IN 1516, THE ENGLISH SCHOLAR Thomas More (1478-1535) published a book (in Latin), with a long title--as was the fashion in those days--that was also in Latin. When it finally appeared in its first English edition in 1551, the title was given as “ A fruteful and pleasant Worke of the beste State of a publyque Weale, and of the newe yle, called Utopia.” We refer to the book simply as Utopia.
In the book, More described the workings of what he considered an ideal human society, as found on the island nation of Utopia, one that was governed entirely by the dictates of reason. His description of such a society is so noble and rational that it would seem enviable even today.
More was under no illusions as to the real world, however. The word “utopia” is from the Greek “ou” (“not”) and “topos” (“place”) so that it means “nowhere.” More realized, in other words, that his ideal existed nowhere on Earth (and still doesn’t). In fact, his book, in describing his ideal society, served also by clear contrast to excoriate the actual governments of his day, particularly that of his native England which, of course, he knew the best.
An easy mistake was made, however. Since Utopia, as described, was such a wonderful place, it could easily be imagined that the first syllable was from the Greek prefix “eu--” meaning “good” so that Utopia became not “nowhere” but the “good place.”
The word “utopia “ entered the English language, and the other European languages as well, as meaning an ideal society. The adjective “utopian “ refers to any scheme that has what seems a good end in view, but that is not practical, and cannot be carried through in any realistic sense.
We might speak of utopian literature--written accounts in which ideal societies are described, with More’s as the classic, but not the earliest, example. Plato’s Republic was a description, nineteen centuries earlier than Utopia, of an ideal state dependent upon reason. Earlier still, were accounts of ideal states in mythological or religious literature, in the form of past golden ages or of future messianic ones. The Garden of Eden is a well-known example of the former, and the eleventh chapter of Isaiah of the latter.
The production of utopian accounts has not fallen off since the time of More, either. The most influential recent examples have been Looking Backward, published in 1888 by Edward Bellamy (1850-1898), which described the United States of 2000 under an ideal Socialist government, and Walden Two, published in 1948 by B. F. Skinner (1904-), which described an ideal society based on Skinner’s own theories of social engineering.
All such utopias are not convincing, however. Unless one accepts the conventions of religion, it is difficult to believe in golden or messianic ages. Nor can one easily suppose that sweet reason will at any time dominate humanity.
In the course of the nineteenth century, however, something new entered the field of utopianism. The possibility arose that scientific and technological advance might impose a utopia from without, so to speak. In other words, while human beings remained as irrational and imperfect as ever, the advance of science might supply plenty of food, cure disease and mental ailments, track down and abort irrational impulses, and so on. A perfect technology would cancel out an imperfect humanity. The tendency to take this attitude and to paint the future in glowing technological colors reached the point where what we call science fiction is called, in Germany, “utopian stories.”
As a matter of fact, however, it isn’t at all likely that the average writer is going to try to write a truly utopian story. There’s no percentage in it. All you can do is describe such a society and explain, at great length, how good it is, and how well it works, and how it manages not to break down. There can’t be any drama in it, no problems, no risks, no threat of catastrophe, no pulling through by the merest squeak. Clearly, if such things were possible, the utopia would be no utopia. It follows that utopian stories are, by their very nature, dreadfully dull. The one utopian novel I’ve actually managed to read was Looking Backward, and although it was a best-seller in its times and still has its enthusiasts, I tell you right now that if dullness could kill, reading it would be a death sentence.
So dull are utopian books that they fail to fulfill their function of pointing out the errors and faults of the societies that really exist. You can’t grow indignant over these faults if you fall asleep in the process.
There developed, therefore, the habit of attacking societies in a more direct fashion. Instead of describing the good opposite, one described the evil reality, but exaggerated it past bearing. Instead of a society in which everything was ideally good, one described a society in which everything was ideally bad.
The word coined for a totally bad society is “dystopia,” where the first syllable is from the Greek prefix “dys--” meaning “abnormal” or “defective.” Dystopia is the “bad place.” Thus, you can figure out what “dystopian literature” would be.
Dystopias are intrinsically more interesting than utopias. Milton’s description of his dystopian Hell in the first two books of Paradise Lost is far more interesting than his description of utopian Hell in the third book. And in The Lord of the Rings, not much can be told about the stay of the Fellowship in the utopian elfland of Lorien, but how the story intensifies and grows more interesting as we approach the dystopian Morder.
But can there be dystopias today with science and technology advancing as they do?
Certainly! You need only view science and technology as contributing to the evil (which is not difficult to do).
And yet pure dystopian tales are as dull and as unbearable as pure utopian ones. Consider the most famous pure dystopian tale of modern times, 1984 by George Orwell (1903-1950), published in 1948 (the same year in which Walden Two was published). I consider it an abominably poor book. It made a big hit (in my opinion) only because it rode the tidal wave of cold war sentiment in the United States.
The pure utopian tale can only hit the single note of “Isn’t it wonderful--wonderful--wonderful. “ The pure dystopian tale can only hit the single note of “Isn’t it awful--awful--awful.” And one cannot build a melody on the basis of a single note.
Well, then, what is a science fiction writer supposed to do if both utopian and dystopian stories are dull?
Remember, they are poor only if they are pure, so avoid the extremes. Milton’s Hell was made interesting because of his portrait of Satan, courageous even in the ultimate adversity, feeling pangs of remorse even when immersed in ultimate evil. Milton’s Heaven was without interest because there was no way of introducing danger in the face of an omnipotent, omniscient God. His dystopia was not pure, his utopia was.
The evil of Mordor was made bearable by the courage and humanity of Frodo and the story would have remained interesting and successful even if Frodo had failed in the end. It was his courage and humanity, not his victory, that really counted.
The essence of a story is the struggle of one thing against another: a living thing against the impersonal universe; a living thing against another living thing; one aspect of a living thing against another aspect of himself.
In each case, you have to make it possible for the reader to identify with at least one side of the struggle, so that his interest and sympathy is engaged. I say “at least” one side, because if you are skillful, you can cause him to identify with both sides and be emotionally torn.
The side or sides with whom you identify must carryon the struggle with courage, intelligence, and decency--or, at least, learn to do so. The story won’t be effective if you are ashamed of the side you make your own.
Both sides must have a fair chance to win. It is tempting to pile the odds up against your side, so as to make your hero’s ultimate victory the more unexpected, exciting, and triumphant, but in that case you must be sure that your side does end up victorious. You can’t make it David versus Goliath unless David wins, and as one becomes more and more experienced and sophisticated in reading, that may come to seem too obvious and even too unrealistic.
It seems to me, then, that the best one can do is to present one’s story as a struggle between sides which are both mixtures of good and evil (thus placing it somewhere between the extremes of utopia and dystopia), and don’t make the odds overwhelming in either direction. One can then proceed to make one’s point without being forced into a happy ending and under conditions of maximum excitement and reader uncertainty. The reader will not only be uncertain as to how his side will win, but if it will win, or even, perhaps, which is truly his side.
I don’t say this is easy, of course.