The Permanence in the Imaginary
Canon, art, and where we find meaning
“I mean, whether Jesus is real or not, he… he’s had a bigger impact on the world than any of us have. And the same could be said of Bugs Bunny and, a-and Superman and Harry Potter. They’ve changed my life, changed the way I act on the Earth. Doesn’t that make them kind of “real.” They might be imaginary, but, but they’re more important than most of us here. And they’re all gonna be around long after we’re dead.” — The (fictional) Kyle Broflovski
The concept of “canon” is strange when you start to unpack it. Though its definitions vary, it most often refers to the legitimate lines of events housed within fictional universes.
For Potterheads, the seven Harry Potter books and Fantastic Beasts series are considered to be canon. Whereas Harry Potter And The Cursed Child and fan-fiction diverge from the established lore, each factoid encased within the Hogwarts septology and Fantastic Beasts trilogy is part of that world’s canon.
Essentially, canon refers to the authoritative narratives within fiction.
When stories are sufficiently well-known, verifying the events that take place within each becomes as simple as a Google search. Whether or not an event happened in The Lord of the Rings universe is a matter of fact — so to speak. The words of Tolkien’s fictional languages come equipped with real translations. The stories impart real meaning.
Albert Camus once said “Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth,” after all.
Even in conversations about fiction, there are apparent gradations of truth. One can be more right than another about the wondrous events depicted by long-dead storytellers. People can care enough about a made-up world to argue each plot point until they’re apoplectic. There’s no detail too mundane to retain. Even in the face of our finite futures, there’s no trivia unworth devoting our time to.
It doesn’t matter whether any of it is real; even the Elysian knolls of Hobbiton are hills worth dying on if you’re a big enough Tolkien fan. Shared fandoms can even create communities. For a proper Potterhead, they’ll find a friend in a flying flag for any Hogwarts house.
Luke Skywalker isn’t a real person, but there is an established lore around him, and to misspeak it in certain circles is a sin tantamount to heresy. Santa Claus isn’t real, but the image he conjures is. The culture around his jolly peregrinations across the globe is an inextricable part of the holiday experience even for adults.
The characters of Westeros aren’t real. And yet, I’ve found myself Googling their siblings and ancestors. When I have, I’ve found results as defined as just about any family tree I’ve ever looked at. When I wonder on a whim which house of Hogwarts Dumbledore was in as a student, Siri casually confirms “Gryffindor,” as though it were a fact as plain as gravity. When Rowling wrote it, it became part of an intractable canon.
The people portrayed in books, cartoons, and movies aren’t always tangible. But in the common experiences we have with their stories, they each rise — in a weird sort of way — to something that feels more than fictional. They’re ideas that can transcend borders. And, whether canon or not, ideas are… real.
The image of Harry and his wand conjures something nearly as universal as Christ on the cross. It’s almost irrelevant that his face-off with Voldemort never actually took place. The symbolism of his world means something no matter if you’re in Brazil, China, Siberia, or New Guinea.
Harry is no realer than the tooth fairy, and yet, we care about his world. We debate the characters’ motives. We research the reasons why events unfolded the way they did.
“How did Harry survive Voldemort’s spell in the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows?”
“What happened to Zuko’s mom in Avatar: The Last Airbender?”
“Why is Jack Torrance in the photo at the end of The Shining?”
We know deep down that none of this is real, but we care to know the answers all the same. We’ll wade through Reddit boards until we learn why fictional characters did fictional things. And we do it because these stories matter to us.
Whether or not stories really, truly matter is a question that rises to something surprisingly philosophical. It’s a question that brings all of our creations into review. From stories to songs, symphonies, sculptures, and murals, whether any of it matters is a quandary that overarches nearly everything we do as humans.
It’s hard not to struggle with a certain nihilism when we consider the most abrasive truths: That we’re tiny ants scrambling around on a space rock. That a century isn’t very long on a cosmic scale and a lifetime is very, very short. That the eventual death of the universe will, one day, render every pursuit purposeless.
It’s true that our stories are bound to dissipate. Grass will grow in the impact craters they leave and their echoes will one day fade into a muted oblivion.
