Somewhere along the normally parallel lines of fact and fiction, the two opposing entities meet in what has proven to be fertile ground for entertainment. It's a kind of uncanny valley, there is something infinitely fascinating about that which imitates reality but remains fiction - that which crosses the border into reality bearing an ethereal resemblance to the real only to fade back into the realm of the fictional . This flirtation between the real and represented worlds – this dance at once restless and transcendent beyond its boundaries – is both art and artifice, and the products it produces are rarely received without a corresponding ambivalence. Before reality television took the stage as the latest installment of this almost grotesque fake reality series, the novel had its popular but far from erudite veneer. Although the novel has since risen through the ranks and perhaps even surpassed the heights of literary nobility enjoyed by verse, it too once occupied the lowest, soulless rank of reality TV. Charged with the capital crime of falsehood masquerading as truth, the novel was denounced as sinful, deceptive, and false. If the intrinsically deceptive nature of verisimilitude offends, however, it also entertains. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an original essay Based perhaps fundamentally on this premise of verisimilitude – a mysterious self-contained paradox of what reality is like – the novel presents an interesting tension between fact and fiction, blurring what was once supposed to be an insoluble divide between two absolute concepts . In Ivanhoe, Sir Walter Scott further blurs this perceived distinction between the real and depicted worlds, offering the historical novel as an even more complex appendage to an already philosophically dense genre. The product of Scott's experimentation with facts and falsehoods, historical fiction itself is intrinsically paradoxical. Even more than the novel form in general, the genre of historical fiction incites tension between the dichotomy between true and false, between reality and fiction. This type of novel merges what should be seemingly irreconcilable opposites: history – that which is presumed objectively true – and fiction, that which is presumed objectively false. In Ivanhoe, Scott seeks to resolve the tension that plagues the novel with accusations of deception by ultimately discrediting the notion of objective truth – in story or fiction. While Scott's tale illustrates the fusion of Saxon and Norman cultures, narratologically his work blends history and romance. However, neither act of communion is flawless. Just as the union of the Saxon and Norman kingdoms gives rise to a new national identity, but not without defeating the old order, Scott's fusion of history and romance simultaneously produces a new genre and the death of objective truth. Early critics of Scott's work - including, significantly, Scott himself - noted and analyzed his complex relationship to history and fiction, the relationship is usually presented as a binary, one end of which Scott is said to end defend the other (Morillo and Newhouse, 270). In their analysis of Ivanhoe, John Morillo and Wade Newhouse attempt to “diverge from this dominant binary division in Scott criticism,” instead offering a reading that seeks to record the relationship, rather than the division, between fiction and history in Scott. Invoking James Kerr and his claim that "Scott challenges the validity of literary forms to represent the past by appealing to a reality beyond the confines offiction,” Morillo and Newhouse argue that they see neither romance nor history as the vehicle through which Scott conveys truth (qtd. in Morillo and Newhouse 270). Although our conclusions ultimately diverge – Morillo and Newhouse present a theory that offers sound as Scott's medium of truth – our analyzes both focus on Scott's “suspicion about the falsifying power of all narratives” – historical or fictional (Morillo and Newhouse 272). a narratological illustration of the story's “truth descent into romance” at work in the world, is not a theme that functions entirely outside the realm of the characters' consciousness (Morillo and Newhouse 274. At various points in the novel, Scott describes the very characters who directly witness or influence the dissolution of fact into fiction Once filtered through narrative, the experience is inevitably and irrevocably colored with fiction. Morillo and Newhouse point to the rapid spread and adulteration of the news of Athelstane's apparent resurrection as evidence of this theme at work in the world depicted by Scott. When Athelstane himself offers the explanation, he defends it against the king's skeptical remark that "such a tale is as worth hearing as a novel", arguing that in reality "there was no novel in question", defending