Swords and Deviltry by Fritz Leiber

Swords and Deviltry by Fritz Leiber. Cover by Jeff Jones.

A little while ago, I almost posted a bit of a rant about a comment Philip Pullman made in a recent interview in which he makes clear, once again, that he doesn’t like, read, or write fantasy. I’ve heard him express this view before, and am at once annoyed (because I like fantasy) and embarrassed (because I really liked Pullman’s Northern Lights), not to say a little disappointed (a lack of generosity in a favourite author always disappoints me, because generosity — of understanding and imagination — is one of the things that makes an author a favourite, for me). In this case the actual quote was:

“I don’t read fantasy because I’ve very seldom found that the story in the book rewards my effort in getting to know the world of the story. You know, it’s all about the Sword of Gungleblath, and the Stom-Swallower of Zenbar or something… and it’s such an effort to do that…”

So, I thought, is it possible to come up with a book that would provide a counter-argument to that blanket dismissal of all imaginative fiction that strays that little bit too far beyond what is acceptable by serious (perhaps too serious) readers? I mean, for instance, Mervyn Peake’s Titus Groan and Gormenghast? Or Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood? Or Alan Garner’s Elidor? Or Ursula Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea and The Tombs of Atuan? The trouble is, with many of these books, there’s always the possibility of special pleading. Peake’s Gormenghast contains no magic, so might be real, therefore we can pretend it’s not fantasy. Holdstock’s Mythago Wood takes a rationalising, scientific approach to the fantastic, so we can call it science fiction instead. And Garner and Le Guin — both accepted by the literary crowd — used fantasy when writing for children, and you’re allowed to do that.

So, is there a book that is both undeniably fantasy of the “Sword of Gungleblath” type — by which Pullman means, I suppose, heroic fantasy, or otherworld fantasy — but which I think would stand up to a serious reader (or at least one who wouldn’t giggle in flustered embarrassment at the mention of magic)? Two candidates come to mind. One is Gene Wolfe’s The Wizard Knight, but I’ve only read that once and would like to give it another go to make sure (and as it’s a long book, that may have to wait). The other is Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd & the Gray Mouser series. And, to limit it to one book, I’d choose the first, Swords and Deviltry.

The Knight and Knave of Swords by Fritz Leiber. Cover by Peter Elson.

Leiber’s Fafhrd (“Faf-erd”) and the Gray Mouser stories are unashamedly of the “Sword of Gungleblath” type. They’re sword and sorcery, the most Gungleblathy type of fantasy there is. (Leiber coined the term “sword and sorcery”.) The pair, one a tall, brawny, Northern barbarian, the other a short, quick, wily southerner, are (to use Leiber’s own words) “the greatest swordsmen ever to be in this or any other universe of fact or fiction”. They do battle with sorcerers. They name their swords (not Gungleblath, but Scalpel and Graywand). They do derring, and engage in derring-do. But two things make these books truly magical (not in the fantasy sense, but in the wonderful-to-read sense). One is Leiber’s love of linguistic play. Leiber was the son of Shakespearean actors, and was brought up on the plays. He seems to have absorbed Shakespeare’s attitude that language isn’t a dictionaried thing (as it wasn’t, in Shakespeare’s time) but is to be played with, toyed with, tinkered with, enjoyed, owned. The other is that Leiber, as a writer, seemed to be driven by a need for a sort of human honesty, perhaps even self-confession, not usually found in writers of sword & sorcery. His pair of heroes may be “the greatest swordsmen ever to be”, but are far from perfect human beings. What’s more, pre-stealing a trick from Rowling a good thirty/forty years in advance, they mature as the series progresses. Their first-published tale (“Jewels in the Forest”, 1939) may well be a pretty much standard sword & sorcery yarn, but by the end of the series (The Knight and Knave of Swords, 1988), we’re dealing with two battle-scarred (Fafhrd has lost a hand) ex-bravos trying to put their wayward days behind them and live normal lives.

But it isn’t just at the end of their lives that the more serious themes appear. The first book in the series (which was not the first written) sets up the pair of adventurers for their first fall — a fall into disillusionment, loss of love, and loss of innocence.

Swords and Deviltry by Fritz Leiber. Cover by Geoff Taylor.

It’s a book of three novellas. “The Snow Women” is about what forces Fafhrd to break with the oppressive battle of the sexes in his homeland, and go in search of the supposed wonders of civilisation. “The Unholy Grail” tracks the transformation from a rather hippie-ish hedge-wizard’s apprentice called Mouse to the darkly cynical, grey-magicking Mouser. And best of the three, the Nebula-winning “Ill Met In Llankhmar”, is about how the two heroes join forces for the first time, are egged on to a dangerous adventure by boastfulness, a little too much wine, and an attempt to impress the women they love, and in which, although it could be argued they succeed, they pay a price far higher than they expected.

