Magical realism is
a phrase I never completely understood until I recently read Maggie Stiefvater’s The
Scorpio Races. The term seems contradictory: how could a realistic story
contain magical elements? What does a writer do to introduce those elements
without throwing the novel into the terrain of fantasy? I suppose some readers
will argue that The Scorpio Races is fantasy, but I’m going to take the side of
magical realism, and this analysis approaches her fabulous story with that in
mind.
Her setting is entirely believable – an island off the coast
of, well, something like Ireland. There are references to the mainland, the
Atlantic, and America, and the names she uses have that Celtic ring: Finn
Connolly, Sean Kendrick, Skarmouth, Thisby. Our heroine’s nickname is Puck,
conjuring Shakespeare. People live in proper houses, drink in pubs, drive Morris
cars, raise sheep; the rock-strewn grass hillocks are contained by hedgerows
and stone walls. Altogether this is a place we know, its familiarity bred of
our familiarity with Anglo-Saxon literature and lore, even if there is one
extremely odd thing about this place.
The sea that surrounds the island is inhabited by
flesh-eating water horses.
By the time I was ten pages in, I completely believed that
Thisbe exists, and that I’d better watch out for those frightening yet
beautiful uisce. That this magical
element of The Scorpio Races also derives from our Celtic heritage is part of
what makes it feel real.
The deadly November races on the backs of the uisce forms the heart of the concept,
but this is also a love story, a coming-of-age story, a love-of-horse story,
and a triumph of the spirit over soulless financial power. Sean and Puck tell
their tales in first person present tense, enhancing the immediacy of both
characters and plot: “this is happening to me, and it’s happening right now.” Once
we buy into these characters, we buy the whole tale, hook, line, and sinker.
Puck is a game girl with a face full of freckles and unruly
hair in the middle of an unruly orphaned life:
For a moment, I see the room like anyone else might see it.
It looks like everything around Finn has crawled out of the mouth of the
kitchen sink drain. It’s a mess, and we’re a mess, and no wonder Gabe wants to
leave.
‘Let’s go,’ I say.
Sean’s voice is hard, born of his hard luck, and he knows
horses. He knows horses better than anyone. He’s also a boy of few and
well-chosen words:
I slide off her and hand him the reins. He takes them with
a puzzled expression on his already puzzling face.
I say, ‘This mare is going to kill someone.’
The strong and enticing Puck and Sean, who are (as the
reader sees long before they do) a perfect match, are also so much fun to live
with that the story’s magical element is almost unnecessary. As a writer then, I've come to think that the best magical realism must
possess this quality: that the realistic aspects of the story are even more
engaging than the magical aspects.
In a true fantasy, our perception of the
story itself may be clouded by dwarf behavior, elf antics, or fairy godmother
wishes. In magical realism, the author could dispense with the magic – and still
have a heck of a great tale. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Stiefvater writes
beautifully, conjures a complete and visible world, and that her secondary
characters are every bit as engaging as her protagonists.
But I maintain that in order to write great magical realism
it is necessary to write a great, rich and complex story that rises above the
magic – that the realistic part of the story makes a magic all its own.
My donation drive for the American Red Cross continues all month, including comments on this blog post. Many thanks!!
No comments:
Post a Comment