We knew that the creaking of the house was it settling in for a nap, and that chairs grow uncomfortable when they are tired of being sat on. When we return to fairyland, our eyes open once again to the magic that surrounds us and we realize what had been stolen from us through an immature attempt at maturity.

When we read stories as children we understood that they were real, just as real as anything else in the world, but we also understood that they are different in their reality. Our unfamiliarity with the world as children allows us to see how large and wondrous it is, though of course we see the dangers present. There are dragons, goblins, and monsters in the dark and to ignore them is foolish.

As we grow older, however, we find ourselves assured of our knowledge of the world and we leave behind the magic we once saw around every corner. We begin to believe that the monsters are simply shadows, the heroes are contained within stories, and adventures belong to the distant past or worlds other than our own. We begin to see these as no more than figments of our imagination as though the imagined is somehow unreal.

I recall being at a restaurant once and hearing a young boy ask a server which brick on the far wall opened up the secret passageway. There was no question about whether or not such a passageway existed, it was simply known. The only question was how to gain access.

This server told him that she was not given access to the passageway and unfortunately could not tell him which brick would work. While many adults may have “played along” with the boy, few would truly believe alongside him. It feels silly to do so because of course there’s no secret passageway because such things either do not exist or would be found in places like old castles or the White House, not a local restaurant.

I will admit that I was not always of the mind to accept fairyland. It was combination of factors, both human and providential that opened my eyes. I now see that fairyland is indeed more real than the world most of us are used to dwelling in. We are told that the imaginary is simply “make believe” because we pretend that something is real when it must not be.

Why though? Why should we accept that there is not, in fact, a brick in the wall that might lead one on an adventure to another land? Is the adventure any less real simply because it is found in our imaginations? Of course not. To imagine is to create. It is to embrace the world as it is and to not rob yourself, or others, of the wonder that remains even if we have not allowed ourselves to see it.

In fairyland, we see the beauty of the world alongside the ugliness. The beauty of the princess is matched by the ugliness of the witch. The valiance of the knight is matched by the cruelty of the dark lord in his dark tower. G.K. Chesterton noted that fairy-tales are not responsible for showing dragons to children, they instead show that dragons can be defeated. This is echoed by C.S. Lewis in his essay “On Three Ways of Writing for Children”: “Because it is so likely that children will meet cruel enemies, let them at least hear stories of brave knights and heroic courage.”

There is no illusion to fairyland, fairies are instead fond of enchantments. It is not an idyllic utopia disconnected from the realities of the created order. Fairyland is part of the created order and thus is home to heroes and scoundrels alike. G.K. Chesterton wrote in Orthodoxy:

It might be stated this way. There are certain sequences or developments (cases of one thing following another), which are, in the true sense of the word, reasonable. They are, in the true sense of the word, necessary. Such are mathematical and merely logical sequences. We in fairyland (who are the most reasonable of all creatures) admit that reason and that necessity.

When we return to fairyland, we do not return to ignorance of the world as though we are small children who are experiencing the world for the first time, instead we see the world without the illusions of disenchantment. In fairyland, all things return to their fundamentals, their most archetypal and primal realities.

As I said in “The Princess and the Knight,” these stories display the feminine and the masculine in their purist forms, in the forms that we should all desire to fulfill. Fairyland washes away the illusions of the mundane and returns us to the clarity of the enchantment under which we were made. To be enchanted is not to be deluded. Enchantment is not illusory, disenchantment is. Gazing at the moon and admiring its beauty is truer and more serene when you understand that the moon wants to be admired. More from G.K. Chesterton:

Now, the fairy-tale philosopher is glad that the leaf is green precisely because it might have been scarlet. He feels as if it had turned green an instant before he looked at it. He is pleased that snow is white on the strictly reasonable ground that it might have been black. Every colour has in it a bold quality as of choice; the red of garden roses is not only decisive but dramatic, like suddenly spilt blood.

The moon is beautiful by its very nature, and it chooses to display it awe-inspiring presence in the night sky. It does not always choose to do so, but it is important to recognize it when it does. When one admires a beautiful woman, or tells her that he loves her, he is doing so because it is right and true. Not to do so would be a crime against the Good. Her beauty is her own, yet it is also something much deeper, and we see that more clearly when we understand that she is a princess in fairyland who casts light against the darkness.

