Lazy blogging all the way!

 Here's a great little story on imagination and why it is even more vital in our ever more virtual reality, enjoy!

Life in a minor key!

 If you have ever read this blog before, you probably realize that I am obsessed with the old Christmas hymns, and while I am not musical (if I had ever learnt!) I love music, especially this time of year.  One thing I have learned about music is that there are both major and minor chords, if you play three notes to the chord on a piano for instance, the two outside notes are the same, only the inside note changes slightly but that makes all the difference.  Major chords sound happy and bold while the minor variation is sad, mysterious, deep, and haunting.  Think about the difference between 'Joy to the World' and 'What Child is This?' the former is mostly major chords, bold and triumphant and happy, while the latter is composed of many minor chords, full of mystery and enigma, haunting melodies and tinged with grief but certainly not hopeless, similar to many of my favorite carols: 'We Three Kings, God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen, O Come O Come Emmanuel...'

That's what the gospel gets right, that's one big reason it resonates with so many people through countless cultures and times: it reflects the reality to which they are accustomed, it fits the tale of life as they know it, save it introduces this strange thing called hope, along with love, peace, and joy beyond the world's understanding, but in pursuing that, it doesn't ignore the pain, the sorrow, the ugliness, the death of this current age.  The Gospel of the Modern West is rather: happiness now and always on my own terms.  And when we have pandemics, political upsets, supply chain problems, we don't have anywhere to turn or know what to do.  We've been told from our cradles that if we just elect the right person or pass the right laws or teach the right stuff everybody will be happy and prosperous and get along and if they don't, it must be a problem with the system, or education, or something, because we are owed happiness and if we don't get it, we have every right to complain and whine and even revolt.  But life isn't written in a major key, we can't write our own reality no matter how technologically advanced we become, yes there are songs and measures strong with major chords, but most of life is fraught with mystery, confusion, grief, and hurt.  We need a worldview big, broad, and deep enough to contain it all and provide an answer thereto, not just more empty promises of what life will be if we only do X or refrain from Y.

But even in the sorrow there is beauty, in the grief there is hope, there is depth and meaning and a future and purpose.  The best Christmas songs are those that regard not only the manger but also the cross, but they don't stop there, for easter morning looms brighter still.  So with those haunting melodies in mind, I leave you with these curious words, the little known latter verses of 'We Three Kings:'

"Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume 

breathes a life of gathering gloom; 

sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, 

sealed in the stone-cold tomb.

Glorious now behold him arise; 

King and God and sacrifice: 

Alleluia, Alleluia, 

sounds through the earth and skies."

The cure for our modern cultural malaise?

 This is a wonderful article to brighten up any life or situation, take a look!

Lazy blogging episode LXVIII

 Here's a lovely little tribute to Narnia!

Another good article on fairy tales!

 Here's the original article here,  but you have to love any article lovingly referencing C.S.Lewis (at least I do!).  It isn't wrong to yearn for something, indeed, we were built to yearn, but only for our true God and Creator, though oftentimes we mistake wanting various things He has made for our innate desire for Himself.  That's why we love stories, because we are living in the grandest story of all and we want, above  all things, to realize that happy ending, now, not later!  But we're still like Sam and Frodo, tramping through the wilds of reality, in quest of we aren't quite sure what, wishing rather to sit around a bright hearth, cocoa in hand, telling our loved ones all the tale, but we won't have a tale to tell unless we keep on trekking through the interminable wilderness, whatever that may be in our own particular tales.  And it is that desire, that yearning, that keeps us going, only we need to remember for Who we truly long and never be merely satisfied or content with any lesser what.

On eucatastrophe

 Here's a great little article touching on Tolkien and what tragedy for one of his greatest characters means for each of us.

Real characters

 I'm not sure how the Brontes or Jane Austen or L.M. Montgomery did it, they must be far more courageous and virtuous women than I shall ever hope to be!  Of course I can only presume upon their own personal stories from the trials and triumphs of their various heroines, but all great writing contains at least a smidgeon of autobiography, for how else could an author write so authentically and movingly if not having lived it themselves?  It is the difference between studying about chickens in a book and actually trying to raise them oneself, one soon learns if the author of the chicken book perused has more than academic experience therewith!  So it is with life and writing, the most realistic characters come from the most authentic lives.

