#10 = Volume 3, Part 3 = November 1976
The Alternate Islands: A Chapter in the History of SF,
with a Select Bibliography on the SF of Antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the
In the first part of Thomas More’s Utopia (1516), a long discussion
of England’s social ills culminates in Hythloday’s famous description of the
destruction of the medieval peasantry:
Your sheep ... which are usually so tame and so cheaply fed, begin now,
according to report, to be so greedy and wild that they devour human beings
themselves and devastate and depopulate fields, houses, and towns.... there
are noblemen, gentlemen, and even some abbots, though otherwise holy men,
who.... leave no ground to be tilled; they enclose every bit of land for
pasture; they pull down houses and destroy towns, leaving only the church to
pen the sheep in.1
This passage, embedded in the acute analysis of what the nascent capitalism
meant to the people (it is quoted by Marx in Capital), is a masterpiece
of humanist sarcasm. The noblemen that turn into earthquakes razing entire
districts, the holy men that are brutally indifferent to their spiritual flock
and leave churches standing only as profitable sheep-pens, the land which is no
longer communal tilling ground for a stable yeomanry but a private enclosure for
rich landlords that throw tenants out on the roads to beg and rob, finally the
erstwhile meek sheep that have now turned into man-devouring beasts—all this,
couched in the careful verisimilitude of a traveler’s report from exotic
countries, amounts to a picture of a world upside-down being born in the
shambles of the natural one. Rejecting all half-way and reformist solutions to
such radical evils, the second part of Utopia will therefore present a
radically different model of sociopolitical life—a country that governs itself
as a classless extended family.
1. The Sociopolitics of Happiness: Utopia and its SF Context. The
country Utopia—whose punning name means a good place which is (as of now)
nowhere—is an England recreated in a more perfect shape. It is an island of
the same size and subdivisions as England, but round instead of triangular; it
has the same natural resources, pegged to an economy based on agriculture, but
it is a just and happy country because it has abolished private property in land
and other means of production. Instead of the monarchic pyramid where power
flows from above downward, it is, at least in principle, a democratic centralism
that acknowledges no political elite, with a power pyramid established from
below upward. Where Europe slavishly worships obscene war and gold, Utopia
despises both; while it sometimes has to fight wars, it uses gold for chamber-pots
and slaves’ fetters. It lives a distributive, egalitarian, pre-industrial
communism; much like tribal societies, or medieval villages and guilds, it is
federalist and patriarchal. Its organization is of a piece with its way of life,
the best example being the network of equidistant halls where the daily meals
are an occasion for pleasurable communion in both physical and spiritual
nourishment. Hythloday’s review of such "laws and customs" in Utopia
is a model of clarity and forcefulness, which answers the objections of his
dialogue partners (including a "More" manipulated for self-protective
irony) simply by the gesture of pointing. It finds this "best state of
society" based on the pursuit of a finally ethical pleasure attainable only
in a social order with a truly common economy and culture. Happiness for each
reached by economic justice for all is the final goal of a possible social
organization—a startlingly subversive idea.
Utopia is thus the reaffirmation of a world consonant to human nature. This
"new island" at the antipodes puts the upside-down monstrosity of
European class society back on its feet: the estrangement is a de-alienation.
Yet a static human nature working itself out in a family model—both concepts
taken from medieval Christianity makes for a certain clogging rigidity of
relationships in Utopia, in contradiction to its fundamental ideal of a higher
Epicureanism. The Utopians possess slaves (criminals and war prisoners), an
official religion (albeit mostly deistic and tolerant of all creeds except—an
unforgivable lapse!—atheists), and barbarous provisions against adultery.
Also, the representative democracy is tempered by a permanent rule of the
Elders, the family fathers, and the learned. Together with a proper subsistence-economy
concern for husbanding resources, this subordinates freedom to an egalitarian
balance, enforced where necessary by stringent measures (e.g. the travel
restrictions). For all its dry wit, there is an air of schematic blueprint, of groundplan without adornments, about More’s picture of Utopia, But finally, it
is an open-ended narrative (the Utopians accept Greek learning and show interest
in Christ’s collectivism), the first picture of an egalitarian communism with
a relatively well-defined tolerance.
