Ziggy Zig-zags the Light and Dark Fantastic, vol. 1 (review)

Ziggy first page

In Ziggy Zig-zags the Light and Dark Fantastic, Vol. 1, written by Ron Baxley, Jr., and illustrated by Vincent Myrand, a Welsh Corgi named Ziggy bravely navigates multiple familiar fantasy worlds (Neverland, Oz, and Wonderland), and Baxley likewise bravely and expertly navigates multiple conflicting narrative rule systems to create a prime example of the inevitable endpoint in the development of fantasy, what you might call the exponential pastiche.

Pastiche became catch all term for a variety of techniques for intertextual referencing in analysis of postmodern fiction (e.g. Slaughterhouse Five is a pastiche of war fiction, sci fi, and confessional memoir), as if such a technique suddenly came into existence after WWII, but pastiche has been intrinsic to children’s narratives from the very beginning. Fairy tales passed down orally inevitably mixed up multiple narratives elements and styles with anachronistic present day cultural elements for maximum (exciting or terrifying) impact. As cultures increasingly intermixed, the pastiche mixed even more erratically. Witness, for example, how Norse and Greek myth mix freely in Medieval tales or how the pagan King Arthur is searching for the Christian Holy Grail.

Then came the golden age of children’s book publication (heavily referenced throughout Ziggy) starting, arguably, with Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in 1865 and spanning through the publication of the Peter Pan books and plays and L. Frank Baum’s massive oeuvre of Oz sequels and other similar fantasy books. This great golden age had such a significant impact that other great periods in children’s book publication seem to be echoes of this period. For example, Roald Dahl, Dr. Seuss, and Maurice Sendak published during what was conventionally identified as the postmodern period, but their pastiche was more in keeping with Wonderland and Oz than the current trends in novel writing. Another monument to the value of this period is the continuous publication of Oz sequels (several of which Baxley himself has written) after Baum’s death and the posthumous publication of his last Oz novel, Glinda of Oz, in 1920. What defines the post-Wonderland style of pastiche is placing the protagonist firmly in the present (Alice is unmistakbly a girl of the 1860s), and the fantastical elements he or she encounters are a mix of familiar elements from across the culture (Carroll, for example, did not create Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, characters from orally passed down and apparently authorless nursery rhymes – let alone mythological creatures like gryphons or unicorns) mixed with original characters. This is done with a heavy sense of ironic humor that predates postmodernism by a century. The Alice books are able to manage the necessary chaos of this pastiche technique with charm and cleverness, but this chaos is hard to manage. The significant development of Peter and Wendy and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is the inclusion of a definite plot thread, identifiable geography (including maps in many cases) that can’t be simply dismissed as dreams, and, most significantly, an internal rule system. The internal rule system is the most important feature of any fantasy series since the fantasy world has no necessary obligation to follow the rule system of our world, but audiences can view the fantasy as a success or failure by its consistent adherence to its internal rule system: an elf must act consistently like an elf in Middle Earth, and so on.

To take a preexisting and already heavily pastiched story world like Neverland or Oz is to tiptoe the minefield of conflicting narrative rule systems, and Baxley, as an experienced Oz chronicler, manages this feat expertly. Ziggy Zig-zags the Light and Dark Fantastic starts by rooting Ziggy, the Corgi protagonist, in Welsh mythology where Corgis are treated as steeds for elves. The narrative moves quickly to Neverland where pixie dust and happy thoughts allow any sentient being to fly though animals are not endowed with speech. Baxley then introduces an original reinterpretation of a preexisting element: the crocodile has become essentially a demon lord of undead pirates. Baxley introduces several villains throughout the first volume (some familiar, some reinterpretations) that seem to be set up for pay off in later volumes because, in the episodic structure true to the source material, Ziggy moves on to another adventure instead of fully culminating this crocodile conflict. Ziggy next enters Oz where animals can speak, but flight is only possible with wings. Since the pixie dust retains its efficacy from the previous adventure, this is a direct overlay of Neverland and Oz rule systems. In this adventure, Baxley further integrates superhero tropes as Ziggy accompanies a flying monkey in his conflict with an evil mad scientist right out of old Captain America comics. Baxley doesn’t take the easy way out by segregating tropes and rule systems; he piles it all on top of each other. It’s remarkable that this pastiche-of-pastiche actually works. Part of its success comes from the charm of Ziggy himself who must overcome his anxiety (framed anachronistically in a contemporary manner just as Alice’s own concerns are anachronistically Victorian) to defeat overwhelming odds and eventually face all the accumulating villains, but that’s the key to managing the superficial chaos of cultural mix-and-match: a charming character like Alice or Wendy or Dorothy or Ziggy can guide us delightfully through any scenario.

