On Canon · 10:12pm Feb 16th, 2021
“Batch of Cucumbers,” SketchMCreations
Let me begin with a small question: in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories, who is Dr. John Watson’s wife?
The answer, of course, is Mary Watson, previously Mary Morstan. She first appeared in “The Sign of Four,” at a year given as 1888, and it was in 1889—some months after the two met and following, of course, the subsequent closing of that case—that they were married. Remarkably, her name isn’t mentioned throughout much of the rest of the first volume of the Sherlock Holmes stories, with Dr. Watson usually referring to her as “my wife.”
A casual reader, however, may be unaware of the fact that, at some point, Mary Watson died. Following, it would seem, Holmes’ fake-out death in “The Final Problem” and subsequent return in “The Adventure of the Empty House,” Mary must have passed away, for Watson writes that Holmes had heard of his “own sad bereavement.” Taking into account the years presented in both stories—the fake-out death occurred in 1891, and Holmes’s return in 1894—it follows that Mary must have died in this three-year gap.
(Note: these years are not necessarily the years that these stories were published so much as they are the ones that the stories took place in.)
Later on, in the 1903 Holmes-narrated story “The Blanched Soldier,” a passing reference is made: Holmes writes that “Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife.” Given the difference in years, it follows that this must be Watson’s second wife, unnamed as she is. This, it would seem, is a simple matter.
But as with many long-standing works and creations, it can be hard to have a sense of all the story’s characters, elements, and recurrences. In something as widespread and with such longevity as the Sherlock Holmes series, it’s understandable that some issues arise concerning the presence of such a minor character as Watson’s wife.
Many Sherlock scholars have pointed out that chronological issues with the wife continue to appear in the print following this established death. To pull directly from the Sherlockian website:
The real difficulty, however, starts in "The Five Orange Pips" when Watson wrote that his "wife was on a visit to her mother's." Since Mary Morstan stated that her mother was dead in The Sign of the Four, and since Watson recorded that "The Five Orange Pips" occurred in September of 1887 (a full year before he met Mary), then this "wife" could not have been her. To make matters even more complex, Watson also mentioned "The Sign of Four," as part of a dialogue with Holmes, in this same story.
And the crux continues in "A Scandal in Bohemia," where Watson clearly recorded that the case started on March 20, 1888 and again referred to being married. Based upon these two stories, one might argue that Watson had a wife before Mary Morstan, but if this is true, then what became of her?
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, to my knowledge, has never issued a direct explanation for this inconsistency, leading his fans to divide themselves into essentially two categories: either the dates presented are themselves wrong, or Watson somehow managed to have three wives, one of which he was married to in the midst of courting Miss Mary Morstan. Such theories have some merit, but, as the above website says, create new inconsistencies anyway.
In a greater context, though, this action allows us to see one of the key features of fans that differ them from their authors or creators. Fans, for better or for worse, have the opportunity post-production to pick-and-choose what is considered “right” and what is considered “wrong.” They try to use the logic and appeal of the stories in order to justify deciding what ought to be considered in-line with their perception of them. They create a “fan canon” (often referred to as “fanon”) in order to categorize observations of events, key figures, define a history, and so forth—and upon these points, most fans usually agree.
But in such a scenario, the author themselves does not really show up. Once presented, the work cannot be undone (except in rare cases). In this way, fans achieve a unique position of power over the author whom previously held such sway as to convince them to become fans. It’s a rather interesting reversal of established roles; for isn’t the reader naturally subordinate to what the author says? But what I’m more concerned with is whether we can take such positioning de facto. The act of correlating events into an accepted mythos is not to be taken lightly. And often, I find that fans do not realize how tenuous their grip on the “order” of their obsession really is.
The question, really, is thus: Is canon of any value? And following that question is another, more pressing one: Who has the final say about what is to be considered “canonical?”
“Reflections-Canterlot,” RobinNomadRain
To begin, we must establish one thing: “canon” doesn’t have its origin with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his stories, though to be sure, his is the first where it was used analogously. It stems from the Greek word, kanon, meaning “rule,” and is often used synonymously with words such as “continuity” or “timeline.” But the origin of its use, as a set of works that establish a kind of “line of authenticity,” comes from Biblical scripture.
