I'm terrible with names, unless it's a latin binomial, if your moniker consists of a species and a genus, we're good (in all save fish)! Why is it I can remember the scientific name of a burrowing rodent or a bacteria often associated with bovine foot pathologies but can't remember my fellow men? Maybe there is a sort of poetry in Eptesicus fuscus or Emydoideia blandingii which is lacking in John Smith or Jessica Doe? Maybe it is the meaning hidden in the latin pseudonyms, Felis concolor, that cat of one color, while names of mere mortal choosing seem rather arbitrary. Maybe it is the relationship between them and no two the same, though the Amos Yoders in the plat book in Amish country must be distinguished by their middle initial, none of the Genus Felis have that problem, concolor and domesticus are each their own animal but still cousins. Or maybe it is all those years of forced memorization in the art and lingo of the biological sciences that it has become a second language? Whatever it is, it has rendered me unappreciative for several years as to the existence and works of one Dorothy Sayers, yet another dead English author, whom I was strangely conflating with Flannery O'Connor (yes, an American with an Irish appellation, I don't know why I confused the two!).
I have read a few of O'Connor's short stories, but came away rather chilled by the experience, chilled, not cold mind you. She is an excellent writer, a keen observer of human behavior and nature and able to translate that into excellent literature, but for me personally, too much delving into the darker side of human life, from which I am still trying to emerge like the mythic legged fish from the primordial ooze of non-being (who says there isn't poetry in atheism, but then poetry cannot exist without myth to give it metaphor and thus form). Having consumed my tithe of O'Connor, I contented myself therewith and moved on, little realizing that I was closing the proverbial door on Dorothy Sayers as well, whom I had heard of certainly, but knew little more than she was an authoress of some fame, which is probably where the conflation arose, for that could be the inane definition of O'Connor as well!
I ran across an article a while ago about a book containing excerpts from the correspondence between Sayers and C.S.Lewis and was forced to reconsider my assumptions, since Lewis is a favorite author, perhaps this mysterious woman he was so happy to correspond with to such an extent that it warranted a book on the subject might be worth a second look, whereat I discovered my lunacy and delved immediately into the various works of Sayers, while wondering who it was I had confused her with (finally discovering O'Conner and putting my vacuous mind at ease). I've read through the Peter Wimsey detective novels, which are pretty good, I still prefer Father Brown but Sayer's detective is much preferred to the legendary Sherlock, but far better is her 'Mind of the Maker,' which may just be my own authorial prejudices, but it is a book I'd rate as high as Lewis's Mere Christianity and Chesterton's Orthodoxy and Everlasting Man in being very readable, enjoyable, profound, understandable, and a great exploration of theology in a non-drowsy formula.
In the 'Mind of the Maker,' Sayers explores the nature of the Trinity by comparing it to the creative process involved in a literary work, particularly a stage play, but applying it more generally to prose, poetry, and any other creative process, even political speeches, sermons, and daily work. As an author, I think her insight is brilliant and may help many a creative person in their endeavors to improve their art. As a Christian, I believe her ideas are profound and help to shine light into a subject that is often beyond the ability of mere words to explain. If you've ever found the idea of Christ attractive but have been bored or intimidated out of delving deeper, this just might be the place to start (or one of those other books mentioned above, which are wonderful for beginners and lifelong saints alike). Don't let conflation or any other silliness prevent you from indulging your philosophical curiosity or enjoying a rare literary treat a moment longer!
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