Frankenworld
by Warthorde
All right, kiddies! *raps chalkboard and readjusts monocle* Today’s dissertation: the incoherent world of Eragon. Many readers find Christopher Paolini’s world-building to be a clear example of world-stealing, and any sign of plagiarism certainly deserves to be investigated and brought to light. However, this article is not focused on how Mr. Paolini found his raw materials, but on the shabby job he performed in their construction.
As a writer, I almost sympathize with Mr. Paolini’s bad world-building, I really do, because I experienced the same problem in my first book. Oh, I tried my best, believe me; my entire mind briefly liquidated itself for that little baby of mine. Unfortunately, it was like all first efforts: cobbled together out of pure enthusiasm and sewn with what little skill available. I worked feverishly, yet ended up with a stepping stone instead of a masterpiece. The book succeeded only as a personal growing experience. Years later, I cringe when I try to read it. Had I really been that bad? My teachers had liked it, praising every sweaty little simile and applauding every blood-flecked play of word. They weren’t lying to me; the book is readable, with some clever moments that shine through. But I’m no longer satisfied with it. As a writer, I am my own harshest critic, and as a critic, the former apple of my eye is unacceptable. Why? Because it contains a Frankenworld. Frankenworlds are the unholy result of throwing every cool fact you’ve ever learned into the story, regardless of the resulting incoherence. Indonesian vampires? Of course! Halberds? Why not? Irish monasteries? Dude! Eventually I learned that sometimes, no matter how cool it’d be to include a fish with a name meaning “swimmer with a large penis,” the characters and plot would only suffer.
There are clear signs of a Frankenworld in Eragon. Mr. Paolini even admits to this everything-but-the-kitchen-sink tendency in his interview with Powells.com: “One of the things I love about working on a large story is being able to fill it with interesting little tidbits from the world.” It shows. Badly. I will discuss two obvious examples that leapt out at me. Eragon seems to take place in a half-baked version of medieval Europe. Swords and bows are common weapons. It is inferred that hunting is a normal activity. Small villages are composed of “stout log buildings with low roofs--some thatched, others shingled” (10). And then the reader is introduced to a butcher. A butcher with a shop as spotless as the shiny head of Mr. Clean. A meat market indicates that flaying carcasses is an unusual skill, very odd for a farming community that is supposed to be self-sufficient. The cleanliness implies that this is a butcher shop well accustomed to sterilizing solutions and the FDA. Perhaps Mr. Paolini was inspired by a butcher character from another book, movie or play. Perhaps he knows or is related to a butcher and wanted to include the profession in his writing. The reason remains unknown, but the effect is clear: awkward and disconcerting for the reader. Further into the book appears a passage that literally knocked me back to reality during the first read:
A plump butler answered his knock and ushered him inside without a word. Tapestries covered the stone walls. Elaborate rugs dotted the polished wood floor, which glowed with the light from three gold candelabra hanging from the ceiling. Smoke drifted through the air and collected above (191).
Who reads the word “butler” and doesn’t immediately think of a man resembling a penguin and hovering around the door of a mansion? This stereotype isn’t even historically accurate, but it is such a used theme that we automatically refer to it. A is the first letter of the alphabet, and butler always means a murderer named Jeeves. All of this cultural baggage turns Eragon’s butler into an ill-fitting character, a plaid against the book’s polka dots.
The tired argument of “it’s fantasy, it doesn’t matter” reeks of bullshit. Reality lacks significance in fantasy that is present in, say, autobiographies, but coherence is vital to any genre. Ripping bits and pieces from history and stuffing them all together won’t cut it, especially when the figures or customs are strongly imprinted in our minds as belonging to a specific time period. Any discerning reader can spot a Frankenworld, but what about the author? Is Mr. Paolini even aware of his weak world-building? I’ve read several of his interviews; each reveals an eager, oblivious attitude toward writing. Mr. Paolini’s inner critic has yet to surface, and at this point, with two best-selling books, multiple awards, and fawning praise from the media, perhaps it never will. This is a possibility terrible enough for a reader, but absolutely fatal for an author.
