On Dr. Zhivago
Auntie has very little to say about fantasy as a kind of literature. So I have to say it. In the Victorian and modernist periods, writers of fantasy were often apologetic about what they did, offering it as mere whimsy, a sort of bobble-fringing to real literature, or passing it off, sneakily, as Lewis Carroll did, as being "for children" and therefore beneath serious notice. Writers of fantasy are often less modest now that what they do is recognised as literature, or at least as a genre of literature, or at least as a subliterary genre, or at least as a commercial product. Fantasy has, in fact, become quite a business. There are people who turn out unicorns by the yard. Capitalism flourishes in Elfland. But when one night in Buenos Aires in 1937 three friends sat talking together about fantastic literature, it wasn't yet a business. Even less so one night ...