Though I’d contend that the golden age of chivalric romances reached its climax with Walter Map, that was far from the end of the genre. Even Cervantes, whose Don Quixote is still the greatest parody every written, hardly made a dent in the flow of romances. As late as the late 1600s, Mlle de Scudéry brought chivalric romance to yet another peak of popularity—and perhaps, in her own way, to an artistic peak as well.

Madeleine de Scudéry’s romances appeared under the name of her brother, “M. de Scudéry, Governour of Nostre Dame,” but most critics think he had little to do with them. One of her novels, the famous Grand Cyrus, still probably holds the record as the longest novel ever written. In the original edition, it took up more than 13,000 pages. Yes, that’s a five-digit number, and it’s not a typing mistake.

I’ve been reading one of her romances called Almahide: or, the Captive Queen. It’s a bit shorter than the Grand Cyrus, but not a whole lot shorter. My copy was printed in a giant folio in 1677, with small print in two columns and almost no paragraph divisions, and it still takes up hundreds of pages. (Hard to say how many, because the folio combines several volumes with their own page numbers, and I don’t feel like doing any of that higher-math stuff.) The binding smells of 331-year-old leather, and I always end up falling asleep with the thing beside me, which means that my poor wife has to lift it when she comes to bed. In extenuation I can only point out that she knew what she was getting into when she married me.

How, you might ask, does a writer fill up so many pages? The machinery of the plot is usually pretty straightforward: a large number of female characters get themselves abducted and rescued by an equally large assortment of male characters. What takes up space, and gives the book its distinctive atmosphere, is the long internal monologues of the characters.

In Almahide, for example, we have a noble young man in the court of Granada, Morayzel by name, who seems to have no interest in the beautiful women who surround him.

Here is the way an ordinary novelist might express the idea:

Though the court of Granada was filled with famous beauties, Morayzel—much to everyone’s surprise—remained indifferent to them all. Sometimes, in fact, even Morayzel himself was surprised by his own indifference.

But here is the way Mlle de Scudéry writes the same thing (in the 1677 translation by J. Phillips, Gent.):

He was Courteous and Civil among Ladies, but never in Love; and whatever Ambuscado’s they laid to insnare his Liberty, he still preserv’d his Freedom. All Persons were amaz’d at it, and sometimes he admir’d at it himself, and oftentimes examin’d himself from whence such an indifferency should proceed, especially at those Years when the most indifferent are concern’d. Is it, said he, a Vertue or a Vice? Is it an Excess or a Defect of Reason? Hast thou Eyes, or art thou blind? Is it an effect of thy Pride or thy Humility? Dost thou owe thy Freedom to thy Contempt of thy self, or thy Disdain of others? The first perhaps does not seem agreeable to Reason; the second less. Flatter not thy self Morayzel; and since thou wilt not betray thy self, consider with thy self whether it be out of any poorness of Spirit, or out of Vanity, that thou art so insensible; and whether thou neglectest thus all sorts of Conquests, by reason of their difficulty, or because they are too easie to obtain. Is it possible, said he, that in so great a Court there should not be one Lady surpassingly beautiful? Is there not one worthy of thy Love? Then calling to mind the several Beauties of the Court; The young Algadire, said he, has she nothing in her Eyes that sparkles and pleases? The Complexion of the amiable Zambrine, has she nothing that is excellent? The Lily whiteness of the noble Despine, does not that dazzle thee? Alicola’s Vermilion, does not that delight thee? The Lips and Teeth of Miriane, have they no Charm? The lovely face of Meladine, has that nothing that pleases? The Breasts and plumpness of Amesabeg, are they not worth thy taking notice of? The lovely Hands and Arms of the charming Donique, will they not move thee? The Shape and Majesty of Lidive, do they not attract the Eyes of all the World? Zelebine’s Disdain, does that damp thy Courage? The sweet temper of the amiable Nafile, is that not sufficient to move thee? The sprightly Humour of Tamarate, will that not sport thee into Love? The serious Gravity of the prudent Caramante, will that not gain thy Respect? The sublime Wit of Osmane, has that no absolute Power? The moderate and equal temper of Alemate, does that not always please alike? The Mirth and Conceits of Myrize, are they not pleasant and sharp? The Eloquence of Alabee, knows that not how to win a Heart? The harmonious Voice of Liparis, will that not allure the Souls of all that hear her sing? The languishing Looks of Emine, cannot they insensibly insinuate themselves? The Vertue of Betulite, has that no Power? The Generosity of Enoramira, is that not to be admir’d? The Nobility of young Isa, is not that enough to satisfie an ambitious Spirit? The Riches of Ziliole, are they not sufficient to satisfie the most Covetous Person in the World? And are there not others in the Court, that have those Charms I know not how to express, whose secret Power is more terrible than all those visible Beauties? Yes without doubt there is all this in Granada, and therefore since all this will not move, conclude with thy self that thou art rather a Statue than a Man, and that thy Insensibility is as reproachful as it is extraordinary.