his first-hand experience. account as truth corroborated by the facts of personal experience (Scott 473). Here, Scott addresses the opposing nature of history and romance, implying less dignity of the latter in Athelstane's defense of his story against charges of romance. Although Scott has no qualms about referring to Athelstane's account of the “story of his escape” as such, from there Scott traces the story's transformation and eventual corruption into a romance as it transitions to various audiences (Scott 474). The path of Athelstane's tale follows a large-scale version of the telephone game, transformed with each retelling until it reaches the pinnacle of romanticism as the dramatization sung by the “opportunistic minstrel, Alan-a-Dale” (Morillo and Newhouse 273). Here Scott illustrates the rapidity with which history mixes with myth and the impossibility of fully revealing them once mixed. While Scott can at least defend the first-hand version of Athelstane's story as truth – being, as the author, the sole authority on what is and is not true in the world of his novel – the actual story is not afforded the luxury of collateral truth even in first-hand accounts. Once removed from the very moment of experience, truth becomes history, and so begins its inevitable descent into romance. A similar comment on the impossibility of a pure story emerges early in the novel with Rebecca's narration of the siege of Torquilstone. Unable to see the battle from the position from which his weakened state prevents movement, Ivanhoe, bedridden - or rather on the floor - has Rebecca tell him the events. Like all forms of storytelling, Rebecca's is, if not imprecise, then at least decidedly impure. Colored by both Rebecca's perception – and misperception – and Ivanhoe's altered perception, Scott depicts the inevitable contamination of the story even from the moment of action itself. Even though Rebecca directly witnesses the events she tries to narrate as close to real time as physically possible, even by removing only one perspective and one moment from the moment they occur, the story is irretrievably lost under the influence of the narrative. From this, Morillo and Newhouse argue that they see the roles of Rebecca and Ivanhoe as parallel to the roles of the author and the reader respectively. Completely at the mercyof Rebecca's inexperienced and incomplete narrative, Ivanhoe must fill in the gaps left by his fragmentary knowledge of the war with his own interpretations. He does so, of course, by drawing on his own expectations of the reality that eludes him, informed and shaped by his “romantic visions of glory and heroism” (Morillo and Newhouse 278). Morillo and Newhouse compare Ivanhoe's approach to interpretation to that of Scott's reader. The “romantic predispositions” that shape Ivanhoe's perception of battle are not dissimilar to those that shape a reader's expectations of a romance novel (Morillo & Newhouse 279). However, Scott – like Rebecca – ultimately presents a divergence from these expectations. In an obviously dated reading of Ivanhoe from 1955, Joseph E. Duncan challenges a presumably widespread idea of ​​the time that the novel was “essentially a romantic adventure book – preferably for boys” (293). If Duncan's opening statements are troubling – particularly to the right of the hyphen – he manages to recover with the closing argument that Ivanhoe, “far from being primarily youthful and romantic, is essentially anti-romantic” (300). Although the vision of Ivanhoe as an inversion of – or at least a departure from – the expected paradigm of the Romantic tradition seems almost inseparable from even the most basic reading of the novel, it was – at least according to Duncan himself – a largely unfounded statement. precedents. at the time (293). If Duncan is to be believed, his argument – ​​although relatively simplistic and seasoned uncomfortably with an overly confident use of the term “anti-chauvinist” – set an important precedent that continues to form the basis of much modern criticism of Ivanhoe. varies in its understanding of the implications of the “anti-romantic” tendency in Ivanhoe, I present it as a response to the aforementioned Rebecca-Ivanhoe and Scott-reader parallel of Newhouse and Morillo. Just as Rebecca's narrative subverts Ivanhoe's expectations of romance and heroism, so Scott seeks to subvert the reader's expectations of traditional romance. By reversing conventional romantic traditions, Scott prevents the reader from being rewarded for shaping their perception of the world according to their expectations. Scott refuses to let the reader accept his own expectations of both romance and history as truth. Meanwhile, the plot developments that result from Scott's divergence from the expected romance also operate on a level external to the world of the novel, with