One drizzly, autumn afternoon, I retreated to one of my favorite haunts, the book store. Wandering aimlessly, as I always do, I inevitably found myself gravitating towards the Fantasy/Science Fiction section. Thumbing through the countless fantasy epics, each one longer and heavier than the next. I have a love-hate relationship with book stores, there are so many stories, but telling me to choose just one is like telling Augustus Gloop to only eat just one candy bar. Eventually, though, one book in particular caught my eye. This time, it was an average-size, average-looking gray hardcover, notably unremarkable. “The Fantasy Worlds of Peter Beagle” was imprinted on the spine in thick, block letters, and a spindly, doe-eyed unicorn tastefully occupied one small corner of the cover.
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In his magnum opus, The Last Unicorn, Peter S. Beagle wrote “It’s a rare man who is taken for what he truly is.” While most know Beagle for his short-story-turned-cult-classic film The Last Unicorn, few are aware of the comfy, beautifully carved niche he has made for himself in the world of fantasy writing—the kind of niche as warm and inviting as an overstuffed armchair, surrounded by thick rugs and stacks of old, yellowing books. After reading The Fantasy Worlds of Peter Beagle, and, later, Sleight of Hand, the talent and hard work that earned that niche are readily apparent.
Stories within these two books are almost as topically varied as they are refreshingly original. Beagle has a gift for making beautifully simple, brilliant ideas come to life with crystal clarity. Every story has a moral without being preachy, every piece composed of layer-upon-layer of meaning—a signature of his that helped make The Last Unicorn what it is. Cajun werewolves, re-imagined fairy tales, lost, world-weary dragons looking for a way home, even one of the most clever takes on superheros I’ve seen in a long while are packed into his books, providing the reader with shot after shot of whimsy and intellect.
An unfortunate side effect to writing fantasy is that the authors tend to get sucked into their own works—often times to an overwhelming degree. Game of Thrones, Dragon Riders of Pern, Lord of the Rings—as wonderful as they are—can often leave the reader as exhausted at the end of the story as the protagonists they’re reading about. The minute details are included on nearly every page, the plots, sub-plots and sometimes sub-sub-plots can be overwhelming and difficult to absorb. Beagle, on the other hand, meshes reality and fantasy so smoothly, that his plots and characters can settle themselves and comfortably grow and expand within the few pages they’re provided.
Catharsis is almost always a feature in Beagle’s works; a refreshing change from the ever-growing trend of cliff-hangers and loose ends in literature today. The story ends, and the reader is full, appeased, sated—not left with an open-ended hunger that will never be fed.
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Walking home in the rain, my hoodie pulled low over my eyes to filter out the fine, drizzly Portland mists, my newest library addition thumped satisfyingly against my thigh—safe and dry in my book bag. Another candy bar for Augustus, another literary geode I couldn’t wait to crack open.
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