In Other Worlds - Margaret Eleanor Atwood [20]
Myths are not the only kinds of stories in any culture, of course. There are jokes, for example—nobody expects those to be literally true. And there are parables or fables, such as the Fox and the Grapes and the Good Samaritan. These are told to point a moral, and the moral is not dependent on the existence of a grape-loving fox or an actual Good Samaritan. “There was once” is thus a somewhat different beginning from “There was.” Folk tales are stories, but few feel the need to believe in a real Aladdin or some real Twelve Dancing Princesses. There are anecdotes about old Joe down the road and Mrs. Smith across the street, or Jennifer Lopez. These are gossip. We know the people are real—they exist—but our feelings about our own inner essence—call it the soul—are not much affected by stories about them, however juicy these may be.
There are histories—stories about the past that are more or less demonstrably based on fact. (We don’t know whether there was an Icarus, but we’re pretty sure there was a Henry the Eighth.) These kinds of stories are viewed with considerable gravitas. People argue about histories, especially histories about their own group or country, because these really do affect how we assess our place in the world. Were we the good guys? We love people who tell us so. Were we the bad guys? We certainly hope not. If we did behave badly, why did we? Were we self-deluded, or misled by folks with ulterior motives? Did we act in good faith, or were we cynical? We need to know, because we assess our present behaviour in terms of our past behaviour, risky though such an enterprise may be, and even though we—individually—may have been born years or decades after the events in question. With history, something is at stake; it matters to us whether this or that version of “our” history is true because we think we’re being told something about ourselves. Never mind that “we” were not actually present, at the First World War, or the Second, or the bombing of Hiroshima: everyone has a fully expandable ego-image, and in such matters we extend our ego beyond our own body, family, house, car, city, and state to include our country, past and present. That’s another thing about myths: they gather in and circumscribe their target audience. They make a collection into a collective.
Ancient myths precede histories and were once thought to be histories. They were thought to be true accounts of important matters. As SF often shares many features of such myths, we might want to consider these important matters. Here are some of the questions both SF and myths can pose, with some of the answers myths have provided.
Where did the world come from?
Origin myths can be divided roughly into worlds created by a sexual act of some kind (the Earth hatched from an egg, Father Sky copulated with Mother Earth), worlds that were moulded (an aquatic animal or bird dove down and brought up some mud, and the world was made from that), and worlds sung or danced or spoken into being by gods, as in Let there be light. One of my favourites is the Mayan creation myth. The gods created the world, but first they worried. They worried a lot. They worried and worried and worried. I’m with them.
Where did people come from?
They were fashioned from dirt, or ribs. They came from stones. They were hatched out of an egg. Mother Earth gave birth to them. The gods created them as playthings and slaves. They were baked like cookies.
Where did OUR people come from?
Dragon’s teeth. Out of a clam. Descended from the Sun God. Etc.
Why do bad things happen to good people?
Because God and Satan make a bet on Job. Because the House of Atreus