Here we have the names of (by my quick count) twenty-three women, from Algadire to Ziliole, whose sole function in the narrative is to be dismissed by Morayzel. Yet each is the subject of a brief character sketch. You can see how that sort of thing would take up page after page, even if the plot is a bit thin. But the astonishing thing, and perhaps the thing that marks Mlle de Scudéry as some species of literary genius, is that they’re not just names; they’re twenty-three different women, even though we’ll never hear of any of them again.

I have more to say about this last burst of glory for the chivalric romance. Just as the medieval romances found their perfect satirist in Cervantes, so the seventeenth-century romances found a perfect foil in Mrs. Lennox. And because I happen to love her, but you probably don’t know who she is, I think she’s worth an article by herself.

I’m a little bit skeptical myself, but our friend Dr. Boli has published what appears to be a newly discovered adventure of Sir Gawain. If it is not an authentic work of Sir Thomas Malory, it is at least in his style and language.

I’ve just seen The Golden Compass, the movie version of Philip Pullman’s book of the same name. (For American readers, at least; in England it was The Northern Lights. American publishers always change the names of British books, I assume on the grounds that it makes the marketers look like they’re working for a living.) Now, I haven’t read the book, and I haven’t even followed the controversy except in its broad outlines.

Briefly, it is said that Philip Pullman is an atheist who deliberately wrote a fantasy designed to poison the minds of young people against Christianity and lead them toward atheist humanism, whatever that is. Pullman himself makes no secret of being anti-religious and anti-supernatural.

But as I say, I haven’t read the book. Certainly there are obvious anti-Christian elements in the movie. The organization at the heart of all the villainy is called the Magisterium—a word that, as far as I know, occurs in exactly two contexts: as a name for the teaching authority of the Catholic Church and as the name of the sinister all-controlling power in Philip Pullman’s novels. In the movie’s world, if you run foul of the Magisterium, it prosecutes you for heresy—another loaded word. The officials of the Magisterium get their fashion sense from Catholic bishops and cardinals. The usual sources on line say that the anti-Christian message of the book has been toned down a good bit for the movie, but it’s hard to miss anyway.

So if you think anti-Christian movies shouldn’t be made, you won’t like this one. If you like to judge movies by their own merits, however—well, you still might not like this one. It just feels shallow. The most interesting conceit in the fantasy world is the idea that people’s souls live outside them in the form of animal-shaped daemons (pronounced “demons”), but the movie seems to miss all the best opportunities for spinning metaphors and allegories out of that conceit. As for the rest, it’s difficult to decide what the moral is supposed to be. Freedom = Good, Dogma = Bad: I got that much. To judge by the actions of the admirable characters in the story, we are also to understand that war is good for its own sake, and revenge is an important humanistic value. I’m pretty sure I don’t like those ideas.

One more complaint: the narrative is full of cliches cribbed from every action and fantasy movie. At the climax, for example, our heroine destroys the evil soul-splitting doomsday machine in the villains’ secret hideout, and—just as in every parody of every James Bond movie—the destruction of that one machine somehow sets off a chain reaction that blows the whole complex to smithereens, taking just long enough for all the major characters to run around in a panic for a while before escaping just as the flames engulf the building. As my wife pointed out, the story has to have some reason why the villains can’t just fix the evil doomsday machine and go on with their villainy right away. What would you have come up with? she asked. I frankly admitted that I didn’t know; but if I were writing the script, I would have spent half an hour thinking about it, and at the end I would have come up with something.