Ivanhoe's imperfect union of the Saxon and Norman cultures mirroring Scott's sometimes unsettling marriage of history and romance as a genre. In his reading of Ivanhoe, Kenneth M. Sroka provides Duncan's argument with a much-needed update. Like Duncan, Sroka notes the tendency to confuse Ivanhoe, initially, with a “simple chivalric romance exemplifying the conventions of that form,” before pointing out that closer readings “reveal that Scott's fidelity to the conventional romantic form is tempered by altered conventions and deflation. of idealistic imaginative elements” (Sroka 645). While Sroka argues that Scott's departure from the traditions of romance signals Scott's attempt to “create a more realistic romance,” I propose, rather, that Scott's blending of romance and history seeks to challenge the absolute notion of reality. While Sroka sees Ivanhoe as a romantic tale credited to and enriched by historical truth, my reading sees the novel as historical truth adulterated, tainted, and ultimately erased by romanticism. Both Sroka and Duncan trace the ways in which Scott follows and deviates from the romance narrativetraditional, with Sroka's reading tracing Ivanhoe's progression through Northrop Frye's “three stages of successful pursuit,” conquest, mortal struggle, and recognition (Sroka 646). Although Scott's interpretations of each of these phases show marked variations from Romantic convention, it is perhaps his treatment of the "recognition" phase that has the greatest significance for the relationship between the social and philosophical implications of Scott's deals with the genre I propose. Not unlike the novel as a whole, Ivanhoe's conclusion initially appears to be in line with traditional conventions of the romance genre. The dawn of a new era of national unity is symbolized by both the fall of Torquilstone and the long-awaited union of Ivanhoe and Rowena, and the seemingly stale conclusion almost renders Scott's previous reversals of romantic convention entirely vain. The novel is saved, however, by inversion within each of these dramatizations. While the fall of Torquilstone signals the promise of a new “future of peace and harmony,” it does not do so without simultaneously necessitating the death of the old order. Scott 499). Dramatized in both the literal fall of the castle and the elegy to the tune of Ulrica's death, Scott makes clear that the old order does not die peacefully. In fact, it is stated that for this proposal of harmony to reign, first “all must perish” (Scott 341). If Scott allows a world in which peace and unity are possible, he will not allow it unless preceded by extreme violence. Thus, just as Scott's union of romance and history gives birth to a new genre at the price of objective truth, the union of the Saxon and Norman kingdoms gives birth to a new era, but at the price of the violent death of the old . If the fall of Torquilstone marks the death of the old order, Scott seemingly presents the union of Ivanhoe and Rowena as the promise of the new. Clearly equating marriage with "a pledge of future peace and harmony between two races," Scott makes no attempt to veil the allegorical meaning of his characters, paralleling the Ivanhoe-Rowena, Norman-Saxon "marriages" so closely that they overlap in what threatens to become a banal, fairy-tale conclusion to an otherwise complex inversion of traditional romance (Scott 499). Assuring us that "the hostile distinction between Normans and Saxons seems to have entirely disappeared," Scott keeps Ulrica's promise that "the strong hatred itself will cease" and seems content to put his narrative to rest with a comfortable, happy ending (Scott 498, 341). However, once again, Scott's resolution is saved by a hidden reversal. While the union between Ivanhoe and Rowena is significant in dramatizing the union between the Norman and Saxon kingdoms, it is perhaps more significant in what it is not. That is, while Ivanhoe's marriage to Rowena is consistent with the conventions of the romance genre, in Scott's novel, the union is more notable in that it is not that between Ivanhoe and Rebecca. Neither Norman nor Saxon, Rebecca has no place in the “future of peace and harmony” promised by the Ivanhoe-Rowena marriage. Instead, Rebecca remains an outsider, for whom the supposedly harmonious English people remain "a ferocious race, ready to plunge their swords into each other's guts" (Scott 499). Sroka similarly sees something "disturbing" in Rebecca's exclusion from the new order (654). This is perhaps because, once again aligning with Morillo and Newhouse's analogy that proposes Rebecca as a substitute for Scott himself, Rebecca is the closest representation of objective truth in the novel. "Adopting Scott's more sober tone and writerly role," Rebecca, in theory, ultimately determines, knows, and establishes. 2016.