I could not imagine what the connection was between my
favorite authors and their respective works aside from the fact that they are
all dead, overwhelmingly English, and mostly male; it even occurred to me that
while I might adore one work by an author I very likely abhorred another book
by the same genius! What then is the connection? And why could I not find a living author
whose works I might love just as much?
But I have found my connection: they are all poets of prose. Each has a peerage in Fairyland; they have
found the child that will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. These have grown up but not grown old. They can look upon the world with the wisdom
of an adult yet see through the eyes of a child. They rejoice in the wild, unspoiled places of
the world and dare to venture into the most remote and unexplored recesses of the
human spirit, yes the very soul of man do they explore. That is why no great author now living is
easily found for ‘Modern Lit’ has killed literature and post-modernism has
denied the very thing that gives meaning to life. I read ’the classics’ as my school teachers
thought them but I went away completely devoid of any appreciation for such
writings. They might reflect poignantly
on some new topic of modern interest but forgotten are the things that truly
make the ‘classics’ classic. I have
tried. Ulysses has been touted as
the best book ever written in the modern era which may be why I have utterly
given up on the modern era and any of its prodigy for it was complete drivel
and I could barely make out a word.
Shakespeare writes in a foreign tongue (to my modern understanding at
least) yet truly ‘me thinks there be method in his madness.’
I do not want new thoughts in old wine skins but old
thoughts in interesting wine skins. As
the Preacher famously penned, ‘there is nothing new under the sun,’ and truly
man has not changed since the dawn of time though perhaps his technology has,
therefore I do not understand why the prophets, poets, and kings tell us that
he has and we must adapt accordingly, even in our literary discernment. I defy the modern ‘poets’ to write as their
ancient peers, with clarity and skill and virtue! Yet our modern professors tell us that we are
not to ask what the author was trying to say but interpret the writing as what
we think the author should have said. We
study everything about a work but its meaning!
If you would be entertained, find a modern criticism on an old work; the
results can be quite astonishing. In a
world where there is no truth, no right, no virtue there can be no Story. While the laws of Fairyland might seem odd or
downright backwards at times they are still Laws without which there could be
no Fairyland. Without sense and
direction and purpose there can be no plot and no lesson. A good character must have character! This therefore is the doom of literature and
perhaps society for Story is the blood of civilization.
What do my authors know?
They know there is Truth and Virtue, Good and Evil. They know there is a beauty and a mystery and
a wonder that exceeds mortal expectation and experience and their stories are
fraught with this feeling. There is
something greater, grander, and wiser at work in their writings even if it is
not mentioned in the text. A great story
is one that is more than the words upon the page. There is a whole universe and things even
beyond that universe which man cannot directly perceive yet he knows within his
very heart must be there for there to be any sense or purpose in this strange
adventure called life. Yet the doctors
and psychologists and scientists all say we are nothing but matter and atoms
and various physical principles; everything in life can be reduced to a simple
mathematical equation. That is why so
many ‘modern’ people are so messed up; we ignore the very thing that makes us
human. A rhinoceros does not wonder or
dream or aspire; it just wants to be a rhinoceros and thinks no more upon the
matter. Only mankind yearns for such
things. Only men can know the truth of
sorrow and joy. There is no equation for
joy but Joy plus Sin equals Sorrow. And
there is only one answer to this equation and my authors have found it. It is in the Something beyond the material,
beyond what we can perceive without senses; it is a thing that must be seen
with the soul.
No wonder modern lit is dead for a body without the soul
is dead so too must our literature be.
To find a good story I must go back to a time when humanity still had a
soul, only then could we write a good story.
For all good stories are the same underneath but different on top; all
the bad stories are different in a superficial way but the same at their core,
if they had one. A story must have a
soul just as a man else he is just a zombie out terrifying unsuspecting readers
for the soul of a story comes from the soul of a man. One must believe in a soul to write good
stories. There is One who told wonderful
stories yet we do not study His stories and their meanings, we debate over the
existence of the Author or which historical figure He stole them from or which
ancient tradition most affected His own perception of reality and if it has any
relation to our own when we are merely characters in another story invented by
Him. These authors I love most may not
agree with me completely on such topics but they have found this Thing beyond
our own bleak reality and are thus able to write truly wonderful stories and
let us peek into this Thing that they have found. Yet the world will continue to debate and
criticize and forget things that they can never truly appreciate or understand
for they have forgotten childhood and Elfland and when they cannot understand
something they must deride, criticize, and rebuke it as foolishness when all
that is required is the guilelessness and innocence of youth: the ability to
take the Author at His word. There is no
ulterior motive or hidden agenda; the Truth is plainly before them in the text
though they see it not. They think the
whole thing folly because they do not like the reflection when they look into
that most adamant of mirrors. They
crucified the Author, why would they like His finest work?