It doesn’t take a history buff or a religious studies expert to realize why. The Bible is unique in that it clearly has many different authors, and moreover, it clearly isn’t filled with every story from the Christian or Judaic tradition. The present Bible (or at least the one, no doubt, most people are associated with) contains “canonical stories” that were carefully selected and debated by religious authorities. The standard Bible today, between, of course, the various practices of Christian belief, tends to reflect many of the decisions that such debate created. In general there are two main sections, the Old and New Testaments; in general there are four Gospels about the life and teachings of Jesus Christ; a whole list can be generated, with differences being primarily in what your belief considers authentic or relevant to the teachings.
I bring this up not only because “canon” as a term has its own history, but because I want to point out its usage here. Biblical canon came about as a deliberate exercise in what was considered “true,” at least according to dominant beliefs. This means that just as things were put in, so too were things left out and considered “non-canonical.” But such deliberation was a form of “interpretation,” without much evidence beyond “This makes sense to me, based on my understanding.”
Because of this, I believe it’s impossible to correlate “canon” with “fact.” In something such as science, “fact” is a repeated observation with justifiable conclusions based upon that same observation. Whereas, “canon” is just a kind of interpretation of meaning and “suggested” correlation. To say something is “canon” is not to say something is “factual”: can you even say that parts of history are part of a “historical canon” if that, by definition, suggests some historical events (such as, say, the American Civil War), are not to be considered a part of it?
Canon is interpretation. That is something we ought to remember going forward. And in regards to art, creations, and the like, when we look at things and say they are “canon,” we are not suggesting that they are factual to themselves: we are interpretating them as fitting some perceived degree of authenticity, while also saying, those things which are not canon, have a lesser degree of authenticity.
But perhaps I speak too soon regarding that. I say, authenticity, but in other respects, canon has nothing to do with the authentic creation. In western culture, for instance, canon is the system by which we establish “great things.” I refer, of course, to the Western Canon of Literature, as championed by the late literary critic, Harold Bloom.
Bloom sought, through several of his writings, to understand both the history of literature (in western civilization, no less) and to establish a hierarchy of its many works. Not everything could be put in; not the pulp magazine stories of the 1950s, for instance, or any hack job-genre writers like Stephen King. For Bloom, only the greatest works ought to be considered “canonical,” and therefore “acceptable,” and therefore “respectable.” Everything else is fodder.
But, again, that’s just interpretation. I have my own issues with Bloom—I find his rejection of genre writers stupid and elitist, the fact that the majority of the authors that make up the central component of his canonicity are white males, and the fact that there are only three women writers of that entire list of 26—but his canon is really just a symptom of the human race’s desire to interpret things into meaning. When we order something in a “canon,” what we’re really trying to do is figure out why this thing has affected us for so long. We are trying to understand longevity, or why a story or poem matters, why death doesn’t stop “good writing.” I believe even the most casual of readers understand this point, in the sense that they will know what they like and dislike, and will order for themselves their own “canonicity.”
Thus I have spoken only about canon as what it is and does: an interpretation seeking either to order or prioritize texts. It is curious, then, that the modern usage of canon refers more to consistency and whether or not certain details can be considered as part of the entire textual series—look at something like Star Wars, for example. But I note that I’ve forgotten to mention the other component to canon. Inasmuch the reader holds sway here, in defining for themselves what is canon, what says the author?
“Coco Pommel,” SymbianL
I am sure we are all aware of Roland Barthes’s essay, The Death of the Author. Even if you haven’t read it, the title has become a staple of sayings. The “death” is hardly literal (though, of course, it can be); it refers, rather, to the absence of the author when it comes to interpreting text. And I mean “interpreting” as generally as I can; it can refer to looking for theme, looking for hidden meaning, looking for something beyond the text itself.
But I want to point out: that isn’t what Barthes is saying at all.
I’ve found that the majority of people who will speak of “the death of the author” as reason why they themselves are right in their interpretation have not actually read the entirety of Barthes’s argument. They have relegated themselves to skimming the boiled-down summarization of the text, based solely on the title, and have thus rendered, ironically, Barthes’s meaning moot. In this conversation about canon, I believe it’s important to attempt to rectify this.