More’s Utopia subsumes all the SF forms of its epoch (in which it
thus fulfills the same function as Wells does for recent SF history). It fuses
the permanent though unclear folk longings for a life of abundance and peace
with high-minded intellectual constructs of perfect—i.e. communist—human
relations known from Antiquity on: it translates the Land of Cockayne and the
Earthly Paradise into the language of the philosophical dialogue on the ideal
state and of the Renaissance discovery-literature as reinterpreted by More’s
unique blend of medieval collectivism and Christian humanism. Let us take a
brief look at these forms and More’s synthesis.2
Cockayne is a universal folk legend of a land of peace, plenty, and sloth,
well known already in Antiquity, and refurbished—probably by vagrant student-poets—in
the Middle Ages. In that Nowhere, rivers flow with cream or wine, roasted fowls
fly into your mouth, and sausages run around crying "Eat me, eat me!"
It is already an inverted world which relates to human needs, and like utopia
proposes a strictly materialistic solution. It can therefore be transformed into
utopia by relying on human intervention instead of on a magical parallel world,
and all utopias, beginning with More, will retain its abhorrence of human
degradation by war, toil, and hunger. Next in the family of wondrous lands are
the Blessed Islands at the limits of the Ocean. Found already in tribal tales,
Chinese and Mesopotamian legends, and Homer, such an Elysium was originally a
place of magical fertility and contentment to which the blessed heroes were
admitted in the flesh. In the Middle Ages, such locations in far-off seas,
including the Celtic legendary island, came to be considered as the EARTHLY
PARADISE, which was situated in this world and whose inhabitants (before
religious rewritings) were not disembodied but simply more perfect, endowed with
happiness, youth, and immortality.
Echoes of such folk legends are heard in Dante’s account of Ulysses’
final heroic voyage toward the Earthly Paradise, during which he is sunk by a
jealous God intent on preserving his monopoly over the right of passage. In
fact, Dante’s Comedy incorporates in its astrophysical and metaphysical
universe almost all SF elements transmitted to More through the Middle Ages,
when—after Augustine of Hippo’s Civitas Dei—"the utopia is
transplanted to the sky, and called the Kingdom of Heaven" (Mumford):3
the Comedy subsumes discussions of several ideal political states,
traditions of the damned and blessed places, the search for the perfect kingdom,
and Dante’s own superb vision of the perfectly just City of God.
More was well aware of such subgenres as the Earthly Paradise, but he
rejected their place outside history, in a magically arrested time (often
entailing the hero’s instant aging upon return). Bidding also "a curt
farewell" to the mythical conservatism of a Golden Age of happy
forefathers, he resolutely located Utopia in an alternative human attainable
present, momentous just because non-existent among Europeans. As in Plato’s Republic,
which looms large in the background, human destiny consists of men and their
institutions; but diametrically opposed to Plato, the just place can result from
a heroic deed such as King Utopus’s cutting off the "new island"
from the tainted continent. Men’s norms and institutions are not the province
of religion and magic but of sociopolitics, and time is measured in terms of
creative work. That is why Utopia differs radically from Plato’s curious
combination of caste society and ruling-caste communism. Plato’s dialogue
develops an argument for a timelessly ideal (today quite anti-utopian)
blueprint, set up in order to escape popular, monarchic, or imperfectly
oligarchic government. More’s dialogue dramatically unfolds an actually
present state of classless self-government. More lacks all sympathy for both
Plato’s erotic communism and his caste system. As for the notion that a just
state depends on a community of goods, More was much closer to the early
Christian fathers and peasant insurgents (such as John Ball) who extolled
communism than he was to Plato. Besides, this notion was so widespread in
Hellenic literature before and after Plato that Aristophanes could mock in the Ecclesiazusae
(i.e. Assembly-women) a female try at instituting egalitarian communism without
money or toil, and in The Birds a Cloudcuckooland where "everything
is everybody’s" and things illegal in Athens or on Olympus are deemed
beautiful and virtuous. All such references—characteristically surviving only
in fragments of rebuttals—speak of a set-up where
...all shall be equal, and equally share
All wealth and enjoyments, nor longer
That one should be rich, and another
(Ecclesiazusae §§590-91, tr. Rogers)
Such an omnia sint communia is from that time on the constant
principle separating consistent utopian literature from the established society.
