The genre of historical fiction is continually expanding, adapting to new demands from readers and the creativity of authors. First, let us examine this phenomenon from its international perspectives.
the range of historical fiction
What is historical fiction? The United States-based Historical Novel Society acknowledges the complexity and proposes the following definition:
There will never be a satisfactory answer to these questions, but these are the arbitrary decisions we’ve made.
To be deemed historical (in our sense), a novel must have been written at least fifty years after the events described, or have been written by someone who was not alive at the time of those events (who therefore approaches them only by research). (Historical Novel Society, n.d.).
Perhaps to maximise membership, however, the society offers a much broader definition:
We also consider the following styles of novel to be historical fiction for our purposes: alternate histories (e.g. Robert Harris’s Fatherland), pseudo-histories (e.g. Umberto Eco’s Island of the Day Before), time- slip novels (e.g. Barbara Erskine’s Lady of Hay), historical fantasies (e.g.
Bernard Cornwell’s King Arthur Trilogy) and multiple-time novels (e.g.
Michael Cunningham’s The Hours). (Historical Novel Society, n.d.)
Historical fiction comprises several sub-genres, and their nomenclatures are
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histories, alternate histories and time-slip histories for their application to the History curriculum in Australian schools.
the range of historical fiction
Given the popularity of historical fiction as a literary genre, there are many historical fiction authors writing in the growing number of sub-genres.
Convening international annual conferences, the Historical Novel Society is a robust group. It publishes annually two issues of Solander and four issues of The Historical Novel Review. Sarah Johnson, one-time editor of the Historical Novel Society’s journals, elaborated on the difficulties of arriving at a consensus regarding an acceptable definition of the historical novel: ‘the obvious definition that comes to mind is that historical fiction is simply “fiction set in the past”’ (Johnson, 2002). There is certainly no consensus on a definition for the genre. For Dalton, ‘the reality is, however, that almost everyone — and this includes readers, authors, publishers, agents, and the press — seems to have his or her own idea of what historical fiction is, and also what historical fiction should be’. It is a genre of some ‘controversy and contradiction’ (Dalton, n.d.).
As Johnson puts it, ‘While the usual generic definition — “fiction set in the past” — is true for the most part, this seemingly simple definition brings up a number of questions’ (Johnson, 2002).
However, Jill Paton Walsh, a UK historical fiction writer, argues that ‘a novel is a historical novel when it is wholly or partly about the public events and social conditions which are the material of history, regardless of the time at which it is written’ (Paton Walsh, 1977, p. 221). MacKinlay Kantor, the author of the Pulitzer Prize winner Andersonville, is adamant about the novelist’s obligation to history. He maintains ‘the term “historical novel” has a dignity of its own, and should be applied to those works wherein a deliberate attempt has been made to recreate the past’ (Kantor, 1967, p. 2, cited in Herz, 2010). He is enthusiastic about the historical novel being an important genre of literature because an awareness of the past can help the general reader confront the fear
and perplexities of the present and future. He feels the historical novel helps the reader to profit from the lessons of the past with ‘its agonies, its triumphs, its dreams, its disillusionments’ (Kantor, 1967, p. 2, as cited in Herz, 2010).
Nevertheless, the very term ‘historical fiction’ ostensibly appears to embody a contradiction. This was something Richard Lee, founder of the Historical Novel Society, addressed in a paper given to the Romantic Novelists’
Association at their annual conference in 2000. He began by referring to a Daily Telegraph (London) article by Andrew Graham Dixon, art critic, journalist, television presenter, novelist, lecturer, educationalist and nonfiction author:
‘“The historical novel has always been a literary form at war with itself. The very term, implying a fiction somehow grounded in fact — a lie with obscure obligations to the truth — is suggestive of the contradictions of the genre”’ (R.
Lee, 2000, quoting Dixon).
Lee, however, countered by reminding his audience that Dixon’s claim
‘can just as easily be said of something contemporary’. He asked his audience to think of Trainspotting (1996) or Bridget Jones’ Diary (1996). No one thinks these two books are true: ‘Yet no-one would bother to read them if they didn’t believe that they were in some way drawn from life.’ Lee claims this may be a ‘contradiction’ but ‘it’s an absolute fundamental — perhaps the absolute fundamental quality of art. Not just fiction, but sculpture, painting, poetry
— all art’. For Lee, in this sense ‘all art is, to use Dixon’s words “at war with itself”’. For Lee, ‘It [historical fiction] seeks, at the same time, both accuracy and illusion. It is ludicrous to say this is only a defining characteristic of historical fiction — it’s a defining characteristic of all fiction’ (Lee, n.d., emphases in original).
