In this latest installment in the series of posts about my favorite things in fiction, I'm going to talk about paragons.
My definition of a paragon
I credit Overly Sarcastic Productions' trope talk video on the subject with helping me identify and think about this interest of mine, and I highly recommend it. I'm going to be referencing it throughout this post. But Red's definition of a paragon is a person who always tries to do the "right" thing (for whatever reason, sometimes with disastrous results). I'm going to narrow the definition Red uses down further to say that the kind of paragon I enjoy reading and writing about is a person who always tries to do the right thing for the right reasons, leading to generally positive results.
This post parallels my soft heroine one in some ways, but I want to take this a step further, because some of the paragons I love most aren't female, and some of them aren't the main character at all. They're often mentor figures, leaders, parents, sometimes even deities. But we'll get to that in a second. First, let's talk about the biggest (potential) problem with paragons.
The paragon paradox
Normally, the cardinal rule of good character writing is that characters must have flaws, fears, or false perceptions that they must overcome (or ultimately succumb to, in tragedies) as part of a character arc. That subconscious journey that the character takes us on is the real reason we read or write; it's the real nutrition behind our entertainment, like the veggies concealed in a casserole. When it's done well, you don't even notice it's there, but you sure notice when it's not there, because most fiction without quality character growth is just empty calories. I even heard one writing instructor say that character's psychological journey is "the plot," and everything else is just events that happen to drive that inner journey.
Some people might say that my definition of a paragon is a recipe for a "perfect" character, and normally, perfection is so unrelatable and unrealistic, writers are supposed to avoid writing perfect characters at all costs. However, like Red, I would argue that a paragon is not necessarily a perfect person; they can still have mortal quirks, needs, and functions, and they can still fail and even make mistakes. Even under my narrower (than Red's) definition, they are simply a good person who never gives up trying to be good in a difficult world.
They're the kind of people I'm trying to be. Far from being bored by such characters, I'm inspired by them. Far from being repulsed, I'm drawn to them. To me, the ways to explore how a paragon might navigate the darkness of life are endless, and endlessly fascinating.
"I just think goodness is more interesting. Evil is constant. You can think of different ways to murder people, but you can do that at age five. But you have to be an adult to consciously, deliberately be good—and that’s complicated." —Toni Morrison
Paragons I love
Here are some examples, which will hopefully further illustrate my definition of a paragon and why they are so fascinating to me.
The mentor paragon
The easiest way I've seen to create a satisfying paragon is to not make them the main character. Instead—as I mentioned before—make them a mentor, parent, etc. That way the main character can have a "normal" character growth arc, with the paragon providing guidance and inspiration along the way.
Unfortunately for the mentor paragon . . . they're also often doomed to die. From the writer (and sometimes reader) perspective, they're simply too good for this world (or simply to competent to live, as my brother once dryly remarked about one of my paragons), and their death gives the main character motivation, scars, etc. An obvious example of this is old Obi-Wan Kenobi from the original Star Wars trilogy.
Some of my favorite mentor paragons (in no particular order, and I know I'm forgetting some):
King Arthur Pendragon from Gerald Morris's The Squire's Tales. Terence himself, the "Squire," is something of a mentor paragon when he makes guest appearances in books about other characters, but this bullet is about Arthur: a truly idealized leader who always says and does the right thing, is an inspiration to everyone, and is (secretly) the best jouster out there. And yet, Gerald Morris makes him relatable through his hopeless love for his wife and the sometimes impossible moral dilemmas he is faced with as the high king, especially in the last years of his reign. And because he is never a main character, he can merely be an inspiring force, weaving in and out of the background. He dies, obviously.... There was no way Morris could get around that, unless he were to change the story. (*Cough* Which I have never attempted myself, nope, never.) To this day, I haven't brought myself to read Morris's version of Arthur's end, and so I haven't actually finished the series (even though I still highly recommend it).
Albus Dumbledore from the Harry Potter series. Enough people are familiar with his character that I don't think I need to say much here, except to point out that despite how incredibly good, wise, and competent he is, JK Rowling still kept Dumbledore relatable through his quirks, tragic past, and, yes, occasional mistake.
Morwen from the Enchanted Forest Chronicles. Not exactly the traditional paragon, but I was purposefully going for something slightly different for this next bullet (not to mention someone female). She does, however, fit my definition of a good person always doing the right thing for the right reasons, and she is a mentor to everyone else. Even though she is the main character in the third book, she doesn't have much of a growth arc even in that one (at least that I can remember). Even in that one, she is mainly the sensible, no-nonsense, grounding force that she is for the characters in all the other books. She's your go-to good witch for practical advice and a solid knock metaphorical knock in the head (which, let's be honest, fairytale characters often need). Doesn't die.
Carlisle Cullen from Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series. His overtly named strongest quality is compassion, making him into an incredibly good person—almost flawless, really. Yet I still find him relatable somehow, perhaps because his compassion often causes him pain, because of the loneliness and hope that led him to create a family, and because of the dangerous and morally sticky situations he has to navigate that family through. Like a true paragon, one of the most fascinating things about him is how he influences everyone he comes in contact with—most powerfully the family that he gathers around him, but even the villains are affected by him, notably Laurent (more obviously from Edward's perspective in Midnight Sun) and the Volturi. Also doesn't die!
Aslan from the Chronicles of Narnia. Like Dumbledore, I don't see the need to expound much here. Dies—but comes back!
The main-character paragon
The other way I've seen a paragon written well is a way that Red identified: you can make the main character a paragon if you make the character growth not about them but about pretty much everyone else. As Red says, the fascinating part, then, is to watch not how the paragon changes but how they change everyone around them. The sheer force of the paragon's goodness (or, in Red's broader definition, gravitas, charisma, or ideological immovability) alters every person they come in contact with, even the villain—who must either soften or plunge even deeper into darkness.
