For all my bluster about
high-literature and the worth of classics, I find I have a strong pulp-fiction
streak lying just under the surface. I love a good adventure story. Sometimes I can find a book that fits the
Venn diagram of both categories, other times you just have to go with TinTin, Dirk Pitt, Turk Madden and Indiana Jones.
Critic
Don D’Ammassa defines an adventure as "...an event or series of events
that happens outside the course of the protagonist's ordinary life, usually
accompanied by danger, often by physical action. Adventure stories almost
always move quickly, and the pace of the plot is at least as important as
characterization, setting and other elements of a creative work."
I think
he’s generally right that adventure novels place danger at the core of their
stories, but there’s more to it than that, I think. The more I read, the more I
realize that the adventure novels I’m drawn to are the ones that share a few
other common elements, as well.
Mystery,
for one. Whether it’s a long-forgotten secret, an ancient artifact, or a
sinister riddle emerging from the shadows, the protagonist is drawn into his
adventure by an incurable curiosity or a desperate need to stitch together some
context for his existence.
Adding
to that mystery are a whole host of exotic locations. Zanzibar, Morrocco, New
Delhi, Venice… remote Bhuddist temples, and abandoned mines. The stranger the
better, so long as the plot rips the character out of his quotidian beginnings and
into a kaleidoscope of bazaars, mountain peaks and ocean storms.
But for
me, the last piece of the puzzle is the getting to and from these far-flung
settings. If the author raids the museum of obscure modes of transportation in
constructing their tale, then we’re really cooking. Does our main character take
passage on an old tramp steamer (preferably as a stowaway)? Do he and his
sidekick grab the handlebars of a motorcycle with sidecar (all the better if
commandeered mid-chase)? Do they take to the backs of desert-going camels or jungle-blazing
elephants? Are there interludes on crampons and skis through impenetrable
mountain passes? Transport planes? Zeppelins? Ramshackle tiki rafts? If so,
then you’ve got me. I’m sold. My inner twelve-year-old takes the reins and I’m
a happy reader.