No character in Leiber’s stories is a cliché, however much they may wear the costume of one. Fafhrd may be a brawny barbarian, but he is thoughtful, is trained as a singing skald, and is, therefore, a poet; and the Gray Mouser’s air of sophistication is always just being undermined by Leiber’s own constant sense of self-deflating irony.

I don’t think Pullman would ever read Swords and Deviltry. Perhaps, if he did, he’d get no further than the introductory chapter that introduces us to the ancient world of Nehwon (a rather clumsy name — yeah, it’s no-when backwards, but forwards it’s not among the great fantasy-world names) — that would sound, to him, I’m sure, uncomfortably like “Gungleblath”. But you, dear reader, gentle reader — oh, so perceptive and imaginative reader! — if you have any sympathy for fantasy, and can stand invented names, and heroes who name their swords, and perhaps can even bear to read a little about magic, surely you might enjoy Swords and Deviltry.

(If you haven’t read it already. In which case, wasn’t it good?)

Comments (5)

  1. Aonghus Fallon says:

    What I always liked about Fafhrd and Grey Mouser is the way their characters are quite nuanced. Initially they seem to fit a lazy stereotype – Fafhrd is a big, brawny northern barbarian. Grey Mouser is a creature of the city. But they consistently surprise us. Fafhrd is a realist rather than some superstitious savage. He’s also the brighter of the two. Grey Mouser is quite neurotic. And so on and so forth.

  2. Murray says:

    True! I sort of identify with the Mouser, but wish I was more like Fafhrd.

  3. Aonghus Fallon says:

    I’m always seen myself as being more like Mouser, too. Being comparatively short – and grey-haired – helps!

  4. Andrew Kawam says:

    Other people (including myself) have said similar things about Pullman. Some have accused Philip of genre snobbery. I would NOT say that about him. I would say that he underestimates just how big a part of the works of (not very commercially popular but hugely scholarly and critically acclaimed) literature is serious anti-Tolkien, anti-Lewis fantasy that deeply debates into real issues of sexuality, race, gender, the aesthetic and philosophical implications of science , religion, the natural world, class, ecology, philosophy, consciousness, the nature of intelligence, and the very fabric of reality itself, but I thinks that’s vastly more of a societal problem dealing with how most people don’t have the time and/or knowledge to consider these books in as much detail as scholars and critics than anything about Philip in particular.
    Plus he’s said quotes like
    “Fantasy is underrated as a way of exploring psychology.”
    “I’m sure there’s a lot of very good — in fact, I know there’s good fantasy out there.”
    “When I was at university, my friends and I were thrilled to discover that our childhood favourites seemed even more powerful than we remembered. This was true of classic authors such as George MacDonald, Rudyard Kipling, E Nesbit and Tove Jansson; or 1960s writers like Alan Garner, Susan Cooper, Peter Dickinson and Ursula Le Guin [who wrote a review of His Dark Materials that is, in my opinion, remarkably feeble for such an intellectual author].”
    And even if that weren’t enough, Philip’s books, especially The Secret Commonwealth, The Amber Spyglass, La Belle Sauvage, The Subtle Knife, and The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ, are simply amazing.
    He has also praised authors such as Neil Gaiman, Ray Bradbury, Kazuo Ishiguro, David Lindsay, Brian Catling, Scarlett Thomas, and Lewis Carroll, so he clearly knows a little bit about the scene.
    I would recommend he read (and I did recommend to him in a letter) Mervyn Peake, Gene Wolfe, China Miéville, Jeff VanderMeer, Michael Swanwick, M. John Harrison, N.K. Jemisin, Hope Mirrlees, Michel Bernanos, Charlie Jane Anders, David Mitchell, John Crowley, K. J. Bishop, Stepan Chapman, Caitlin R. Kiernan, and Ali Shaw

  5. Murray Ewing says:

    I wonder if it’s a generational thing, and Pullman’s ideas of the genre of fantasy were probably formed a long time ago. But I also wonder if it’s not the same sort of thing I wrote about in my Mewsings on Moorcock’s Wizardry & Wild Romance, in that a writer’s comments about a genre can come across as a bit extreme, just because they take it so personally. But I absolutely agree with you, the quality of his own books outweigh such (occasional) negative comments. Well done for writing to Pullman and suggesting those names! (He must, surely, have read Peake!)

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