Romantasy’s reliance on tropes poses a challenge for questions of copyright. Traditionally, the law protects the original expression of ideas, not the ideas themselves. A doctrine named for the French phrase scènes à faire, or “scenes that must be done,” holds that the standard elements of a genre (such as a showdown between the hero and the villain) are not legally protectable, although their selection and arrangement might be. The wild proliferation of intensely derivative romantasies has complicated this picture. The worlds of romance and fantasy have been so thoroughly balkanized, the production of content so accelerated, that what one might assume to be tropes—falling in love with a werewolf or vampire, say—are actually subgenres. Tropes operate at an even more granular level (bounty-hunter werewolves, space vampires). And the more specific the trope, the harder it is to argue that such a thing as an original detail exists.
Insects make up about forty per cent of all living species. An estimated trillion insects are farmed per year; quadrillions are killed by pesticides, and many species have gone extinct as humans have cleared habitats for farms, factories, and cities. Most of us do not think much about their inner lives, and our laws do not usually consider their welfare. Insects are small, they don’t scream or bleed red, and many are considered pests; we tend to kill or mutilate them without pause. “The default view of the vast majority of the general public, as well as many of my colleagues, is that insects are largely reflex machines,” Lars Chittka, a behavioral biologist who researches bees at Queen Mary University of London, told me. If humans seriously considered the possibility that insects are sentient, he said, we would need a “completely different connection with the natural world.”
From the highest mountains to the depths of the ocean, humanity’s influence has touched every part of planet Earth. Many plants and animals are evolving in response, adapting to a human-dominated world. One notable example came during the Industrial Revolution, when the peppered moth turned from black and white to entirely black after soot darkened its habitat. The black moths were camouflaged against the soot-covered trees, surviving to pass on their genes to the next generation.
As human influence has expanded, so too have the strange adaptations forced on the natural world.
“Many of the residents here are not equipped for life as it is commonly regulated,” reflects the narcissistic, madly distracted yet profoundly cultured narrator Helen near the end of this captivating, strange novel by New York author Lynne Tillman (who writes novels, short stories and criticism). Least of all this clever ex-historian whom I took to be Tillman’s realisation of a postmodern successor to such endearingly digressive women as Winnie from Beckett’s Happy Days or Joyce’s Molly Bloom.
The poet illustrates the connectedness among everything with his signature metaphors: The menacing shadow cast by a coasting vulture conjures “a crop duster, / passing low over the trees, spraying shade,” while the “pink nose” of an opossum spotted before dawn is “a struck match, its light probing / the depths of the darkness before her.”