In the essay, Barthes doesn’t necessarily talk about interpretation as we might see it in an English class in high school. Things such as “theme” and “imagery” and “symbolism,” the things that a teacher would have students look for and write five-paragraph essays on, do not concern him or the argument itself. That’s because such things are not part of the argument; indeed, Barthes was not writing in defense of these kinds of practices. What Barthes refers to throughout the essay is this idea of context. He doesn’t mean the context of the author—that is, their personal history and how their lives and experiences inform the text—but rather the context of the reader.
We must consider the fact that the “reader” is not a singular entity, but rather a role we each take up when we, well, read. And we all read at different times, too: during the day, or the night; in love or in heartache; in peace or in war; in strife or in solitude; so on. The idea of “time” here need not be taken literally, as we may replace with “context.” And context is derived from experience, first off, meaning that once we are born and begin to live, we make for ourselves our own “contextual existence.”
When we read, then (so Barthes says), our contextual existence begins to inform the ways we’ll interpret a text’s meaning (let us use that term as loosely as possible). Whether or not an author meant a word as what is written is a moot point, because a word used two hundred years ago may not have the same connotative meaning or signified interpretation as it does today. The same may be said about a character’s name, or actions, or speeches, etc. Certainly, in writing the text as they did, and at the time that they did, the author meant to do something with all the parts, but once the story has been published, that meaning is not necessarily as apparent as they might believe. And that’s all thanks not to a reader’s interpretation—a term which isolates the reader from the act of reading—but rather to the context of the reader informing how the reader interprets the text.
If that’s all confusing… well, it should be. Barthes is more-or-less peeling back the layers of the act of reading and exposing the fragility of language. And because we don’t often think about language on any conscious level, to be told that there is a kind of fragility to it, is both humbling and head-scratching. (I point, again, to the irony of not many people really knowing what Barthes meant, when he wrote about how while authors can mean something, texts don’t need to mean anything.)
I would encourage a curious reader to explore the essay for themselves, because even if it’s hard to summarize, it’s a rather fascinating text anyway.
This means that the author’s interpretation isn’t as strong as they might think. The reader will inevitably decide what matters—not in terms of theme, but usually something else. Whereas theme has the paradoxical connotation of being subjective yet being derived from “objective” parameters (the teacher asks to find a theme, then support the claim that there is a theme with clearly defined evidence and quotes), the matter by which they “digest” a story, and therefore the matter they “regurgitate” it post-reading (either through thinking about it or talking about it or writing about it) relies on the illusion of objectivity. They assume that there are no subjective occasions for their reasoning, and that they, as the Reader of the Text for Themselves, determine exactly whatever they want to determine.
Which, essentially, is canon, right? So it would seem, the answer to one of the questions I posed above: Who has the final say?—is the reader.
But then again, there are many, many readers. And therefore many, many final says.
Could a reader feasibly say that any of the errors found in the Sherlock canon are nothing but mistakes on Doyle’s part? Certainly. A reader could also say that it’s clearly the typesetter who ends up helping to publish the character John Watson’s memoirs who made the mistake in the first place, and that Doyle has nothing to do with it—that’s a rather deep-dive interpretation, but a fascinating one. A reader could even say that the errors are not noteworthy and do not detract from the stories overall. Indeed, I would not have noticed the strange discrepancies between dates, figures, and characters had I not stumbled upon those facts while composing this essay.
Let me reiterate that point: There are many, many readers, and therefore many, many final says.
So perhaps there are no final says to begin with. It’s all just interpretation of canon, which is just interpretation, so this is just the process of interpreting interpretation, through a repeated lens, fueled by the context of the reader… well, that’s hardly a reassuring conclusion. But, as Barthes does put it, such a conclusion gives power back to the reader, and makes the act of reading and interpreting not so lonely. We are put on equal footing with the author. And when we read general greats like Shakespeare or Tolstoy, then, we remove the myth of the author and instead see them as almost like ourselves, too.
“The Crystal Empire,” Itsay
Were that it all so simple and so nicely wrapped up! But, well, the discussion of canon cannot be so easy. If we understand that there is no single way of reading something, therefore interpreting it, then we cannot accept, either, the idea that the reader is always right. Therefore what a reader interprets as canon cannot be considered “canonical,” either.