When Hythloday is introduced to "More," he is compared to Plato,
but also secondarily to Ulysses, the hero of wondrous voyages to the island of
Circe, of the Phaeacians, etc. The genre of IMAGINARY VOYAGE, as old as fiction,
was the natural vehicle of the Earthly Paradise and utopian tales, though it
often led simply to entertaining worlds whose topsy-turviness remained more
playful than didactic. But it could also lead to just peoples in happy lands at
the limits of the world, from the Hyperboreans to Ethiopians, from Plato’s
Atlanteans to Euhemerous’s Panchaeans (and in the Middle Ages from Mandeville’s
Sumatrans to the subject of Prester John). The nearest in spirit to More is a
fragment of Iambulus (circa 100 BC) about the equatorial Islands of the Sun
where the usual magically fertile nature enables men to live without private
property and state apparatus, in a loose association of communities. In their
joyous work, such as picking fruit, each in turn serves his neighbor. They
practice erotic communism, eugenics, and euthanasia (at the age of 150); the
sciences, especially astronomy, are well developed but the liberal arts are more
valued as leading to spiritual perfection. Written at the time of the great
Mediterranean slave and proletarian revolts, Iambulus presents a plebeian
Hellenic negation of the warring empires, the privatization of man, and the
division of labor. His gay islanders live in the fields, under the open southern
sun; and his account of their radical collectivism (found by a voyager-narrator
later expelled for his harmful habits) is the best that has even fragmentarily
survived from the host of similar voyagers’ tales.
Such tales were renewed by the great geographical discoveries: Hythloday is
also introduced as a participant in the voyages of that Vespucci who had lent
his name to America and set Europe abuzz by describing the "perfect
liberty" of Red Indian tribal communism and Epicureanism. Thomas More
transformed all such strange new horizons, with their potent dissolving effects,
into a systematic verbal construction of a particularized community where
sociopolitical institutions, norms, and personal relations are organized
according to a more perfect principle than in the author’s community (as
literary utopias could be defined). This estranged place is presented as an alternative
history; whoever its author, however he twists utopian cognition, it always
flows out of the hope of repressed and exploited social classes, and expresses
their longings for a different but this-worldly other world. Sudden whirlpools
in history which both further and permit its appearance in literature—the
times of Iambulus, More, Fourier, Morris, or indeed our own—have therefore the
makings of great ages of SF. For utopias are social-science fiction, the
sociopolitical variant of the radically different peoples and locations of SF—the
sociopolitical subgenre of SF. All later SF, necessarily written against the
background of the readers’ societies, will be situated between utopian and
anti-utopian horizons—not the least when it attempts to deny its utopian
More’s greatness resides thus not only in ethics or prose style. Beyond
that, Utopia supplied both the name and the logically inescapable model
for later literary utopias. Their hallmark is a rounded and isolated location
(valley, island, planet) articulated in a panoramic sweep showing their inner
organization as a formal, ordered system. This system is utopia’s supreme
value: there are authoritarian and libertarian but no unorganized utopias. The
coming about of the new order must be explained as the installation of a new
social contract; in the Renaissance the contract-maker is usually a founding
hero, but later it will increasingly be a democratic revolution openly as in
Morris’s socialist revolution or transposed into cosmic analogs as tenuous as
Wells’s gas from a cornet. Lastly, utopias are presented by a dramatic
strategy which counts on the surprise effects of its presentations upon the
reader. Though formally closed, significant utopian writings are in permanent
dialogue with the readers, i.e. open-ended—as in More.