Though I love both types of paragons, this one is the one I find more satisfying, perhaps because it is so hard to do well and thus so rare.
Except . . . funnily enough, in video games. In choices-matter single-player role-playing games with large supporting cast that can be influenced by the player-controlled main character, it's actually quite easy and common. You, the player, are the one calling the shots, after all; you can "create" a character arc for yourself you want, or you can simply just do the right thing every time (which is so much easier to do when you're not actually living through those scenarios) and focus on helping your motley crew do the same. (Or, you can be the flipside of a paragon under Red's broader definition and be totally committed to the path of evil and bring everyone down to ruin with you.)
BioWare, a videogame company, specializes in these types of games. I've mentioned before how in their Star Wars: The Old Republic games (which I played all the way back in my teenage days), your character's appearance in the character screen is influenced by your current alignment between the Light and Dark sides of the Force. If you choose the Light (my paragon definition) route, your character stands upright, at attention, in literal pillar of light. It's that obvious. (And I don't care. I love it.)
Whatever path you pick, your character is going to be a paragon under Red's broader definition, in the sense that everyone around you will be influenced by your choices. That alteration happens to everyone in the crew you gather around you, the degree of which depending on where they started out in the alignment and the influence you gain with them (or how you antagonize them). In the second game, the writers even overtly work in an explanation for the influence you have on everyone by saying your character has a gift for building connections through the Force.
The same pattern plays out, although much less overtly, in BioWare's Dragon Age and Mass Effect games (though I haven't yet played the latter). I think the model works really well and creates a satisfying story for me every time—but then, I'm in complete control of the kind of paragon I want to be. Other people could choose a much different path, and I'll come back to that in a bit.
But first, some main-character paragons I love:
Captain Carrot from Terry Pratchett's Discworld series. An all-around good guy—simple, yet not stupid, likeable, and surprisingly hard to disobey. I haven't read all the Discworld books with him in it, but from what I've seen, he has a pretty quick character arc in which he wises up a bit in the ways of the world, and then he becomes a paragon in the more traditional sense of uplifting everyone else around him. Not to mention a One True King trope in which the "destined" king is so humble and pragmatic, he never bothers with the potentially violent fuss that would be required to make him the openly acknowledged One True King; he is fine doing good where he's at.
Captain America. Red does a perfect analysis of why Captain America is a fascinating example of a paragon in her video, so the only thing I feel necessary to add is that I've never been a huge Marvel fan, but the moment they truly lost me forever was when I heard about a comic book that made Captain America a Hydra sleeper agent. NO. I don't care if it was a "bold" or "novel" move. NO. From then on, I've never allowed myself to emotionally invest in Marvel—or DC, or any superhero collective/franchise/genre. The writers are too prone to corrupting good things for the sake of "novelty." I don't care if they even make excuses that it's a lesson about the corrupting nature of power; be that as it may, they're not doing it to warn, they're doing it to make sales. And some things are sacred and should never be tarnished like that, else we lose all faith in humanity.
Wanderer from Stephenie Meyer's The Host. I told you she would make an appearance in this post! Wanderer does have a character growth arc, but it doesn't need to be a huge one since she's pretty dang close to perfect, IMHO. So one of the most satisfying parts of The Host is watching Wanderer influence everyone around her through her sheer goodness. Even Melanie, the host in question, who begins the book by loathing Wanderer more than anything for taking over her body, does a one-eighty by the end of the book. For the sake of not giving away spoilers, I won't say anything more, but Wanderer is the best main-character paragon I can think of. (And she's female!)
Good paragons can teach us about evil
To me, one of the healthiest ways to learn about evil is actually by studying its opposite: good. Like I said in my post about soft heroines, good characters don't have to be flat and boring. If they're facing terrible situations, one that stretch them nearly to the breaking point, and they somehow find a way through, stronger and better than ever, how is that boring?
Yes, it's hard to write a paragon that feels relatable and authentic, since they're often a step or two ahead of us on the path of light. But if they can show us how to take those next few steps . . . it's worth the effort.
It's true, though, that some darkness is needed to showcase the light. I have to remind myself of that often (see My Writer's Manifesto). Yet the light I seek out in my own reading or that I put into my own books is perhaps a reaction to what I see as the tipping of the scales nearly everywhere else.
Especially in Baldur's Gate III (not a BioWare game), there's the potential to do some truly terrible things, including to or through your party members, and that troubles me. On the one hand . . . true good can't exist without the potential to do true evil. A game in which you are shoehorned into do-gooding isn't as satisfying as do-gooding you can completely choose for yourself. On the other hand . . . I worry about the mental state of those who relish in those darker paths, and I worry about the state of our society that those darker paths are given far more attention and appreciation. I saw one article about Baldur's Gate that overtly recommended a terrible choice because of the ease it gave in a more challenging playthrough—concluding that we all, in real life, are selfish on the inside.
I find that sentiment, no matter how pithy a parting thought . . . highly disturbing.
I believe in a different way. A harder way, true—but a pro-social, life-sustaining, society-sustaining way. And I think paragons can show us that way. Because they, in the end, know evil better for not having succumbed.
"No man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good. A silly idea is current that good people do not know what temptation means. This is an obvious lie. Only those who try to resist temptation know how strong it is. After all, you find out the strength of the German army by fighting against it, not by giving in. You find out the strength of a wind by trying to walk against it, not by lying down. A man who gives in to temptation after five minutes simply does not know what it would have been like an hour later. That is why bad people, in one sense, know very little about badness—they have lived a sheltered life by always giving in. We never find out the strength of the evil impulse inside us until we try to fight it." —C. S. Lewis
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