by Bacopa Literary Review Associate Editor Mary Bast
". . . realism was the preferred mode of twentieth-century modernism. By relegating fantasy to kiddylit. . . The word genre began to imply something less, something inferior, and came to be commonly misused, not as a description, but as a negative value judgment. . . There are many bad books. There are no bad genres."
~Ursula K. Le Guin, "Genre: A Word Only a Frenchman Could Love," Words Are My Matter
I'll
admit, I've been one of those literary elitists who relegated anything
but realism to the trash, in spite of being in awe of Ursula le Guin
since I was able to read, and a devoted follower of Margaret Atwood
since I saw the light of feminism. (Even Atwood has argued that her works are "speculative fiction" and not "science fiction").
As with any change in opinion, only continued expsure will break down the grooves our brains have carefully dug over lifetimes of being influenced by family, teachers, and literary society's votes about the "best" authors (those who vote being part of the social system that has defined "best" in the first place).
That change is now--however slowly--happening. I've recently finished reading Anthony Doerr's novel, About Grace, whose protagonist wanders the world trying to change the fate his prophetic dreams have proven will come to pass. The New York Times, obviously considering this work a "good" genre (Doerr later won a Pulitzer Prize for All the Light We Cannot See), described About Grace as "an infinitely subtle algebra of resonance and sympathy between minds, lives, objects, light, senses, weather."
While Doerr's brilliance as a writer makes it easier to expand our view of what kind of writing can be considered "literary," it wouldn't be fair to expect all writers who toy with so-called reality to reach his level of eloquence. In fact there are many excellent writers who "speculate" about possibilities, and we offer several in this year's Bacopa Literary Review, including both of our Fiction prize winners.
Fiction First Prize winner Tomas Baiza's "Huitzilin" begins with a rebirth:
Sunlight pools, trickles, and then begins to spill over the edge of the mesa. No sooner am I reborn than I am drawn to it, as I am drawn to the flowers that grow in my father's yard. Sun and nectar, Tonatoih and xochinecutli, both of them fuel for the returned warriors, we who have been summoned to face our shames before being called to fight. . .
Already curious about the nature of these "warriors," readers are given an intimation in the second paragraph that this beautifully rendered story will take us somewhere entirely new:
In
the kitchen window, my reflection, an orange spark and wings that slash
like the flint knives of our ancestors, the obsidian blades that opened
veins of eternal life onto the tongue of the Sun Stone.
In
"The Vanishing Heart," Fern F. Musselwhite's Fiction Second Prize
winning story, the author leads us to believe we're reading about the
protagonist's husband Jake's reaction to "the latest variant" that has
sickened millions, fifteen years after "the last coronavirus scorched
the planet." Only after a page and a half of familiar medical details
does she invite a stretch of imagination:
At the hospital they'd cracked open Jake's chest. As they continued to shock and compress, to strain and rotate hands, they noticed Jake's heart was shrinking. Dwindling before their eyes until nothing remained. Nothing to shock or compress. Gone.
In neither story could readers possibly predict what comes next, because we're viewing the world through a different lens that invites us into a deeper truth.
For these and other fine works of Fiction, Creative Nonfiction,
Poetry, and Prose Poetry,
see Bacopa Literary Review 2021
