Good morning, Readers!
I’m over at Black Gate Magazine today, talking about heroes and villains.
I’m over at Black Gate Magazine today, talking about heroes and villains.
Growing up, I had no heroes.
I’m not sure if this is a sign of anything in particular that might be wrong with me, but growing up, there was no one in any field — sports, literature, politics, or life — that I considered a hero of mine. There were certainly people whose skill and success I greatly admired. My favourite artists come out of the surrealist movement, and they are remarkable, both in how well the portray realism and how expertly they undermine it; twist it and make it strange. I have always loved Tolkien and regularly stand in awe of what he built. I feel the same way about Steven Erikson, a more contemporary writer. Martin Lass was my favourite violinist, and Tommy and Phil Emmanuel my favourite all-time guitarists. I was enamoured with the skill of tennis stars Pat Cash and Pat Rafter...
If you needed proof of my Australian-ness, I think that’s it right there...
Anyway, none of these people, however much I admired them and loved what they produced, ever reached hero status with me. Not even my parents, who are so often cited by children as being personal heroes. It’s not that I didn’t think they weren’t wonderful. It’s that I could not associate them with the word heroic. They were great representatives of their chosen field. But they weren’t heroes.
So what is it that makes a hero a hero to me? I’ve spent a long time thinking about this particular topic, and it’s surprisingly knotty. To me, I suppose, heroes are just people, sometimes ordinary, sometimes not, thrust into extraordinary circumstances, who gathered the courage to do something about it. They are heroes not because of some awesome power (though some may be in possession of it), but because they stood up and acted when others would not.
I’m not sure if this is a sign of anything in particular that might be wrong with me, but growing up, there was no one in any field — sports, literature, politics, or life — that I considered a hero of mine. There were certainly people whose skill and success I greatly admired. My favourite artists come out of the surrealist movement, and they are remarkable, both in how well the portray realism and how expertly they undermine it; twist it and make it strange. I have always loved Tolkien and regularly stand in awe of what he built. I feel the same way about Steven Erikson, a more contemporary writer. Martin Lass was my favourite violinist, and Tommy and Phil Emmanuel my favourite all-time guitarists. I was enamoured with the skill of tennis stars Pat Cash and Pat Rafter...
If you needed proof of my Australian-ness, I think that’s it right there...
Anyway, none of these people, however much I admired them and loved what they produced, ever reached hero status with me. Not even my parents, who are so often cited by children as being personal heroes. It’s not that I didn’t think they weren’t wonderful. It’s that I could not associate them with the word heroic. They were great representatives of their chosen field. But they weren’t heroes.
So what is it that makes a hero a hero to me? I’ve spent a long time thinking about this particular topic, and it’s surprisingly knotty. To me, I suppose, heroes are just people, sometimes ordinary, sometimes not, thrust into extraordinary circumstances, who gathered the courage to do something about it. They are heroes not because of some awesome power (though some may be in possession of it), but because they stood up and acted when others would not.
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