(On-line sources say that Tom Stoppard wrote the first screenplay for the movie, but the producers rejected it and had someone else rewrite it from scratch. I really, really want to get my hands on that Tom Stoppard script.)

So is there nothing to recommend the movie? I certainly wouldn’t say that. The story may be trite sometimes, and the moral may be muddied, but the pictures are beautiful. The landscape is dotted with gorgeous cities filled with a kind of Renaissance Deco architecture; I kept thinking that, if this Magisterium can provide a living environment like that, you might want to think twice about poking it in the eye. I also fell in love with Mrs. Coulter’s airship, which is positively the most beautiful dirigible ever seen on film. I want one for myself.

No less an authority than the Right Revd. Rowan Williams has suggested that The Golden Compass be taught and discussed in religion classes. He sees it as a plea against dogmatism rather than against religion, and I agree that dogmatism is bad (as opposed to dogma, which can be very good if it’s the right dogma). And I think that his approach is the best one. The movie isn’t suitable for very young children. But if your older children want to watch it, let them, and watch it with them. Then talk about it. You could start with something like “So, what did you think of Mrs. Coulter’s airship?”

And now an aside: Why would an anti-Christian fantasy retreat to more primitive forms of religion and superstition? The whole plot revolves around the separation of the soul from the body; the Magisterium’s evil plot is to get rid of the soul altogether, which is a very odd idea for someone to come up with if he doesn’t believe there’s such a thing as a soul. This, I think, is what has me more mixed up than anything else. To counter Christianity with magic and animism is all very well, if you want to lead the kiddies toward magic and animism. It seems like an odd strategy if you want to lead them toward scientism. But then, as I mentioned before, I haven’t read the book.

The last Harry Potter book had surprises for just about everyone. I won’t give anything away, except to say that there’s no Holy Grail per se, but there’s quite a lot of quest. In fact, you might find more than one parallel with the famous quest for the Holy Grail.

The quest is one of the favorite themes in literature, and doubtless always will be. Take one brave but human hero and one or more magically desirable objects, and then place an assortment of almost insuperable evils between them, and you’ve got a proper quest. The basic plot doesn’t change, because it doesn’t need to change. As it stands, the quest plot not only is susceptible to infinite variation, but also comes pre-loaded with a rich assortment of metaphorical and symbolic possibilities. The quest can be a metaphor for the course of our whole lives, or for any particular endeavor, or for both at once. For all of us, life is a journey toward the ultimately desirable goal, with a minefield of misfortunes and evils standing in our way. Whether it’s Lord Voldemort or the Department of Motor Vehicles, we have to face the evil of the moment and overcome it before we can be on our way.

A long wait to renew one’s driver’s license doesn’t quite have the appeal in the retelling that, say, the quest for the Golden Fleece has. Now, if I had the choice, I’d much rather stand in line at the DMV than battle a bunch of Ray Harryhausen monsters. But I’d rather hear stories about the monsters than about the DMV. (“And then when I finally got all the way to the front, they told me I was in the wrong line!”) I can’t explain that peculiar perversity of my nature, but I probably don’t have to explain it. I’m sure you share it.

Yet the monsters and the indifferent or hostile clerks differ more in degree than in kind. Courage, persistence, patience, and determination will serve you as well at the DMV as they will against creatures of stop-motion animation. To put it another way, we can learn lessons from our favorite stories (not least Harry Potter) that help us find the right path on our own quests. That, after all, is what allegory is all about.

Meanwhile, a suggestion: if you’ve finished the seven Harry Potter books and need something else to read, why not introduce yourself to the stories of the Holy Grail? You’ll find most of the same ingredients you loved in Harry Potter, but you might find an even deeper and more satisfying meaning. Here’s a good place to start in your new quest.