The expression of her beauty, like that of the moon, is a choice, though she does not decide to be beautiful because that is intrinsic to her and the moon alike. The sun does not choose to be radiant or powerful, but it chooses when to express its power and to what extent. Returning to fairyland allows us to see the freedom of the world around us and to better admire the wonder present therein.

Fairyland returns the imagination to its proper place of providing and discerning meaning within the world. When our imaginations are subject to illusions, we find them trapped within cliches and stale ideas that do not stir our hearts to adventure. We find ourselves unable to appreciate the world around us for what it is, a living work of art which has been granted freedom by the Artist.

The expression of this freedom is found in fairyland. We may learn the cold processes of nature through science, but we will not grasp the true beauty of the freedom of the trees and their changing colors without returning to fairyland. We will not hear the songs of praise sung by birds without the enchantment of fairyland, instead we will hear only mating calls.

Find the brick and enter the secret passageway that leads to fairyland and adventure. Speak with a child, a harbinger of fairyland wisdom, and be renewed in your search for beauty and wonder.

If one wishes to practice art, writing, or music as a hobby in their spare time, so be it, but they do not contribute to the material benefit of society at large. The arts bear no burdens for social or political development, no obligations for financial gain and public policy. Why pursue art if there is no consistent material benefit?

Another question: Who wants to live in a world that doesn’t appreciate or conserve beauty?

Let’s back up and explore what is meant by ‘beauty’ and ‘art.’ The study of beauty, specifically in visual form, is called aesthetics, while the counterpart for written works would be poetics. For brevity’s sake, I will simply refer to creative endeavors as ‘the arts’ throughout this piece. Beauty is an intrinsic feature of the created order which can and ought to be admired by observers.

It is a fact of reality and things which are beautiful are beautiful in themselves and not simply from the perspective of the witness. The old adage that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” finds only limited value when actually speaking of beauty. Preferences may exist, but beauty itself is an objective feature of the world and when one speaks of something as being beautiful, they are appreciating it in proper form.

In one of his greatest works, The Abolition of Man, C.S. Lewis references a story involving the poet Samuel Coleridge at a waterfall:

You remember that there were two tourists present: that one called [the waterfall] ‘sublime’ and the other ‘pretty’; and that Coleridge mentally endorsed the first judgement and rejected the second with disgust. (2)

The tourist who called the waterfall ‘sublime’ was giving an appropriate level of reverence to a place of true beauty and majesty, whereas the second tourist is only correct in labeling it ‘pretty’ in an imagined black and white scale of ‘yes’ or ‘no’. No such black and white scale exists, however, and to label something truly worthy of recognition as ‘sublime’ as merely ‘pretty’ is a disservice and a failure to apply proper appreciation. To label the waterfall ‘sublime’ is to recognize the true and intrinsic merits of the waterfall. It deserves such a label because it is sublime. The first tourist spoke something innately true about the waterfall.

To dismiss both tourists as making value statements contingent on their own feelings leads us to dismiss all that is beautiful and good within our use of language and thought. If a man says to a woman that she is radiant like a sunrise, we should then recognize that the statement is useless and has nothing to do with the woman, or the sunrise, but instead has to do with the feelings welling up inside the man’s heart. The external figure being referenced is of little consequence when the important factors of judgement are internal.

If I were to be conditioned to associate the taste of chocolate with getting sick, then such a judgement would be equally reasonable as one who associates it with joy or pleasure. Instead, we ought to understand that the former association is not in line with reality. C.S. Lewis references his own dislike of being around small children, but that he recognizes that this is a defect and not a preference of equal value to one who enjoys such company.

Like the waterfall, there is an intrinsic value to the fellowship of small children, whether we understand this as an evolutionary biological drive to continue the species and look after our young, or as a sacred duty to procreate and pass one’s heritage on to the next generation. One who dislikes children does so in defiance of the natural order, denying the proper valuation of younger persons and our natural instinct to care for them. The tourist who described the waterfall as ‘pretty’ was denying the waterfall its proper valuation.

