of all, I celebrate the legacy of fantasy works he left behind--including Out of the Silent Planet, a book I can happily reread every few years and always find something new. 


Happy birthday, C. S. Lewis!