Historical fiction compared to History as a discipline
Scott H. Dalton (2006) offers another definition of historical fiction:
• real historical figures in the context of the challenges they faced.
• real historical figures in imagined situations.
• fictional characters in documented historical situations.
• fictional characters in fictional situations, but in the context of a real historical period.
Dalton (2006) adds that ‘the market recognizes a few other permutations’:
• Time-shift stories, in which a modern character is transported back in time, or more rarely, a historical character is transported to the present, or to a time period not his own.
• Alternate history or ‘What if?’ stories, usually set in a world in which an historic event did not occur, or occurred much differently, such as a Nazi victory in World War II, a Texan victory at the Alamo, or the death of William, Duke of Normandy, in 1065.
• Historical fantasy, in which characters, even historic figures, are depicted in historical periods or situations, but along with magic or dragons or some other element of fantasy.
Dalton (2006) goes on to state that ‘historical fiction is a fictional story in which elements of history, be they persons, events, or settings, play a central role’. While Dalton suggests that historical fiction must possess ‘elements of history’, ‘what differentiates historical fiction from history? … After all, does not all history contain an element of fiction, or at least speculation?’
(2006). As she suggests, ‘Ask four soldiers about the same battle an hour afterward, and you’re likely to get four different recounts of the fight’. That said, historians write within their discipline while historical novelists are not so bound. Nevertheless, for Dalton ‘it is the job of both the historian and the [historical] fiction writer to cut through the fog of perception and come as close to the truth as possible’. Much has to do with the audience to which the historian and historical novelist address their respective narrative, but for Dalton ‘the difference lies in the level at which they seek the truth, the focus of their seeking. The historian focuses on the events. The fiction writer focuses on the persons — the characters, if you will — involved in those events’ (Dalton, 2006). Of course, this is a contested point of view, but nevertheless one worthy of consideration.
History is a discipline of enquiry, while historical novels are acts of creativity. Dalton reminds us writers of nonfiction history (historians) seek at ‘the most basic level’ to answer the questions ‘what happened?’ and ‘why it happened that way’. By contrast, the writer of historical fiction seeks to explore the question ‘What was it like?’ (Dalton, 2006).
In answering that last question, authors of historical fiction make full use of historical ‘facts’ as they choose to understand them. Vernay states that ‘it is generally accepted that a work of imagination is built on reality contributing to the psychology of the characters, the historical context, fictional setting, the authenticity of certainly situations modelled on the author’s life and so on’
(2010, p. 181). However, real happenings — the substrata of all literature, I suggest — have multiple uses. As Vernay (2010) has it, ‘when they [facts] are not inspiration for the basic structure of the intrigue, they are the engine that enables the narrative to unfold. They also take the reader back to a pre-text and an after-text when they do not legitimise the story’ (2010, p. 181). However, for the historical novelist, facts have another purpose in their narrative: ‘facts give the text substance so that the reader can read it literally or symbolically.
Actual trivia feeds the historical novel’ (p. 181). Vernay suggests that because of the short span of its recorded history, writers of Australian historical novels face another challenge in their use of facts, that is, they may be tempted to over-trivialise their use of facts. Without citing any evidence, Vernay asserts
‘actual trivia feed the historical novel which, from an Australian perspective, reads like a compensatory strategy’ (p. 181).
Historical fiction, however, serves other important purposes for the reader, all of which contribute to its uniqueness as a genre. Comparing two works on World War One can show this. Les Carlyon’s The Great War (2006) is a brilliant and scholarly piece of nonfiction that explores the manifold motives of the Allies and the tragedy of high command. As Hutchinson describes, ‘it reads easily, the prose lopes along and, if the occasional metaphor is strained and some battle descriptions hard to follow, most remains in the great tradition of plain, dignified writing’ (Hutchinson, 2006). With great finesse, Carlyon
takes the reader into the mud, vermin and filth of the trenches. He ‘tells their stories, rescues ordinary heroes, lays judicious blame at the feet of butcher- generals, is fair to the British, points the finger at ignorant politicians and their secret agents and recounts the forgotten battles’ (Hutchinson, 2006).
