Dystopia

A Dive into the Genre

S. J. Walker

WITHIN THE REALMS OF LITERATURE, it is commonplace to encounter a moral dichotomy where stories are situated on two ends of a fictional continuum. On one side are narratives with affirming, positive anecdotes conveying the best of humanity: gentle fairy tales or light-hearted “rom-coms”. But on the other end, are dystopian horror stories, perplexing allegories that depict the darkest version of our society with malformed social structures, misery and suffering.

Dystopian constructs create a dark backdrop, in front of which protagonists can shine, values prevail and justice takes its course. Against that obsidian darkness, small acts of humanity have a contrasting glow, with empathy and emotions amplified. Though bleak, literary dystopias are a device for exploring common humanity, and its potential for unity and restoration. 

But why is it that this form of storytelling is so addictive? 

Historically, literary dystopias began with cautionary tales that extrapolated oppressive political or social ideologies. In the early 20th Century, Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany became physical incarnations of dystopian storylines, with civil societies transforming into ones of unimaginable horror. In a tumultuous period in world history, these real-world precedents provided a new frame of reference. The heights and depths of human nature, as reflected on our continuum, had been redefined by reality rather than fiction. 

The effect on the portrayal of dystopian societies would be profound. There was a new gold-standard for evil and depictions of oppressive societies in the post-war age would often invoke Nazi or Soviet imagery, such as Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four or Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.

This paradigm licensed a rise in gratuitous violence and sadism, and despite the insightful utility of dystopias, there is also an element of voyeurism. It raises an interesting question, while people find stories of human endeavour and success uplifting, is there a corresponding appetite for the darkness and evil on the opposite end of our axis? 

Evidence suggests the answer is yes; history has allowed sordid storylines to be plausible and audiences have become systematically desensitised to them.

An example of this is The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, criticised for needless sexual and psychological violence peripheral to the storyline. Flesh is burned, tongues cut out, spirits broken. The novel revels in keeping its protagonists alive – but only just. 

But maybe these two sides of our fictional continuum are not as disparate as we originally thought. All literature confronts the subconscious, and perhaps it is dystopias that execute this better than any other genre. 

Whilst the moral of these stories is harder to translate than that of more rose-tinted fiction, undoubtedly the messages are strong and the conclusions uplifting. To reuse the example of The Handmaid’s Tale, while the cruelty is cynical, readers are offered glimpses of salvation in the final pages as protagonist June is bundled into a van, possibly on her way to a new and better life.

So perhaps people indulge in dystopian fiction not just to mimic dark historical precedents or wallow in violence. Maybe it is the restoration of hope and peace that makes them more obsessive than any other genre.