Finding Atlantis: A Review of The Island Without Seasons

Perhaps you are like me and were fortunate enough to have a savvy aunt (or uncle) to give you that one great gift out of all the Christmas presents you received over the years, that you have remembered over all the years, a gift at age twelve of a thick paperback set of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. 

I’d been raised on (and loved) C.S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia, and Tolkien’s intricate cosmos felt just like that, but more, so much more. Here was a sprawling world with its own languages and legends and histories, charged with the possibility that every new page might hold a fresh clue to unlocking an ancient mystery.

And that was just the beginning. After plowing through the box set, I turned to The Silmarillion, Tolkien’s brick of a compendium of the mythology underpinning the better-known books, and after that to the endless volumes of draft material—The Book of Lost Tales, The Lays of Beleriand, The Shaping of Middle-earth, and on and on—all painstakingly edited by his son. And then it was on to other fantasies: Robert Benson, Samuel R. Delany, George McDonald, William Hope Hodgson, and countless others. With each new writer, a whole new expanse of mystery and wonder opened up.

The enchantment phrase didn’t last. Eventually, I concluded that real-world girls were more interesting than fictional elf-princesses, and my reading tastes shifted accordingly. By the time my teenage years rolled around, I’d managed to convince myself that Joseph Conrad’s and William Faulkner’s writings included more grown-up stuff. And as the years passed, I largely moved out of reading fantasy altogether—though I still dipped into the genre occasionally just to see how long-running book sagas ended. (Or so I told myself.)

Not everyone I knew made the shift, though. At my small upstate state college, there were plenty of “friends of Narnia” and LOTR to go around—indeed, I often wondered if they’d read any books other than Lewis and Tolkien. Some adopted full-fledged Renaissance Faire getups, spending their spring afternoons swaggering around the campus center while others were quite determined to be the next generation of fantasy writers.

All of this, of course, was eye-rolling stuff for those of us who had decided that adulthood meant cynicism— in particular, cynicism about fantasy. After seeing one too many posts that “Aslan is on the move!” a friend of mine took to posting a rather grisly Discovery Channel GIF of a lion bringing down a spring-bok (or was it a gazelle?). Naturally, my friends and I were early fans of Game of Thrones and its deeply misanthropic take on the genre. But, given the grimness of the series, that enthusiasm soon quickly burned off.

But, sometime very early during the pandemic, I felt an unexplainable yearning for enchantment. I wanted to return to works of enchantment, an enchantment that permeates the world of literature that holds a unique power, capable of transporting readers to realms beyond the constraints of reality. I began looking for literature that explored the enduring enchantment found in fantasy literature, focusing on the profound impact that J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings had on me during those pre-teen years. I was also looking for its implications on the broader genre, especially how much of it curled back the “Oxford School” of fantasy literature. I wanted to challenge and prevail notions of timeless truths and advocate for a re-evaluation of the enchantment within these literary works.

While seeking out new (or new-to-me) works embedded with enchantment, I began to really think about what enchantment really was, and how, for example, childhood enchantment could become a gateway to otherworldly realms. 

And while much of this was a kind of nostalgic reflection on my early introduction to the fantasy genre, marked by my aunt’s Christmas gift of Tolkien’s books at a fairly early age, something which evoked a sense of wonder and enchantment that surpassed any subsequent Christmas presents, I came to appreciate how this stage was set for a lifelong appreciation of the fantastical. 

The immersive nature of Tolkien’s intricate cosmos, filled with languages, legends, and histories, captured my imagination, offering the tantalizing prospect of unlocking ancient mysteries with each turning page.

In time I drew parallels between C.S. Lewis’s works and Tolkien’s works, highlighting to myself how the latter’s creation felt like an expansive world with additional layers of complexity.

I also considered the intellectual genealogy of the “Oxford School” of fantasy literature, encompassing Lewis and Tolkien, and how they then, as we do now, see an essential need for advocating for the retention of classics, particularly Old and Middle English literature, as bulwarks against modernity’s velocity of encroachment. 

This became especially clear to me because I had to admit that Lewis and Tolkien had, each in their own way, come upon the existence of timeless truths, truths that truly transcended both politics and present culture. 

So, there in the middle of a harrowing pandemic, I sought ways to discover, re-discover, and defend enchantment.

I began to critically engage with the current assertions, questioning the validity of their interpretations. I began to challenge the popular claims that Lewis and Tolkien’s works, despite delighting generations of children, function as a kind of opiate perpetuating innocence and wrong sentiments. 

My arguments with friends and others underscored the inherent flaw in our current culture’s hermeneutics of suspicion, which calls into question the entire canon of well-known fantasy literature, especially in the way it relies on plot motifs associated with medieval politics, exploration, discovery, and battle.

Finally, I knew that current cultural critiques failed to appreciate the narrative context of Lewis and Tolkien’s works. What I heard and read in the contemporary slipstream really created a disdain for imaginative storytelling, favoring didacticism and downplaying the significance of eucatastrophe—the turning point where things go right when hope seems lost. It’s no wonder that we’ve arrived where we are in 2024!

So, bit by bit, I became interested in rebuilding and reworking the great loom of enchantment, to move beyond cynicism. In wanting to return to the nuanced insights, into the deeper theological dimensions of Tolkien’s and Lewis’s works, I reread their works, believing by some indescribable internal call, that it was time to unpack, to unveil the significance of song, of poetry in Middle-earth, emphasizing its natural connection to the essential makeup of the world, and its connection to everything.