Let me not forget to give credit to the illustrations of Vincent Myrand who is more reminiscent of Quinten Blake’s illustrations of Roald Dahl stories than John Tenniel’s clean-lined, relatively realistic Alice illustrations or or John R. Neill’s similar illustrations of the Oz books. It may have most in common with W. W. Denslow’s original Oz illustrations: the playful lines, the more childlike sense of proportion, the vibrant colors. However, the squiggly quality of the lines and the loose color fill is so reminiscent of Blake’s technique, it makes me wonder if Ziggy will soon enter one of Dahl’s worlds in future volumes. Together, Baxley and Myrand give plenty to look forward to in future volumes.

Information from the author:

Ziggy Zig-zags the Light and Dark Fantastic, Volume 1 is available in the comics section/front of Book Exchange of Ft. Gordon Blvd. in Augusta, Ga., Top Dog Pawn (and comics) on Washington Rd. in Augusta, Ga., Silver City Comics in Cayce, S.C., Scratch N Spin in W. Columbia, S.C., Punk Monkey Comics in Forest Acres in Columbia, S.C., Planet Comics in Anderson, S.C., the Little Red Barn art shop on Hwy. 278 in Barnwell, S.C., and The Caroline Collection antiques in Denmark, S.C. It is also available outside the region at the All Things Oz Museum gift shop in Chittenango, New York and Comics ‘N More in Easthampton, Massachusetts. It may soon be available in Bodacious Books and Baubles in East Longmeadow, Massachusetts and The Book Tavern on Broad St. in Augusta.

Ron has a contest going on where if people find a custom mini-figure of Ziggy from Skittychu Clay and Art in Augusta at one of these places in S.C. and Augusta above and agree to have their photo taken with the figure and his graphic novel and have their likeness used via social media, they will be able to keep the mini-figure absolutely free.

Ziggy figure

Oz, fantasy, and science fiction children’s and young adult author Ron Baxley, Jr., a former educator of approximately 20 years and published author of 25 years, has most recently had an Oz collection, The Oz Omnibus of Talking City Tales and an Oz/Wonderland combined co-written with James C. Wallace II, Of Cabbages, Kings, Queens, Flying Pigs, and Dismal Things, published by Maple Creek Press of Mysteria Filmworks in Cincinnati Ohio (http://www.maplecreekpress.com ) and has independently published a volume of a fantasy, Corgi graphic novel with some Oz content, Ziggy Zig-zags the Light and Dark Fantastic, with art by Maine artist Vincent Myrand and layout and lettering/bubbles by Ali Tavakoly (email rbaxley37@gmail.com for information on obtaining Volume 1 of this independent project or look at the list of stores in which it is available). Ron Baxley, Jr. has been formally invited as a guest author in Authors and Artists Alley in Oz-Stravaganza, a festival in Chittenango, New York in the birthplace of L. Frank Baum, for six years, has been formally invited as a special guest author or guest author at Oz festivals and science fiction cons since 2010, and was recently awarded the honor of a lifetime membership by the International L. Frank Baum and All Things Oz Foundation in Chittenango, New York in June for his lifetime achievements in the world of Oz.

For more information, go to http://rbaxley37.wix.com/ronbaxleyjrofoz, search for the Ziggy Zig-Zags the Light and Dark Fantastic group Facebook page, seek Oz fan Sera Alexia Starr’s Facebook page, Ron Baxley Jr. An Official Author’s Group Chat With Book Updates (https://www.facebook.com/groups/196187527438597/ ), and/or befriend Ron on Facebook.

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The Importance of William Carlos Williams to Fiction Writers: Letting Go the Need to Mean Something

