Reading science fiction like it matters since 1989.
A response to Leah Schnelbach’s “A Quiet Hero’s Journey: Processing Trauma in Fantasy” (Tor.com, 27 February 2019; <www.tor.com/2019/02/27/how-jo-waltons-among-others-and-katherine-addisons-the-goblin-emperor-tell-stories-of-trauma-and-recovery/>)
I was delighted to encounter Leah Schnelbach’s article featuring Addison’s The Goblin Emperor—a book I love. I was even more tickled to immediately recognize in her introduction a shared enjoyment of the extent to which the story is not about “those action scenes that would be in the trailer for Goblin Emperor: The Movie....” Yes, I exulted. Indeed.
But from there I was startled to find how much Schnelbach’s reactions diverged from mine. I’d like to present an alternative perspective.
As I say, I love Addison’s The Goblin Emperor—I have read it multiple times. To me it is not, as it is for Schnelbach, primarily a book about the protagonist processing his trauma and beginning to recover—although, yes, this does happen. And certainly this aspect gives the story a great deal of its depth and richness. But to me it is primarily a book about governing and related problem solving.
I am fascinated by tales about actual governing. There are very few of them and fewer that are convincing. Too often fantasy tales do not deal much with these realities. At the end of some good/evil conflict, the good side “wins” the battle—and the story stops there rather than considering future difficulties of ruling. (One of the few stories I know that is primarily concerned with the aftermath of victory is The Returning by Christine Hinwood, 2009.) To me The Goblin Emperor is about the difficulties of governing or, more importantly, of governing well. It is about problem solving when there is no easy solution, about deciding what could be an acceptable compromise and what would not. The essential theme, explicitly presented in the last section, is about building bridges—both literally and metaphorically—in both governing and in a personal life that is complicated by the demands of ruling.
Apparently the eight years that Maia had with his loving mother before being placed with his abusive guardian were sufficient to give him considerable core strength and to make him a caring and ethical person, one who is capable of stubbornly making decisions he feels are right even when they are unusual and opposed by others. His strength of character is impressive and appealing, especially since he is also struggling with his internal self-doubt and frequent embarrassment—a self-doubt that stems, as Schnelbach notes, from the abuse he suffered and which is compounded by his lack of relevant education in history and court protocol.
Schnelbach’s ideas about the first goals of someone who is “raised to sudden wealth or power” seem to me alien to Maia’s character. She writes:
But unlike a typical scenario where the abused child, raised to sudden wealth or power, is able to make new friends and gorge himself on food, Addison is careful to show how past abuse can compromise the present. Maia can’t relax into a Hogwarts Great Hall–style feast because, having only known plain food, he literally doesn’t know his own taste. He can’t enjoy a new life of music, pageantry, or balls because he’s never heard music, he’s never been taught how to dance, and he can’t even make the most basic dinner party conversation with his courtiers. Having been raised in a life defined by necessities by a man who hated him, he can’t unclench his defenses long enough to enjoy his new life—and as Emperor, he can’t make himself vulnerable by asking for help.
The pleasures she outlines such as feasts, music, and dancing can be enjoyable. And it is accurate to say that Maia’s background impedes his enjoyment of them. But to me the essence of the problem of being suddenly raised to power would be how to best wield that power—how to wield it both caringly and effectively, two goals that are often presumed to be incompatible. I resonate passionately with Maia’s fundamental drive to reconcile these two goals.
In both details and generalities I frequently find Schnelbach’s perspective puzzlingly disjunct with my own experience of the book. To give a specific example, Schnelbach states that ultimately Maia “demands” the right to meditate. Reading this passage in The Goblin Emperor, it seemed clear to me that there was no demand but rather a great deal of humility in his request. He asks “May we...?”
I identify with her suggestion that this scene resolves a pivotal tension that has lingered from early in the story. But it seems oversimplifying to say that religion is what helps Maia become healed. Rather I would see Maia’s felt need for meditation as yet another aspect of his fundamental drive to be as able as he can in his new role. He is first of all well-intentioned. He hopes to use meditation to help himself do the best job he can.
In particular I feel Schnelbach radically overstates the extent to which Maia’s behavior is destructive, modeled on what he has absorbed from his abusive guardian:
Maia listens to himself in horror as his abuser’s words and tone come out of his own mouth. Maia “despairs of himself” when this happens, but he still acts like an utter shit every few pages....
It is a serious overgeneralization to say that he “acts like an utter shit every few pages.” He rarely, indeed almost never, “acts like an utter shit.” His behavior is not predominantly destructive, even if frequently unpolished. Yes, there are a few times when he is inadvertently snarky, but for the most part he is able to stop himself from indulging in the impulse. And on those actually rather few occasions when he is caustic, he acts to redeem the situation and is usually able to do so.
Much more often he screws up by trying to be more caring than tradition and hierarchy typically permit as when he asks his sisters and his fiancée about their wishes, to choose from many examples. And it feels like this—courageously choosing actions based on caring—is what ultimately helps him establish himself in his new role. Through these choices, made sincerely and without ulterior motive, he has gradually been creating a network of sympathetic supporters. By the end of the book he is beginning to feel hopeful about his future as emperor.
Like the author of this article I, too, was reminded of another work while reading The Goblin Emperor. Not another book, but the tv series West Wing—which seemed to me to have a similar focus on how to govern. Throughout the series the president’s staff must constantly juggle their good intentions and the need to retain popular support enough to allow them to implement these intentions. Although the emperor Maia struggles with a very different set of factors than the staff of an elected president, the essential problem of governing as such seems to me analogous—in both cases an intriguing, perplexing, rewarding, fundamentally vital problem.
Carlis Nixon lives in Eugene, Oregon.
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