Re-reading Lewis, I realized that each Narnia book corresponds to one of the heavenly realms, offering a fresh lens through which to view Lewis’s imaginative construction.

In revisiting these works, I saw the great potential for moving beyond cynicism, the way these fictions can challenge readers to reconsider the enchantment found in places of fantasy without dismissing it as juvenile or politically retrograde. 

And, finally my re-reading opened me to seeing that beneath the straightforward storytelling of Lewis and Tolkien lies a theological vision of great depth and sophistication: these works have more to say to adults than to children, urging readers to apprehend the wonder embedded within.

So since returning to Tolkien and Lewis and others, I’ve been looking for more, more stories that celebrate the enduring enchantment of fantasy literature’s tradition. I have been looking for books that emphasize the transformative power of narratives, books capable of transporting readers to realms where imagination intertwined with profound theological insights. 

While I acknowledge the ebb and flow of meaningful works of enchantment over the years, I am always on the hunt for books that challenge prevailing cynicism, inviting readers to rediscover the beauty and wonder embedded in fantasy literature. I’m always searching for novels containing a more nuanced understanding of our depths, works appreciating the intricate tapestry of imagination, theology, and narrative coherence that really does underpin our world. 

And I’ve found one.

*

Richly rooted in the long, great traditions of the literature of mysteries and secrets of ancient and modern history, Robert Lazu Kmita’s debut novel, The Island Without Seasons, unfolds an intricate narrative that intertwines the outer and inner adventures of Alexander Jacob Wills, a specialist in Greek culture. 

The story takes a mesmerizing turn as Wills embarks on a quest to uncover the elusive city of Atlantis, set against the backdrop of a remote island in the Atlantic owned by the eccentric Duke of Kirkwell, Gilbert Newman. ( I did not miss how these names bore echoes of our great traditions… our thinkers… Kirk and Newman!) 

This island, home to the Newman family’s magnificent library, becomes the stage for a profound exploration into the depths of human existence, offering readers the opportunity to uncover the unwritten part of Plato’s Critias.

Kmita’s novel stands as a marvel and an astounding achievement, pushing the boundaries of conventional fiction. It defies easy categorization, prompting comparisons to various works but standing uniquely on its own. 

The alienation experienced by the narrator resonates with the disconcerting atmosphere of The Matrix, while the structural echoes of Plato’s dialogues add a philosophical depth rarely found in contemporary literature. 

The depiction of nobility, reminiscent of another practitioner of enchantment, Michael O’Brien, particularly in his novel The Sabbatical, adds a layer of complexity to the robust narrative, infusing it with rich cultural and historical context.

It seems quite clear that as an ardent Tolkien scholar, Kmita seamlessly weaves elements of mythology into the fabric of his narrative. Readers familiar with Middle Earth will discern parallels between the Atlantis of Kmita’s creation and Tolkien’s Númenor, both tragically destroyed due to being unchecked by the root sin of pride. 

The subtitled ‘Novel of Atlantis’ promises (and certainly delivers) a journey into esoteric realms, prompting comparisons to the occult speculation surrounding the legendary city. Kmita, however, (and this is what divides his work from many current popular works), cleverly side-steps easy revelations, leaving us intrigued and tantalized, much like Treebeard’s cryptic response in Tolkien’s world.

James Christian Brown’s translation from Romanian preserves the linguistic mastery of Kmita, allowing English-speaking readers to engage with the intellectual depth of the narrative. Kmita exhibits a profound ease with the diverse elements of our Western Civilization, particularly the ideas of Plato and Socrates. The novel’s structure, echoing Socratic dialogue, serves as a potential entry point for readers new to philosophy, introducing concepts like telos, or the ultimate end, and the correct orientation of individuals towards it.

Most importantly, the novel presents a spiritual journey, emphasizing the search for truth as the search for God. Alexander, the narrator, grapples with existential floundering until a mentor guides him back to the forgotten path. Pride emerges as a central theme, hindering the pursuit of truth and knowledge. 

Characters confront their rooted pride, with some realizing and repenting, while others tragically remain ensnared, reflecting the profound consequences of overweening sin.

I believe The Island Without Seasons is undoubtedly a Catholic novel. It transcends such easy labels, evolving into a philosophical exploration and a subtler reflection on the elusive “Atlantis.” The seamless integration of Atlantis into the narrative aligns with the tenets of the Faith, dispelling any potential conflict. The novel, brimming with mystery, draws us into a detective narrative reminiscent of the greatest of G. K. Chesterton’s “Father Brown” mysteries and Arthur Conan Doyles’ stories, interspersed with moments of physical courage and intense philosophical reasoning.

The only possible drawback (if such a thing could be a drawback) to this brilliant novel is its highly intellectual nature and elevated diction, challenging us to embark on a journey into the great tradition of thinking that has motivated Catholic intellectuals throughout history. In a literary landscape where many novels offer mere entertainment, Kmita’s work stands out as a Platonic adventure, inviting readers to grapple with intellectual stimulation, narrative excitement, and character development in equal measure.

The Island Without Seasons is a monumental achievement, and it will call readers into a saga through philosophy, mythology, and adventure. Kmita’s debut not only showcases mesmerizing storytelling but also gives us so much more, establishing itself as an exceptional contribution to the intersection of literature and intellectual exploration, a literature of endurance and enchantment.

The Island Without Seasons: The Novel of Atlantis
By Robert Lazu Kmita
Lincoln, NE: Os Justi Press, 2023; 224pp

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