Diego Max

As a fiction writer, I consider William Carlos Williams the most important twentieth century American writer. This is a statement likely to meet with much disagreement, and perhaps isolating the statement to the second half of the twentieth century might turn the competition into a no contest, but there is no reason to isolate a poet’s influence to poetry. He’s just as important to fiction and theater. His importance is best summed up in the statement “No ideas but in things,” the letting go of ideas as the central value of literature and with them all those persistent Greek infinities indelibly inserted as central literary values for centuries: the supposed ideals by which literature and all beautiful things were to be judged; the structural goldenness that tied literature to nature’s order; the timelessness and universality literature was meant to achieve as if relating to another human regardless of different setting were some secondary function to all humans conforming to generalizable features; components like imagery subordinated by mechanisms like metaphor and representation to concepts outside of the text itself. Williams’ “No ideas but in things” and all its connected implications represented a sea change, letting go of all those old, worn out, unnecessary notions. Letting go of ideas meant literature didn’t have to be subordinated to concepts; images didn’t have to be subordinated within metaphors to abstractions. Images could then be images for their own sake, for the stimulation of their beauty or ugliness. What they mean could then be secondary. A red wheelbarrow doesn’t have to mean anything other than itself. Letting go ideals meant questioning how these ideals were created. Beauty, the good, perfection – these weren’t manifest by some eternal force outside of the perspective of humans (and Christian European males most often accessing supposed objectivity to justify their subjective ideas of the universe’s functionality, subordinating anyone outside of their group as outsiders, servants, fools, or savages). “No ideas but in things” localized ideals subjectively within humans and their varied concepts of perfection opening up multiplicity of possibilities. This, as significantly, meant letting go of the need to be perfect, closer to the Japanese concept of beauty, wabi sabi (hence why I’m qualifying Williams’ influence to twentieth century America – he was more an adamant propagator of this concept than an originator). Letting go of the old structural ideals so important to the Greeks led to the innovation for which modernists are most commonly given credit, and this might close-mindedly limit the perception of Williams’ influence on fiction since the collapse of poetic meter might seem irrelevant to fiction, but the dissolution the ideals at the source of this development marks Williams as iconoclast regardless of genre. Letting go of timelessness meant literature could be about the present moment; letting go of universality meant both letting go the notion that universality is possible and narrowing focus on interaction between writer and reader. Instead of writing something for all people at all times, an impossibility only the arrogant can believe is achievable, the writer now needs only to write for one person at one time. This is one of the major points Charles Olson focuses on in “Projective Verse” and credits Williams and Ezra Pound for their developments in this direction. Olson is credited with being first to use “postmodern” to refer to literature, and “Projective Verse” in 1950 essentially inaugurated postmodern literature (though postmodern literature is most often discussed in a very limited way based on some concepts by a handful of French philosophers catching up to Olson about twenty years too late and making claims that only ever worked well with a small portion of postmodern fiction—no wonder Williams gets lost in that). Frank O’Hara’s “Personism: A Manifesto” is another important essay in postmodern poetry which gives significant credit to Williams – O’Hara says only Walt Whitman, Hart Crane, and Williams are “better than the movies” – though O’Hara’s importance is too often limited to promoting spontaneous composition, something O’Hara identifies at the beginning of that essay as an irrelevant distinction compared his apocalyptic, if smart ass, attack on universality.

Williams, the avuncular family doctor with his quiet and simple poems, seems like an odd figure to place at the top of this revolution, hardly ever as aggressive in his promotion of it many other revolutionaries, but it’s there in his poetry. “The Red Wheelbarrow” perhaps receives too great a place as masterpiece since its importance is too easily isolated to its structural innovation and its strong use of concrete imagery – its “red wheelbarrow,” “rain water,” “white chickens,” and so on – but as important as adapting the structure and imagery of haiku (and more important when considering fiction) is the concept of how imagery works adapted from haiku, taking the essential content of poetry from metaphor to parataxis. Metaphor traditionally requires imagery to be subordinated to something outside of itself, concrete or abstract; it either represents or means something and has much less importance than the thing it represents or means (in I.A. Richards’ terms, the vehicle must stand in for the tenor). This is also how we frequently understand fiction: a realistic piece must either represent something “real” accurately or some convenient generalization/false universalism called “the human condition”; something imaginative must function as metaphor for some abstract concept or some real human experience other than what the imaginative piece directly depicts (Alice’s experience represent childhood experience, for example). With parataxis, the value of the imagery is the imagery itself. Williams said he wrote “The Red Wheelbarrow” because he saw a wheelbarrow and thought it was beautiful. The readers can certainly feel in what “depends” on the red wheelbarrow, as the first line certainly invites them to do, but for Williams, it was the wheelbarrow itself, and for other readers, that’s all it has to be. It can be as many things as there are readers, and this approach breaks from the classical concept that ideals are set outside of the reader. A better place to see the way parataxis works is in “Spring and All” which starts with “By the road to the contagious hospital” and then presents images of a winter landscape where new plants are preparing to grow. This might easily be read as a metaphor for the abstract concept of regeneration, but Williams presents only the images. Whether or not the abstraction is necessary is up to each individual reader. The value is in the beauty of the juxtaposition, sickness next to rebirth and no philosophizing to guide the reader’s reaction. Likewise, fixating only on timeless and impersonal poems like this may make his influence unclear on later postmodern poetry in which confession and tying poems to the present moment are mechanisms by which poets reject the old ideals, but one need only look at Williams’ great epic Patterson, a palimpsest of fragments that are very personal and bound to a particular time and place. Patterson is essentially most of the seemingly contradictory strands of postmodernism in one book.

