the gazette of fantasy
Warner Bros. has confirmed the sequel in one line of a letter to its shareholders and said almost nothing since. The rumours are thin. The inheritance is not: a Hogwarts built so that any window you can see from the grounds has a room behind it, and something in the room worth the climb.
Walt Disney hired a music critic in evening dress to explain his programme. Chuck Jones said he made his cartoons for nobody but himself. Both turned children into classical music listeners, and for the same reason: the composers had written sorcerers, trolls and dragons into the music long before anybody drew them.
Netflix's first trailer ends on a roar, but Meryl Streep's Aslan is still unheard. Giving the lion a woman's voice was a deliberate choice, and runs counter to what the most successful Christian children's author of the last century wrote in his own hand about his works. Will anybody care?
A spoilt prince must ask seven immortal sorcerers for the keys that keep them alive, and Geraldine Harris gives every one of them a good reason to refuse. More than forty years on, Seven Citadels is still the rare quest that makes you feel for the obstacle, and all four books are now on Audible.
The game's hero is whoever happens to be playing, and its ending is the one that player chose. A prequel novel published at the end of September stops before the story starts, and HBO's series will begin after it finishes, but the show still has to settle a question the game left to every player.
A shipwrecked businessman adrift in a country made of books, a homeless wizard who keeps watch over Seattle, and a god who happens to be a very large stone: the first of the desk's occasional introductions to fantasies that deserve far more readers than they have.
Before fantasy meant a map, a prophecy and three volumes, it meant a hired blade, a sorcerer with a grudge and a story finished in one sitting. The form born in the pulp magazines of the 1930s eventually lost the bookshops to the epic.
Mervyn Peake drew his characters as he wrote them, and his first novel can be seen more clearly than almost anything else in the genre. It also takes its time, and some of its sentences take more than they need. A plain reader's case for reading it anyway.
Brandon Sanderson published his laws. Patrick Rothfuss keeps a chalkboard of calculations for the energy needed to boil gold. Ursula Le Guin began by asking whether there were colleges for young wizards. Not one of them started with a list of what the magic can do.
Two novelists were taken out of a major fiction prize last November over artwork neither of them commissioned. Three years earlier a science-fiction imprint licensed a cover from a reputable stock house and found out afterwards what had made it. The same hole runs through both.
He wrote it around 1960 and let it sit, suspecting the Latin jokes were thick enough to bury what he meant. It reached print last October at 144 pages, edited by his son, half of that somebody else's essay. Oxford is Bovadium, Cowley is the cow-pasture, and the motor cars are winning.
A world belongs to the genre of its laws, not its props. The props here are goblins, mana and loot. The laws are a published rules set with an owner, an administrator and a complaints procedure, which is why two science fiction juries have already reached the verdict the book's readers keep resisting.
Hyrule works the way Arthur works: the same sword and the same names, retold by people who never agreed on the details. With a Zelda film arriving in 2027 and sequels certain if it lands, the question is whether anyone will be brave enough to keep it that way.
The sign above the tunnels has said the same thing since 1955: here you leave today. One man spent $17 million and 160 acres making that sentence literal, down to a ride that would not show you Snow White because you were meant to be her. Nobody has ever built a door this deliberately, and it holds.
The Odyssey was sung before anyone wrote it down, and the text did not settle for another five hundred years. Latin literature begins with a translation of it that survives in 46 lines. Twelve thousand one hundred and nine lines reached us anyway. This is the ledger of how, and of what it was built to carry.
Lewis's first note on Tolkien, in 1926: "a smooth, pale, fluent little chap" who "only needs a smack or so." Thirty-seven years later Tolkien called his friend's death an axe-blow near the roots. Between them came a night walk that converted one of them, and an argument about allegory that split their worlds.
Two books, more than ten million copies, and a prose style exact enough to teach from. Then nothing. In 2007 Patrick Rothfuss told an interviewer that the other two volumes were already written and would come out one a year. What the fifteen years since have done to the work, to the readers, and to the man.
Everything on the surface of Kanto is science fiction, and none of it is ever explained. Thirty years on, the first Pokémon games remain the clearest proof available that a world belongs to the genre of its laws rather than the genre of its machines.
This month I could not conduct an interview, because the man I wanted has been dead forty years. So I read the transcript instead. What Ronald Christ got out of Jorge Luis Borges over several afternoons in July 1966 is the most useful hour on record about what the fantastic is actually for.
Four studios, three decades and $1.58 billion have not produced a Narnia franchise, because the books are the wrong shape for the machine that keeps buying them. Is Greta Gerwig the first adapter to grasp that? Or are we in for another disappointment?
Nineteen years after the last book, the genre is still arranged around a series that finished in 2007. On Christmas Day 2026, the whole thing starts again on television, for a projected decade. It is worth asking what the first adaptation cycle actually left behind.
James McLeod's independently published fantasy-adventure has been finding its readers one book fair at a time. It is a first novel built to throw out almost every default setting the genre still runs on, and that is something it does remarkably well.
Lian Hearn's 2002 novel is the finest thing the genre has produced on the subject of listening, and it is built around a single piece of joinery: a floor engineered to betray anyone who walks on it. Twenty-four years on, almost nobody under thirty has read it.
Amazon killed the show a month after its strongest run of episodes, on arithmetic rather than quality. The rights have now landed back with the company Robert Jordan himself distrusted, and the first image of the animated revival looks as though a machine drew it.
A prophecy is a host announcing, at length and in verse, what you are about to be served and precisely how much you will enjoy it. We have spent thirty years reading books that spoil themselves on page nine, and we have agreed, for some reason, to call it structure.
Every story we have printed: 25 stories across 6 Numbers, bound by Volume.
Browse the archive
The Buried Giant
An elderly couple cross a post-Arthurian Britain to find a son they can no longer quite remember, through a mist that is eating everyone's memory. A Nobel laureate using ogres in earnest, with no word of apology for it.
Babel
Oxford's translation institute powers an empire with silver bars that run on whatever is lost between two languages. The argument is loud and a reader is free to resist it; the magic is the best new idea the genre has had in years.
The Torril City Mysterion: A Pinch of Peril
A museum robbery in a bird-filled jungle city, and a magic system built on obligation to a patron who can refuse you.
The season turns, new things arrive, and many do so in unexpected forms. Here in Barrel Town, the days are growing colder. The lamps go on earlier, the rivers outside town are swollen with rainwater from the mountains,…
You are reading Vol. III, No. 2.
