In the past two decades, no epic fantasy series has been more polarizing and debated than Steven Erikson’s acclaimed Malazan Book of the Fallen. Spanning 10 hefty tomes and over 3 million words, this postmodern behemoth has drawn both lavish praise and pointed critiques for its unconventional approach to fantasy literature.
Having re-read the entire series this past year, I’m reminded of why Malazan endures as such a singular achievement in speculative fiction. Make no mistake, this is a challenging work that upends norms and expects a lot from its readers. But two decades since Gardens of the Moon first exploded onto the scene, Erikson’s magnum opus stands as a postmodern triumph by utilizing complex narrative techniques to create a unique and insightful epic fantasy experience.
Perhaps the most obvious postmodern marker is Malazan’s non-linear, convoluted narrative structure. Erikson shifts viewpoints constantly, jumps back and forth in chronology, and provides only fragments of backstory at a time. Opening novel Gardens of the Moon notoriously drops readers in media res without handholding. In lieu of a straightforward plot, we piece together events from different characters and times. This demands active reading, but ultimately pays off in weaving together Malazan’s sweeping scope.
In contrast to familiar prophecies and destinies, randomness and human error often drive outcomes. There are no purely evil dark lords or unambiguously heroic saviors. Characters constantly subvert archetypes and assumptions, maturing in unexpected directions. Morally complex decisions elicit empathy if not agreement. Epic battles hinge as much on luck or weather as strategy and skill. By bucking conventions, Erikson creates constant surprises that reflect life’s contingencies.
The Malazan world also feels lived-in thanks to erudite details that reward close reading. Layers of history, mythology and philosophy underpin the vivid worldbuilding. Erikson critiques, comments on and deconstructs genre tropes through intertextual references. For every action scene there is metaphyiscal debate, dark humor punching up bleak tragedies. Though epic in scope, small moments of compassion and camaraderie abound.
Make no mistake, the melancholic atmosphere can be overpowering at times. Pathos and futility course through the grand upheavals. The body count is astronomical, the grieving relentless. Yet characters persist with quiet decency, and the storytelling bears unexpected fruit. Postmodern works often resist tidy resolution; here the sea of sorrows continues churning even after the last page. But imperfect life goes on.
This tonal mix of grit, tragedy and empathy aligns with our postmodern skepticism of grand narratives and moral absolutism. Erikson tackles issues of inequality, economics, imperialism, ecology explicitly rather than through metaphor. He interrogates assumptions, examines tensions between ideals and reality. Magic and battles co-exist with sociopolitical commentary because for Erikson, fantasy should expand its purview.
Naturally, such an unorthodox series has drawn criticism over accessibility versus intentional obscurity. Yes, barriers exist, especially early on. But the rewards for persevering are immense. Beneath the epic grandeur exist intimate character studies that resonate deeply. Abstract philosophy bridges smoothly with kinetic action. Far from distancing readers, Erikson’s style replicates life’s astounding messiness and breadth.
Twenty years since its debut, the Malazan Book of the Fallen reads as profoundly modern and ahead of its time. The sheer ambition and risk-taking remix fantasy’s DNA. Erikson employs unconventional methods to craft a unique epic that subverts traditions yet also pushes the genre in bold new directions. Given the resurgent popularity of longform fantasy after Game of Thrones, there’s never been a better time to reevaluate this postmodern masterwork and challenging literary achievement.