Isolating this influence to just Williams is, of course, a convenient over-simplification since so many other American and non-American writers have been integral in promoting this concept. It’s a centuries-old taken for granted truth of art in Asian cultures. There are plenty of European writers who might take this same position of importance. I would nominate Tristan Tzara for his vigorous attacks on reason and tradition (identifying Williams and Tzara as the American and European figureheads of this revolution, promoting similar concepts in very different ways, might more clearly unify the development of the so-called “postmodern” fiction, poetry, and theater, for the sake of simplification). Other American writers who are candidates for this position include Ezra Pound, for example, helped adapt Ernest Fenollosa’s ideas of how Chinese language – as an interplay between images instead of a subordination to abstractions – in a highly influential (if somewhat inaccurate) way, but Pound was too thoroughly married to ideas in much of his work to function as a consistent anti-idea iconoclast. Wallace Stevens, likewise, made similar statements about the relationship between ideas and things, but struggled to accurately understand Surrealism. However, the factor that might alone make Williams’ the most important American poet of the 20th century is biographical: Stevens can’t claim the same legacy of mentorship. From the Beats to the Black Mountain Poets to the New York School to the San Francisco Renaissance to countless other poets beyond, Williams directly mentored and inspired younger poets who went on to mentor and inspire many generations after them. The spiritual children of Williams are so numerous that it’s hard to name a single significant American poet who started publishing in the 50s and after who was not connected back to Williams by at most two degrees.

The poet who more often gets the credit as most important twentieth century American poet is T. S. Eliot, and isolating focus to the first fifty years might make the contest somewhat even. Ask anyone in the poetic establishment in the 1940s, it might seem ridiculous to claim some obscure provincial poet like Williams could have the same impact as the great champion of High Culture and indirect founder of New Criticism, but starting in the mid-50s, when Williams’ spiritual children came of age and started publishing in overwhelming masses, it might seem equally ridiculous to think that High Culture and New Criticism were ever considered the eternal standards of great literature. True, Eliot is important in challenging traditional form in his poetry and criticism, but Williams’ impact is equal in this realm through his direct mentorship of young poets, giving his flavor of anti-traditional form a longer impact. The problem with Eliot’s legacy as significant influence is he’s too thoroughly married to the subordination of old. His mission was to save high culture from destruction by finding some way to represent the fragmentation. In this way, Eliot would always be tied to the past, always retrogressive, making him less and less important for the forward progress of poetry. One way in which Williams is most significant is shifting poetry from metaphor to parataxis, but here’s a metaphor describing Eliot’s place: it’s like an armada of Greek ships got shattered to pieces, and Eliot’s plan is to keep patching the ships together. This may seem inspirational to other survivors who wish to retain the integrity of Greek structures and seem to have few other options, and they might start patching boats together too, but a survival plan like that has diminishing returns; soon the fragments will cease to function as proper sailing vessels. Meanwhile, Williams, who was perhaps part of that armada’s original disintegration as well, has found an island where he’s growing crops and raising children. Eliot’s line is bound to die out, and Williams’ line is bound to thrive.

This whole claim is based on a concept I have taken for granted, that moving away from ideas is the natural development of literature, but the arts seem to leap forward starting with the visual arts, then poetry, then fiction. Any visual artist who places ideas, high culture, or representation as a central value would seem old fashioned today, but that has been true for 150 years. For poetry, that has been true for about one hundred years. For fiction, that has only been true for about fifty years. William S. Burroughs most aggressively promoted this concept in fiction (see, for example, his piece “Apocalypse” which summarizes this concept most effectively: “everything is permitted because nothing is true,” etc.). Whether or not Naked Lunch was the beginning of postmodern fiction is up for an unnecessarily complicated debate since “postmodern” as a term is so poorly defined, inaccurate at its core, and overly fixated on relatively recent developments in fiction and criticism; regardless, Naked Lunch marked a major break in the old concept of what fiction could be and opened up countless worlds of possibilities. “No ideas but in things” has been slower to catch on in fiction as so much of it seems fixed forever in the nineteenth century. Likewise, much of what followed Naked Lunch relied heavily on gimmickery. I would never bemoan the fun of gimmickery, but it’s not built for the long haul and collapses easily under its own weight since its bones are so brittle, but the alternative has offered little to replace it but rehashing Flaubert. Somewhere beyond the same old Victorian novel and the weak gimmickery is the gloriously irrational future of fiction.