2. The Dissociation of Play and Truth: Rabelais to Bacon. More conveyed
"full sooth in game." François Rabelais’s imaginative voyage
through a sequence of wonderful places boisterously perfected such a fusion of
urgent truth and witty play to deal with the full compass of earthly
preoccupations and possibilities. But already in the last books of his pentalogy
on the giants Gargantua and Pantagruel (1532-64) the joke got grimmer and
thinner. By the time of Campanella and Bacon, the formal exercise of utopia had
dissociated intellectual gravity from plebeian play; in the process,
"truth" itself grew increasingly ideological.
Gargantua’s and Pantagruel’s sallying out of Utopia to Paris and the ends
of the world, and their insistence on the drink and food of the body as well as
of the spirit, are symbolic for Rabelais’s integration of sensual with
philosophic materialism, of folk chronicles about the deeds of enormous and
valiant giants with an uproarious intellectual critique of the sum total of
contemporary life. This critique is inescapable because it reaches from rational
argument and farce to the colossal deployment of synonyms and neologisms, idioms
taken literally and fields encompassed encyclopedically. Language itself is no
longer god-given but a medium of human labor, enjoyment, and folly; it is
formally presented as such in the SF parable of the congealed words in Book IV.
The sequence of events, too, bodies forth a gay and dynamic process of imbibing
knowledge from the various provinces of reality passed in critical review—from
war and education in the first two books, through marriage and sex in the third,
to the wondrous and horrible island’s religion, law, and finance in fourth and
fifth. The basic attitude of this work is "a gaiety of spirit" equated
with the wine of the grape as well as the wine of learning and freedom, of
friendliness and life itself. Such a draught is a blasphemous transubstantiation
in which matter becomes its own conscious and cognitive enjoyment, substituting
for service of the divine (divin) that of the vine (du vin). The
folk enjoyment in gigantism is not separated from goodness and wisdom. Rather,
matter is treated as not only the sole reality but also the supreme good, of
which there can never be too much. Rabelais’s whole work is one huge
navigation toward liberated matter and unalienated man. This cognitive
"imaginary voyage" is the exploration of a dangerous freedom:
"You must be the interpreters of your own enterprise" is the final
Thus "pantagruelism" is the liberation of a human quintessence from
the impure actuality, an unbridled creation of a new human nature scorning
contemporary unnatural Europe—as when Pantagruel makes out of the bad,
aggressive king Anarch a good though henpecked hawker of green sauce. It
oscillates between sheer fantasy and simple inversion. The latter is seen in the
anti-abbey or "free university" of Thélème, set against the old
educational and monastic institutions; formally, this is the most clearly
utopian passage in Rabelais, though it is not his boldest creation but an elite
assembly of young people noble enough to follow the inner-directed commandment
of "DO WHAT YOU WILL." More important, "pantagruelizing"
entails assimilating the whole reality of that age and regurgitating it
transmuted by his laughing philosophy, just as Gargantua comprehended whole
countries in his throat and regurgitated the narrator who visited them. To that
end, Rabelais employs with a serene greediness all available SF traditions and
all forms of delighted estrangement—Greek satire and medieval legends, Plato
and Villon, More and Lucian. Almost incidentally, he produced some episodes of
SF which will stand as its constant yardstick.
Rabelais adapted the episode in Gargantua’s throat and the whole marvelous
voyage in the second half of his opus from the classical tradition subsumed in
Lucian of Samosate. In True Histories (ca. AD 160), Lucian laughingly
settled the score with the whole tradition of vegetative myths, from the
mythological tales themselves, through Homer’s voyages, to the popular
Hellenistic adventure-romances. His journey to various wondrous islands, his
flight to the Moon, Morning Star, and Sun, his life inside a huge whale, in
Cloudcuckooland, on the Island of the Blessed, etc., is a string of model
parodies each translating a whole literary form into a critical—i.e. cognitive—context.