Yet, many are… not quite aware of that necessary tragedy, I think. Fueled with the power of interpretation, they become obsessive in protecting that idea, to the point of rejecting anything else or everything else. I speak, of course, to particular fans of fandoms, but more readily to this one (finally!).
It now bears necessary to shine a light on this aspect of fandom interpretation, to establish the closing thoughts of this essay. Let us now turn to ponies.
“Good story to read again,” DiscordtheGE
With the end of Season 9, and now G5 on its way, the My Little Pony fandom is… now in an uproar?
Well, that might be a bit of an overstatement. I already wrote a blog detailing some thoughts about that whole debacle, but I’ve been thinking about these questions for much longer.
While I am by no means “old” in the fandom, I am aware of many of the controversies that have erupted throughout the past decade. From Faust leaving, to Twilight becoming an alicorn, Starlight Glimmer being a character, it seems every season has reason to make fans either cry out in jubilation or in consternation. I’ve seen my fair share, and have watched, mostly confused by it all—for though I write pony stories every now and then, I can’t say I’m so married to the show as to become upset or emotional about it.
Season 9’s ending—therefore the show’s ending—has once again stirred that pot, but I’m left wondering why it has done so to such a degree as to push certain individuals to take to Twitter to harass former show staff to rewrite the entire season. I’m also left wondering why there exists a prevalent sub-group that wants to dismiss the events of “The Last Problem,” and they want to do this not because they take issue with its execution—therefore its writing—but rather, its many implications. They do not take issue with the craft so much as they do with the ideas. They do not say there is some inconsistency with the establishment that must be fixed, but rather an inconsistency with themselves that must be remediated. They would reject what they see as non-canon implication.
Let me choose a specific one, then. As I’ve said in the linked blog, there are many, many who, for reasons I don’t quite understand, find it almost offensive that there is some distinct possibility that Twilight is immortal.
It’s that particular characteristic of indignation, of becoming offended, that strikes me the most. I’m afraid I cannot follow the logic of it, if there is any. If, say, these people had said that their issue is that the idea of immortality is rather hogwash and, in fact, was poorly executed in the finale, then I would understand from a crafts perspective their anger.
But they haven’t said that. In one instance, an individual has declared immortality is bad because… it would mean Twilight wouldn’t get to die with her friends.
The construction of that statement makes it an opinion, not a fact, but as though unaware of this, some have carried on as though it must be fact. Dissidents are to be rooted out and insulted. Those who even liked Season 9 are the enemy. Therefore a group dedicated to the throwing out and the begging of Hasbro to rewrite it, to give the fans what they deserve… oh, yes, that makes sense, yes, that is reasonable.
Let me, at the very least, give a brief view into my opinion about the topic in question.
Is Twilight immortal? Short answer: no.
But that’s hardly a good one. In my own view, Twilight is not immortal, but she will be long-lived. That’s just because she’s an alicorn, but furthermore, an alicorn who was not naturally born one. The fact that she ascended to that state suggests a different evolution for her body, different than the likes we’ve seen with Celestia and Luna.
To explain why, in the last episode, she looks so much like Celestia… perhaps that’s just because alicorns naturally thin out and look like taller, leaner equines? Princess Cadance has a look that seems to be the link between a typical pony and the alicorn. But then again, she shares that model with Fleur.
I even wrote a story (it’s an all right story, I think) about one character realizing that Twilight was aging much slower than the rest. Which means, of course, that she’ll outlive her friends, inevitably. It was somewhat well-received.
This is my opinion in full. But you will note that I still read stories that say she is either immortal or that she will, in fact, die around the same time as her friends. A couple of them are in my favorites. A couple of them are in my To Read Later. And you will note, in writing this opinion out, I haven’t attacked any opposing or different interpretation.
Why can’t, then, the individuals I’ve alluded to do the same?
In short, it may be because of the question of canon being so fundamentally tied to their identities. I will not repeat what I said in the blog post ad verbatim, but I do believe that there is some level of obsessiveness which fringes on fragility when it comes to this issue.
Canon, as I have said, is interpretation. Interpretation can feel so important to a person’s sense of self, that the moment anything comes along to wreck that, it feels like a personal affront. Surely that must be the explanation of this behavior. But if so, why hasn’t anyone said anything about it, yet?