Moreover, Hutchinson adds, his history is not flagrant patriotism: ‘He is careful in measuring our contribution to the huge mincing machine on the Western Front and effective in sketching the bigger background in Europe and Australia’ (Hutchinson, 2006).
But compare Carlyon’s The Great War with such works of fiction as Erich Maria Remarque’s Im Westen Nichts Neues, which translates into English as All Quiet on the Western Front (1929). Written only ten years after the events described in the novel, it is not strictly a historical novel by earlier definitions.
But it was written only ten years after the events it describes, and now over eighty years have passed since its publication. Soon after its publication, in 1930, vast numbers of people around the Western world were fascinated with the outstanding blockbuster Hollywood film version of the novel, brilliantly directed by William Wallman. Theatres filled everywhere — it was a must-see film. Sales of Remarque’s book soared. A feature article in The Reveille edition of 29 June 1930 affords a fascinating contemporary insight into the Australian Digger’s response to the film. Diggers heaped praise on it for its honesty in portraying conditions at the Front and for not glorifying war.
Remarque puts the reader into the battlefront from the ordinary German soldier’s perspective; readers can feel the weight of the mud on Paul Bäumer’s pitifully worn boots, and the pathos of his dreams and disillusionment. Readers feel Bäumer’s heavy pack digging into their shoulders, and curse as his feet slip on the worn and wet duckboards of the trenches. Reader hear the snap of the merciless passing rounds, and feel his fear as he and his fellow soldiers scramble into the man-made warrens of the trenches under heavy Allied bombardment.
Readers fear for his life in the moments before he raises his head above the trench. Readers care about the things he cares about: not national strategy but his friends and family, as this dreadful war eats away at his soul. Thus, in
Dalton’s words ‘the writer of historical fiction is first a writer not of history, but of fiction, and fiction is about characters, not events’ (Dalton, 2006).
‘So historical fiction’ Dalton concludes, ‘is a close relative of history, but not simply a retelling of the lectures we learned to dread in high school.’
Moreover, ‘we write historical fiction, and read it, not to learn about history so much as to live it. It is the closest we can get to experiencing the past without having been there’ (Dalton, 2006). Indeed, Dalton suggests, reading historical fiction is a wonderfully personal experience: ‘We finish a history and think “So that’s what happened!” We finish a work of historical fiction, catch our breath, and think “So that’s what it was like!”’ (Dalton, 2006).
Historical fiction defined for teachers
Groce and Groce (2005) are concerned with how any definition of historical fiction may fit with the needs of teachers in their development of integrated teaching/learning strategies as a part of their social studies programs. They refer to Galda and Cullinan’s research (2002), which describes historical fiction as
‘a distinctive genre consisting of “imaginative stories grounded in the facts of our past”’ (Groce & Groce, p. 205). Groce and Groce go on to contend that
‘historical fiction differs from nonfiction in that it not only presents facts or re-creates a time and place, but also weaves the facts into a fictional story.
Historical fiction is realistic — the events could have occurred and people portrayed could have lived — but differs from contemporary realistic fiction in that the stories are set in the past rather than the present’ (p. 205).
Groce and Groce (2005) then add additional thoughts for teachers on a definition of historical fiction The authors contend that Reed (1994) offers more clarification by differentiating between ‘historic fiction’ that purports to ‘reveal history and true character of historic figures’ from ‘historical fiction’, whose purpose is to ‘bring history to life’ (p. 121). Perhaps so, but the commentary is a little semantic. I prefer Armstrong’s (1999) suggestion: ‘historical fiction takes all those things that were (the history) and turns something that was
not (an imagined story) into something that could have been’ (p. 16, cited in Groce & Groce, 2005, p. 100, emphases in Groce & Groce). But clearly, any definition of historical fiction is contestable.
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The terms ‘historical fiction’ and ‘history’ are far from synonymous. Each has its own purpose: History is a disciplined method of enquiry of the past;
historical fiction is a creative act, making extensive use of historical personages and events. A comparison of Carlyon’s The Great War with such works of fiction as Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front shows what works of history and historical fiction seek to achieve.
Any definition of historical fiction will take into account the purpose of the definition, and for whom it is intended. For the purposes of this present study, I have used the Historical Novel Society (n.d.) definition and that provided by Dalton (2006). These definitions included ‘what if’ history — counterfactual history, alternate history — and their definitions. This book has two chapters devoted to these genres, specifically to attempt to explain how teachers can use these related genres in History classrooms as pedagogical devices.