Sword-and-sorcery: A divergent path of the hero’s journey

Hey, this hero is made up of a thousand
faces... I see what they did there.

The following are some ramblings and observations conceived after a recent reading of Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces. I’m not sure if I believe the ideas I’m advancing. I’m no Campbell scholar. Just presenting some thoughts here for commentary/disagreement/dismissal. Have at it.

Among the claims I make in Flame and Crimson is that sword-and-sorcery offers a sandbox in which to explore themes alternative to mainstream/high fantasy. The latter often closely follows the “hero’s journey” as described by Joseph Campbell in his classic 1949 study The Hero With a Thousand Faces. Sword-and-sorcery I am positing here offers an alternative exit ramp.

To set the stage a bit: Campbell (1904-87) was a teacher, lecturer, author, and editor who achieved fame with his compelling theory that mythologies the world round—ancient Greek, African, Native American, Northern European, occidental and oriental, and more or less everything in between—share striking similarities and patterns, including their use of the hero’s journey. The journey entails three major stages—Departure, Initiation, and Return—defined by familiar hallmarks and tropes like The Call to Adventure (which the hero may initially refuse), Dragon-Battle (symbolic of the fierce guardian the hero must overcome), and Whale’s Belly (our hero is swallowed, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively,  in a near death experience). The hero undergoes a supreme ordeal to obtain a reward, then re-emerges from the kingdom of dream and returns with a boon that restores the world. It’s a work that builds on the theories of Carl Jung, including the collective unconscious.

How does traditional sword-and-sorcery fit into this model? There is some significant overlap. We see calls to adventure in S&S, journeys into dark pits and underworlds. We see magical aid, from time to time. And plenty of battles against fearsome monsters and wizards. Robert E. Howard’s “The Scarlet Citadel” fits this mold very well, with Conan heeding the call to adventure (taking the bait on a trap set by plotters to steal his kingship, but riding out to heed that call). Captured, he is imprisoned in a dark hell-like underworld, swallowed if you will, and battles a giant serpent. He is offered magical aid by Pelias the wise wizard in the form of a flying mount. And he returns to lay waste to his enemies and would-be usurpers on the battlefield.

But I would argue that sword-and-sorcery diverges with the hero’s journey, often sharply, in the return, and what a return portends. Sword-and-sorcery heroes return (though not always, particularly in the works of Clark Ashton Smith, where they often die ignominiously). But when they do return, typically they do not bring with them a boon that restores the world. In fact, they usually refuse to return or reintegrate to society, and occasionally bring radical upheaval or destruction home with him.




Conan’s return in “The Scarlet Citadel” is striking. He is no genteel king restoring order but a roaring, red-handed barbarian who sees the folly in all civilized attempts at order: And high above all, the naked figure of the king rocked and swayed on the dizzy battlements, mighty arms brandished, roaring with gargantuan laughter that mocked all mobs and princes, even himself. As Campbell notes, the first problem of the returning hero is “to accept as real, after an experience of soul-satisfying vision of fulfillment, the passing joys and sorrows, banalities and noisy obscenities of life. Why reenter such a world?”

Among the reasons Campbell’s work is so highly regarded is that it not only points out interesting mythological parallels, but also offers a powerful psychological model of human maturation. The hero’s journey mirrors the stages of growth in a life. Self-realization is the ultimate goal, with the enlightenment of Buddhism or the submission to Christ the discovery of “truth.” Says Campbell, “Every failure to cope with a life situation must be laid, in the end, to a restriction of consciousness. Wars and temper tantrums are the makeshifts of ignorance; regrets are illuminations come too late.” The classic hero on the journey must be willing to sacrifice himself or herself to elevate the world to which he or she returns; failure to do so is the hero’s fault, as he or she has not reached a high enough order of consciousness.

In the classic Campbellian arc the return of a king portends the return of peace and a hero entering a higher level of self-consciousness. Conan’s return is something different, a spirit aflame with personal vengeance, not a soul ready to ascend to a higher order of spirituality.

I would argue that Conan does not complete the classic Campbellian hero’s journey. He answers the call, but never becomes fully self-realized. He becomes a king, but his wanderlust and outsider-ness never allow him to integrate with society. I don’t believe you can be both an outsider and self-realized—the latter implies a full recognition of oneself with the universe.

Sword-and-sorcery is full of like examples. Elric never finds Tanelorn/equilibrium, and is unable to rise above his Melnibonean heritage. When he does returns, it is to (spoiler alert) destroy Imrryr, and the world, and self-immolate with Stormbringer. Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser arguably make it further down the road, however their path to Rime Isle strikes me as a retreat from responsibility, not a re-integration.

But there may be another interpretation. Mythology is like the god Proteus, Campbell explains, taking all manner of shapes and divergent paths, and therefore allow alternative interpretations of the hero’s journey. One of these is that of the exile, who stands in diametric opposition to that of social duty. In our modern age, when the great co-ordinating mythologies are now seen as quaint lies, there is no meaning to be found in tribes or groups, only in the individual. And a hero who has lived a full life as wanderer, warrior, chieftain, or priest, never losing his own essence, carries within himself the all, though he be an exile. “Wherever the hero may wander, whatever he may do, he is ever in the presence of his own essence—for he has the perfected eye to see. There is no separateness. Thus, just as the way of social participation may lead in the end to a realization of the All in the individual, so that of exile brings the hero to the Self in all.”

Campbell notes that a danger of the victorious hero is arrogance—a hero becomes a supreme king, becomes too prideful and haughty, and his pure essence deteriorates—which may explain why S&S heroes typically refuse the mantle of kingship. “The hero of yesterday becomes the tyrant of tomorrow, unless he crucifies himself today,” he warns.

Sword-and-sorcery heroes, outsiders and exiles, are therefore very relevant in our secularized, atomized modern lives. Strikingly, Campbell even refers to Atlantis in the context of the exile, a small dash of sword-and-sorcery: “The modern hero-deed must be that of questing to bring to light again the lost Atlantis of the co-ordinated soul.”

In summary, sword-and-sorcery heroes at times seem trapped in their juvenility, unable to complete the Hero’s Journey. But perhaps this is mistaken. They may be wearers of one of its thousand faces, exiles with an important message to bear.

But I’ll let this thought-exercise cease here. Campbell’s book contains a brilliant line (just one of many) about the dangers of over-interpretation and applying too rational an analysis to timeless stories: “Whenever the poetry of myth is interpreted as biography, history, or science, it is killed.”