I would invite these people, these anti-season 9 fans, who would attempt to force their interpretation (or really, their rejection) of canon onto reality, onto fanfiction, onto the fandom, etc…. I would invite them to a conversation and ask, “Why has this, of all things, stirred in you some great fury? Why become wrathful at all?” And I do not mean to reject their feelings. I am genuinely curious why this matters so much.
I have heard some say that they want to do this for the fans, but am I not a fan? If I enjoyed parts of Season 8 or 9, or “The Last Problem,” am I not a fan, then? No, they mean the “true” fans, the elite, the “correct,” but who has any say in that regard?
Who, really, has the final say about the canon of the fandom?
And who is to say that we deserve a final say in the first place?
“The Mane Six,” viwrastupor
Is canon of any value?
It is… and it isn’t. It holds value for the individual more than the writer, I think, but that stems from a human characteristic, a need to order things into a hierarchy, to make sense of what essentially doesn’t make sense (for, really, what is literature, what is art, where do these things come from?). Yet at the same time, by its interpretative nature, its inherent subjectivity, it holds no real value in the experience of reading and ingesting art.
Fans who would get up in arms about canon and would threaten the showrunners and staff, fans who would dismiss all attempts at conversation, fans who would regard those who do not share their opinion as wrong or ignorant… well, they would make the whole thing “political,” to borrow a term. Or perhaps the more apt way is, “toxic.”
It does no one any good to bash on the interpretation of canon whether or not there is solid proof of one or the other being true or false. Realistically, it doesn’t matter as much as we might think.
Consider: I am writing this on a site dedicated to pony fanfiction. Fanfiction itself is an act of re-making canon or adding to it. It is a re-interpretation of what has been established, by fans of what has been established (usually). That offers a unique kind of power that perhaps Barthes would believe is astonishing. For, through the act of fan-addition, we simultaneously accept our position, as consumers of the source, and deny that it places us on any subordinate level—we add, we change, we interpret. We give back and we grow.
I don’t concern myself with questions like, “What do the fans deserve?” or issues such as, “Why X pony or X Season's events are/aren't canonical.” Maybe that’s because I’m hardly as connected to the magic as many others, or because I am older, now, then when I first jumped in, different, changed, evolved, transformed, facing reality with every day. But I still come on here and read, and sometimes I even write, because there is a part of me that can’t let go of one simple interpretation of the “canon”: for better or for worse, I still love My Little Pony.
Maybe for many, if we were to open our eyes and speak a little less, think a bit more, reflect, look around, we would see, that usually is the only assurance we need.
“Cliff at Sunrise [Comm],” CyonixCymatro
That....was not a blog. That was an entire thesis statement and essay. But, you are completely correct and many different points, though the Sherlock Holmes angle threw me off for a second because even though I'm an avid Sherlock Holmes fan myself, I never realised these events happened.
But, all in all, great read :)
5455444
Ha, I tend now to write more essays than normal blogs, at this point.
Glad you enjoyed! I'm also a pretty big fan of Holmes, and I was also surprised to learn that there ARE these kinds of discrepancies. I think they add a lot to the mystery of the series from a meta-textual point.
An interesting read to be sure. You have a seemingly natural talent for the essay.
This was very well-thought-out, and quite brilliantly worded. It's like a work of art, for explaining toxic fandom mindsets.
I applaud this.
But you're opinions are stupid badwrongfun and you smell funny so neh!
5455496
I believe like any kind of writing, even essays can be artful. So one must approach them not as grades to be got, but as opportunities for exploring an interesting idea.
But again, I'm a college student who has the rare opportunity of getting to write what I want for classes. For the high schooler this isn't so, so I am lucky in this regard.
Then again, if you write enough of anything, you start to get good at it, too. I've moved past the clinical kinds of essays and have embraced the more personal ones, such as this.
I'm glad you enjoyed regardless!
5455508
Meanie poo poo ninja dead man think he has opinion, Hurr Hurr butt head go brrr brain go brrr
Like I said, I've been thinking about this question... Questions?... Topic??.... For a while. So I've had time to sort out what I'm really thinking, which has led to this. I'm glad you found it insightful!