The island of vine-women is a parody of Circe’s and other islands of erotic
bliss, and the war of the Selenites against the Heliotes introduces aliens and
combats more grotesque than in any romance or myth; but both are also models of
later SF meetings and warfare with aliens. Lucian uses the mythical scheme of
journeys based on the vegetative cycle of death and rebirth, darkness and day,
closing and opening, for ironic subversion. Its spectrum ranges from ironic
events, situations, and characters, through parodic allusions and wordplay, to
direct sarcasm. For example, his tongue-in-cheek extrapolation of colonial
warfare into interplanetary space is rendered utterly ridiculous by a farcically
pedantic and scabrous description of the semi-human Selenites. Lucian’s whole
arsenal of demystification amounts to a value-system in which vitality is
equated with freedom. Being confined to the country within the whale with its
oppressive fish-people is Lucian’s equivalent of an infernal descent, after
his flight through imperialist heavens. The humanistic irony embodied in
esthetic delight of "Lucian the Blasphemer" became the paradigm for
the whole prehistory of SF, from More and Rabelais to Cyrano and Swift.
In More and Rabelais, this tradition led to the "alchemical"
procedure of creating a new homeland by a transmutation of the baser elements in
the old country (England or the Touraine), so that Rabelais’s fictive narrator
called himself "Abstractor of the Quintessence." However, in actuality
the marvelous countries became colonies, More died beheaded, Rabelais barely
escaped the stake: knowledge and sense were again viciously sundered by
religious wars and monarchist absolutism. In the profound crisis of the age, the
first wave of the revolutionary middle class had separated itself from the
people, and been destroyed or absorbed by church and state. At the beginning of
the 17th century this was clearly spelled out by the burning at the stake of
Giordano Bruno, the philosopher who had proclaimed an infinite universe with an
infinite number of autonomous worlds. The new power cast a spell even over
utopists. In southern, Catholic Europe Campanella reinstated astrology, that
fantastic pseudo-science of absolutism, as the guiding principle of his City
of the Sun (pbd 1623); in northern, Protestant Europe Bacon perspicaciously
hit upon a natural science behaving as an esoteric religion as the wave of the
future in New Atlantis (pbd 1627). Tommaso Campanella, though formally
prolonging Iambulus’s and More’s line, describes a perfect theocracy
somewhere behind India, in the seas of the old caste empires and on an island so
large it is almost a continent. The traditional utopian abolition of private
ownership, the stimulating ideas on dignifying labor and education, are of
little avail in a community run by a monastic bureaucracy whose impersonal,
militaristic order regulates all relations, from times for sexual intercourse to
the placing of buttons, in strict and grotesque detail fixed by astrology. For
the explosive horizontal explorations of the Renaissance, Campanella substituted
a doctrinaire vertical which descends from the Sun of Power to men. More’s
urbane talk between friendly humanists became here a one-track exposition from
one top oligarch to another.
Francis Bacon’s "great instauration," based on the rising force
of capitalist manufacture and its technological horizons, was in the following
three centuries to prove more virulent than Campanella’s monastic nostalgia.
For Bacon the social system is an open question no more; rather, the key for
transforming the world is a power of nature exercised by, and largely for, a
politically quite conservative, quasi-Christian priestly hierarchy. The
organized application of technology in New Atlantis is not a breakthrough to new
domains of human creativity or even (except for some agricultural and biological
techniques) of natural sciences; the only use mentioned for "stronger and
more violent" engines is in artillery, for the old destructive purposes.
Conversely science becomes a patriarchal, genteel, and highly ceremonial
religion, and it could be characterized—much like its later offshoot, Saint-Simonism—as
"Catholicism minus Christianity." Scientists are a self-sufficient
aristocracy of experts manipulating or "vexing" nature and other men;
as opposed to Plato, More, and Rabelais, their "science does not so much
exude from wisdom as wisdom exudes from science" (White)4 and
gold is not a sign of baseness but of permanent abundance in possessions and
power. The very name of Bacon’s country aims to improve Plato both by
correcting his account of Old Atlantis and by presenting a New Atlantis whose
old perfection has withstood not only political but even geological
contingencies (the narration ends with an indication that its science can
prevent earthquakes, floods, comets, and similar).