As C.S. Lewis puts it, there is “a quality which demands a certain response from us whether we make it or not.” (19). Beauty is such a feature of reality. It demands to be recognized as such, as an awe-inspiring sight that humbles us or else wells up strong emotions of joy, courage, or motivation. To recognize beauty is to see the world as it is, as a reflection of the beauty of its very design. Beauty points us upward, to deeper consideration of what lies beyond our senses and our reason.

The arts must therefore be understood as reflections of the beauty we see around us. Just as a waterfall, a mountain, or a forest each reflect some deeper beauty in the world, so too do the arts, either as reflections of those very subjects or as a grasping toward the highest beauty. When the true poet sits down to do his or her work, the goal is not to rhyme words meaninglessly but to speak of something that manifests itself in our hearts. A former instructor of mine once said that the purpose of poetry is “to move the soul.”

The arts seek to explore and bring to mind those things which are in themselves so beautiful or meaningful that they must be expressed through beautiful means. It is here we see a firm line drawn in the sand between ‘art’ and ‘entertainment’. That is a conversation for another post, however, but it is important to note that there is nothing wrong with entertainment as long as we recognize it is of a lower order. While it may still grasp at beauty, it does so secondarily.

The question we return to is what makes the arts valuable if they provide little, or at least inconsistent, material benefit? In a culture and society which prioritizes practicality and career-prospects, we have little patience for the pursuit of the true, the good, and the beautiful. The arts may not be the clearest pathway leading to monetary success, unless you wish to launder money through modern art, but they are made free by that fact. The arts, the humanities, are free from the burden of outcome, of practicality. They speak of the world, not to the world. The arts are those subjects and practices we pursue out of love and passion, not with financial gain at the forefront of our minds. They are things to be enjoyed in themselves rather than based on what they may provide.

One can imagine fewer things more practically useless than standing in the Louvre and admiring da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. What that person takes away from those moments is not to be measured in finances, credit scores, assets, or physical health. Rather, they step away having taken a moment to admire a work of beauty that grasps toward something even more beautiful. Our imaginations were not given to us to be squandered over an obsession with pragmatism, but to seek truth through the beautiful and to uncover the mysteries of our world and lives. We do not gain much from pondering our existence or appreciating good literature, but we are enriched by it nonetheless.

There is an inherent value to life and there are intrinsic meanings in this world. They are not imposed by us out of preference or simple enjoyment, but rather are discovered by us in the authentic search for truth. The philosopher Iain Thomson describes this in the 2010 documentary Being in the World:

Life is made most meaningful when you respond to meanings that are independent of you. This is a point that goes back to Kierkegaard [who] said that if you think all meaning comes from you then you can just take it back. You’re a king without a castle. You’re a sovereign of a land of nothing.

When we pursue the arts, either as creators or appreciators, we are recognizing the meanings and beauty naturally occurring in the word around us. Participation in the beautiful is a natural feature of a life lived authentically, not in servitude to mere practicality, but with eyes set to the horizon of what is greater. While all life must be bound by pragmatism to a degree—and there’s nothing wrong with that—we were not made to take a walk during the sunrise without feeling awe. Even the Lord rested on the seventh day, admiring and appreciating the beauty of creation. We were not made to ignore the stars.

There’s an added realism and depth to stories that are based on or inspired by real events, assuming the story is still competently executed. We might even say that the fictionalized portrayal can tell us something real about the actual events. But can we go a bit further? What I mean here is to ask whether or not fiction can actually participate in reality rather than merely imitate it. By participate I mean that the story involves more than a simple reflection of real events or real people, but that it speaks directly to the nature of the world as we understand it or as it is.

One step toward this goal, especially within realms of speculative fiction, is internal consistency. The story world need not be subject to all the same laws and limitations of our own world, but it needs to be constrained by consistent internal laws. Strange and weird fiction that emphasize the story’s distinct madness and chaos are of a different sort (think Alice in Wonderland). There is nothing wrong with strange fiction, but the distinction is important.

For a story trying to talk about people and particular events in a world, there must be consistency that makes the setting and characters intelligible to readers. I talked about this in my post on world-building. This very practice of ensuring that a story remains internally consistent is a means by which it might participate in reality. In doing so, it speaks to our perception of the world and can therefore explore aspects of the world that we might be uncomfortable with or ignorant of.