I want my words to defy those impossible odds, but I realize that likelihood isn’t great. Oftentimes, I confine myself to the most brooding tones and serious subjects in the selfish hope that my words might manage to achieve some staying power — that their tenure here might be a little less fleeting or serve a role in some greater fight.
But everything I’ve ever written may only be buried by a mountain of AI drivel. Maybe my words are only as good as the lives of my hard drives. Perhaps the paper they’re printed on is their only shot at permanence.
If I save them to the cloud will they survive atomic warfare? Surely it can’t be asking too much that my stories outlast the roaches. I reason that the most universal subjects can endure at least as long as the tortoise in Finding Nemo.
Sometimes, I’m still drawn toward the inconsequential. The weighty is too much to bear. So I relinquish the load. I set aside the Herculean sum of it all to watch Pixar movies and play video games. I spend precious hours laughing at South Park and lying in the sun and waxing poetic about the Arcadian planes of virtual worlds.
I write pieces that I know are destined for digital dustbins. I craft satirical nonsense about Club Penguin, underpaid Spidermen, and terrorizing Floridians with dinosaur costumes. I pen pretentious reviews of cartoons that came out over a decade ago. And when I finish up on my fourth Avatar: The Last Airbender-related piece, it’s hard not to wrestle with a flashing, neon “What’s the point?”
Don’t I know I have nothing new to add to the conversation about this revered show? Why should I even waste my time glomming onto the masses who’ve spent years and years extolling its every virtue a hundred times over? What could I possibly contribute?
Is this how I want to spend my limited time here on earth?
But these questions don’t only plague creators. Whether our lives have meaning is something almost all of us wonder about at some point or another. It’s a near guarantee that all of our life’s accomplishments will amount to stardust. But creating and achieving and being is about that time until then.
We find our meaning through whatever routes necessary in whatever seems appropriate. Each new day is an opportunity for new needless nonsense. Whether in books, movies, or along an avenue all our own, it falls on each of us to decide life’s meaning. We give meaning to the meaningless and ascribe value to the liminal.
There are no correct answers for how to allocate our time here. If we spend it wandering the wilderness, immersed in someone else’s stories, or busy creating our own, we’ll rarely be sure-footed in our pursuits.
Even while I know my achievements are unlikely to linger through the eons, it brightens each ephemeral moment to spend it lost in extraordinary places, laughing at fleeting nonsense, and writing. They’re among the million little things that give meaning to my impermanent corner of the great chaotic everything.
“Real” or not, mindless Marvel movies and colorful made-up characters and fantastical worlds of fiction are each pieces of my strange puzzle called purpose. “Canon” or otherwise, stories tug at the very fabric of who we are as people and remind us that we’re not alone in our search for meaning. They remind us that purpose is where we place it.
None of it is real. The details of canon - kinship, timelines, pet names - all belong to the transient physical realm rather than being things that - as Socrates put it - are.
And yet, as Hemingway said, Fiction is the lie by which we tell the truth.
Harry Potter tells us timeless things through a world of fantasy. Friendship, loyalty, love. The truth can set us free.
Any long-lasting grand story has essential truths at its heart. We know very few things for sure about the life of Jesus: born in Nazareth, preached in Judea, executed by the Romans in Jerusalem one Passover for sedition. And yet he taught some lasting truths on how to live a good life. Love your neighbour. Don’t worry, be happy. There is something grander than what we see around us.
Yes, it all passes. But some things endure regardless of time or space. At the far end of the universe, the interior angles of a triangle will still add up to 180°, and pi will still be an irrational number beginning with 3.14159 and the five things that Plato identified in The Sophist as heading the list of things that are will still be present.
Craft a story around timeless truths and you will find an audience. Make your world about the details and none of it is true.
It’s not about the details of canon. Nobody ever found lasting fame in world-crafting without something deeper. Would Tolkien ever have been more than a compiler of details without the stories of Frodo and Bilbo?
They are supreme examples of The Hero's Tale. The myth brings the canon to life and not the other way around.
"Essentially, canon refers to the authoritative narratives within fiction."
True. However, that means different things in different contents. The fans of a franchise consider it their prerogative to keep it as they want it to be; however, the makers of a franchise consider that solely to be their domain. And then they proceed to endlessly argue, fight and undermine each other to get their way...