The major positive claim of New Atlantis is that it delivers the goods—abundance
of things and years, and social stability—by employing the lay miracles of
science. At that historical epoch, even such a filling in of extant technical
possibilities, without a radical change in human relationships, constituted a
huge and euphoric programme, and the goal of the "research foundation"
of Salomon’s House is formulated as "the knowledge of causes, and secret
motions of things; and the enlarging of the bounds of human empire, to the
effecting of all things possible," but though this science is guarded by
experts who can, interestingly enough, refuse to divulge dangerous discoveries,
it is by its own definition ethically indifferent: nuclear bombs and gas ovens
in concentration camps are some of the "things possible to effect." New
Atlantis is starry-eyed over inquiring into the "secret motions and
causes" of fruits, winds, sounds, and clocks, yet it does not think of
inquiring into motions and results with respect to the mother of the family
condemned to seclusion, or to the population sundered from Salomon’s House. It
is thus a foretaste of that combination of technology and autocracy which in
fact became the basis of European empires at home and abroad. At this point, the
utopian tradition fell under the sway of an upper-class ideology which staves
off human problems by technocratic extrapolation, by quantitative expansion
promising abundance within a fundamentally unchanged system of social
domination. Bacon’s "science" thus turns out to be as mythical as
Campanella’s astrology, though more efficient. As a verbal vision, New
Atlantis—with its heavy insistence on a power hierarchy and resplendent
signs of public status, observation which becomes interesting only when
enumerating grandiose projects, and a general adman’s abuse of adjectives
suggesting opulence—is in fact much inferior to the fanatic splendor of The
City of the Sun. It is symptomatic for the quality of imagination in the
ensuing age that his work (one of Bacon’s poorest) should have become the
master of its thought. The "outrageous piece of ‘miraculous evangelism’"
(Chambers) which founded New Atlantis, its stuffy ceremonials and barbarous
human relations completes the picture of this "curious alliance of God,
Mammon and Science" (Dupont).5
Thus the developing utopian tradition dragged into the open the latent
contradictions in More’s crypto-religious construction of Utopia. After the
Rabelaisian flowering, Campanella and Bacon mark a reaction against Renaissance
libertarian humanism, whose logical next step was the end of utopia as an
independent form. The official repression would have worked toward this in any
case; but it would not have succeeded so swiftly and well had not the utopian
camp been betrayed from within. Having lost a fertile connection with the
popular longings, utopia—for all the tries of the 18th-century "state
novel" (Staatsroman)—disappears from the vanguard of European
culture until Fourier and Chernyshevsky. Ironically, Bacon fought medieval
scholasticism but inaugurated a new dogmatism of technocracy, and Campanella
rotted for decades in papal prisons but announced a return to the closed, mythic
world-model of Plato. History is cruel to "final solutions."
1. Thomas More, The Complete Works of St. Thomas More,
Volume 4, ed. Edward Surtz, S.J., and J.H. Hexter (US 1965), pp 65-67.
2. The following paragraph is argued at greater length in my
essay "Defining the Literary Genre of Utopia," Studies in the
Literary Imagination 6(Fall 1973):121-45.
3. Lewis Mumford, The Story of Utopias (1922; US 1962
iv+315), p 59.
4. H.B. White, Peace Among the Willows: The Political
Philosophy of Francis Bacon (The Hague 1968), p 106.
5. R.W. Chambers, Thomas More (1935; UK 1938 416p, p
362); V. Dupont, L’Utopie et le roman utopique dans la littérature
anglaise (Toulouse and Paris 1941), p 146.
WORKS ON THE SF OF ANTIQUITY, THE MIDDLE AGES, AND THE RENAISSANCE: A SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
General histories of society, culture, literature, or science
have not been included, nor works of methodological importance only. As a rule,
the first English-language edition is cited, and the short form of the title is
used. The city of publication is given only for books not published in the
United States or the United Kingdom.
1. General works (including those on
history and theory of utopian thought).
Bakhtin, Mikhail. Rabelais and His World. US 1968.