The meaning or purpose of a story is also a means by which it participates in reality. A story built around the grief of a character, if done effectively, speaks to the reality of grief as experienced by real people. A film showcasing the failed relationship between a parent and child may speak to the reality experienced by countless people throughout the world. It may even, with a bit of self-awareness and reflection, lead to us having greater empathy toward those in the midst of grief or to work toward repairing failed and failing relationships in our lives.

Art and fiction have the ability to draw us toward such reflection and a greater attunement to those around us and the world we live in. It may even tell us things we do not wish to hear in other mediums. As C.S. Lewis put it in his essay “Sometimes fairy stories may say best what’s to be said,” stories have the ability to “steal past those watchful dragons” we place as guardians over our hearts and minds.

Stories also have the benefit of teaching us the lessons of life without all the boring bits. They are streamlined life. We don’t often see characters in the midst of the mundane, or if we do it is for a limited span of time and not for the bulk of the narrative. It allows us to see more clearly the themes present in the narrative as they are not bogged down by distractions or the small details of life. Our lives have themes much in the same way that stories do, but they are spread more thin and can easily become muddied.

Take a moment to think back on your life, perhaps the past five years in particular. What are the themes or recurring ideas you notice? I think one that has appeared in my life in recent years has been patience, though I have often failed to acknowledge or live up to it. Our lives are dominated by such themes, and stories can help to illumine them if we are willing to reflect. Sometimes the stories that draw us in most are the ones that speak to the themes in our lives, whether good or bad.

There is also a clarity of perspective to be found in stories and art more generally. Because a piece of fiction is so focused in comparison to our ever-changing and complex lives, there is simple wisdom to be found within stories. The outside perspective of a character or narrative can lead one to understand their own ideas, motivations, or shortcomings in ways that internal consideration might not. It is often easier to learn of ourselves from the outside.

We are not self-created beings, rather our identities are mutually-negotiated constructs between ourselves and those around us. We may not like it, but in many cases we are as people perceive us to be. If we are not, then we are not living authentically. The external perspective of a friend or a story can lend wisdom which would otherwise be hard to reach from within the churning madness of our own hearts and minds. Too much self-consideration leads to self-obsession and a loss of all that actually makes us interesting as human beings. If we allow them, stories can steal past the watchful dragons of our self-identity and align our perspectives, even if momentarily, to reality.

I’ve said that fiction of this sort must be internally consistent and participate with reality. In order to explore this further we must delve, rather shallowly, into the field of modal logic. There are two ways in which something may be said to exist, necessarily and possibly. If something possibly exists, then it is reasonable that it may in fact exist not only in our world but in other, possible, worlds. It is, by definition, possible. It is not assured. All things that exist are at the very least possible.

By contrast, those things of a necessary existence must, and in fact do, exist in this world and all possible worlds. A common example of this would be 2+2=4. The numerals themselves and the words we use might vary from world to world, but the fact that two quantities of two makes four is a logical necessity. If it were merely possible that 2+2=4, then we would have no certainty in our ability to comprehend basic ideas about the universe. As such, for a piece of fiction to properly participate with reality it must also be home to those things of a necessary variety.

An author need not list all the things that comprise their literary world conceptually or metaphysically, but we do get a good sense of how the state of a fictional setting lines up with our reality. The depiction of real and necessary things might be done in a more over-the-top fashion in order to call special attention to them, or they may be shrouded. Either way, there is an unspoken language which we intuit.

As with the personal examples used above, this feature of fiction’s truth-telling capability enables it to speak to more fundamental ideas about the world as well. Aspects of the universal human experience such as suffering and joy, or those we understand only as shadows of themselves such as transcendence and beauty, may be made clearer through exploration in art.

When Caspar David Friedrich painted Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, he was saying something true about the romantic yearning of the human spirit. When the anonymous poet penned the Anglo-Saxon elegy “The Wanderer” he was saying something true about loss of home, kin, and purpose. When C.S. Lewis wrote The Chronicles of Narnia, he was saying something true about childhood and the adventuring spirit. When Dante Alighieri wrote The Divine Comedy, he was saying something true about the journey of the soul and our struggle toward the transcendent.

In all cases, the work of art, visual or literary, expresses something true about the world and demands consideration. If something is true, really true, necessarily true, then it will be true in all other worlds as well.