Beer, Max. The General History of Socialism and Social
Thought. I-II. UK 1957.
Berneri, Marie Louise. Journey Through Utopia. UK 1950.
Biesterfeld, Wolfgang. Die literarische Utopie.
Bloch, Ernst. Das Prinzip Hoffnung I-II. Frankfurt
Cawley, Robert Ralston. Unpathed Waters. US 1940.
Ceserani, Gian Paolo. I falsi Adami. Milan 1969.
Cioranescu, Alexandre. L’avenir du passé. Paris
Comparative Literature Studies, Vol.
10, No. 4 (Dec 1973)—special issue on "Utopian Social Thought in
Literature and the Social Sciences."
Desroche, Henri. Les Dieux révés. Paris 1972.
Dupont, V. L’Utopie et le roman utopique dans la
littérature anglaise. Paris 1941.
Duveau, Georges. Sociologie de l’utopia. Paris 1961.
Elliott, Robert G. The Shape of Utopia. US 1970.
Eurich, Nell. Science in Utopia. US 1967.
Gibson, R.W., and J. Max Patrick. St. Thomas More: A
Preliminary Bibliography. US 1961.
Gove, Philip Babcock. The Imaginary Voyage in Prose Fiction.
Marin, Louis. Utopiques. Paris 1973.
Morton, A.L. The English Utopia. UK 1952.
Mucchielli, Roger. Le Mythe de la cité idéale. Paris
Mumford, Lewis. The Story of Utopias. US 1922.
Negley, Glenn, and J. Max Patrick. The Quest for Utopia.
Revue des sciences humaines 155
(1974)—special issue on "l’Utopie."
Ruyer, Raymond. L’utopie et les utopies. Paris 1950.
Schwonke, Martin. Vom Staatsroman zur Science Fiction.
Seeber, Hans Ulrich. Wandlungen der Form in der
literarischen Utopie. Göttingen 1970.
Studies in the Literary Imagination,
Vol. 6, No. 2 (Fall 1973)—special issue on "Aspects of Utopian
Suvin, Darko. La Science-fiction entre l’utopie et l’anti-utopie.
Villgradter, Rudolf, and Friedrich Krey, eds. Der utopische
Roman. Darmstadt 1973.
Wandlungen des Partadiesischen und Utopischen.
2. Antiquity and the Middle Ages. See
also section 1 above, especially Beer, Biesterfield, Bloch, Ceserani, Cioranescu,
Eurich, Gove, Morton, Mumford, Villgradter-Krey, and Wandlungen, and
section 3 below, especially Beger, Förster, LiIjegren, Patch, Seibt, and
Ackermann, Elfriede Marie. "Das Schlaraffenland"
in German Literature and Folksong. US 1954.
Altheim, Franz. Der unbesiegte Gott. Hamburg 1957.
Babcock, W.H. Legendary Islands in the Atlantic. US
Baldry, H.C. Ancient Utopias. UK 1956.
Bar, Francis. Les Routes de l’autre monde. Paris
Barker, Ernest. The Political Thought of Plato and
Aristotle. UK 1959.
Bidez, Joseph. La Cité du Monde et la Cité du Soleil chez
le Stoïciens. Paris 1932.
Boas, George. Essays on Primitivism and Related Ideas in
the Middle Ages. US 1948.
Bompaire, J. Lucian écrivain. Paris 1958.
Bonner, Campbell. "Dionysiac Magic and the Greek Land of
Cockaigne." Trans. & Proc. Amer. Philological
Assn. 41 (1910).
Cocchiara, Giuseppe. Il paese di Cuccagna. Turin 1956.
Coli, Edoardo. Il Paradiso Terrestre dantesco. Florence
Cornford, Francis M. Plato’s Cosmology. UK 1937.
Curtius, Ernst Robert. European Literature and the Latin
Middle Ages. US 1953.
Ferguson, John. Utopias of the Classical World. US
Finley, M.I. "Utopianism Ancient and Modern." In The
Critical Spirit, ed. Kurt H. Wolff and Barrington Moore, Jr. US 1967.
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