I just returned from a family trip to visit family, and to say the least it was dreadful.  I was raised in a loveless home wherein I was bad and my brother was good and there was nothing to rectify the matter.  I then looked to the in-laws to fill that aching parental gap in my soul only to discover that they are much of the same mind, except it is my kids that are good and we parents who are bad, even their own son!  Of course Anne Elliot can drift through decades of such neglect and abuse, with only a wretched cry in her own room every now and again to say she's unsettled.  Jane Eyre runs off into the wilderness, much as I'd like to do but can't conveniently at the moment.  Anne Shirley would smile grimly, hold up her noble head, and try winning the hearts of her detractors, a thing I've tried to do for decades in vain, in my family and my husband's.

What do you do when the behavior of your family or in-laws drives your own thoughts to despair and even contemplating self-harm?  At least in the case of my biological relatives it is easy enough to cut off contact when it is all one sided anyway, but what about those you can't exactly hack out of your life for the sake of others' feelings, particularly the kids?  They aren't intending to destroy my soul, rather it is just their normal, they don't know any better yet they won't listen when you try to discuss it.  We can't talk about great grandma, she's dead and there's no sense talking over her foibles.  We can't talk about past abuse, as it is over and there's no sense dwelling on it.  It's okay for them to say/do whatever to you, even be it calling you a horrible person, they are just tired/overwrought/expressing themselves but when you disagree with anything, even orange jello, pertaining to your own kids, they are only trying to help/just love the poor kids/giving them a little treat and how dare you interfere!  How do you disagree with persistently cheerful and determined selfishness garbed as kindness?

Their cats, cows, dogs, and kids are all spoiled and obese and they wonder why I try and 'interfere' on behalf of my children?  This is where my heroines of literature fail me.  What do you do in such circumstances when you have not moral courage enough to stand against the strain of it all?  If I don't see them until I am healthy enough to deal with them, we might all have died of old age by then!  I can't cut them off cold, else my kids and husband will take it amiss.  They won't grow or change or even admit there is a problem, so we'll all be long dead in that case too.  Perhaps I just can't face them on their own turf?  Maybe just host them on neutral ground or on my territory?  That is still annoying, but not a weeklong bout of despair, self-doubt, and agonized soul searching wondering what's wrong with me that no parental figure in my entire life has considered me good enough to love and accept.  Like Jane I'll hie myself into the metaphorical wilderness and like Anne E. partake me of a good cry as needed but unlike Anne S., I will quit trying to woo those unwittingly set against me in the deeps of their souls, I must needs love them in a biblical sense (do what is best for them) but I don't need to kill myself trying to please them and earn their affection when it is impossible nor make myself wretched over something beyond my control (so says my mind, but oh silly heart!).

Maybe things were easier two hundred years ago, you just hopped on a boat and never saw your family again or set off across a vast sea of grass to escape likewise.  Now there is Skype and email and text and interstates and paid vacation time.  Miss Elliot could go to Lyme whilst her tormentors were at Bath and nothing but a sporadic indifferent letter was heard betwixt them.  Jane could vanish into some forgotten moorland.  Anne Shirley could simply take the train to the far side of the island and enter a new world entirely.  But I forget that Anne S. did deal with Aunt Mary Maria or whatever her name was, the old hag moving in and tormenting everyone day and night, and only accident removing the live-in misery from their lives.  I can't accidentally insult someone's age and solve my problem (that happened on this trip!), but at least I now have a literary example of my problem!  And I can smile because we don't share the same house for more than a week at a time, perhaps I need to gird up my proverbial loins and take myself in hand and quit being ridiculous.  I should be able to handle a week or so, right?  Too bad I can't just rewrite their character or my own as easily as I can a person in a story!  You can, but it is the work of a lifetime rather than an afternoon and you have to be intentional with the process, so maybe in a hundred years I can handle a month in their house?  At least I have classic literature to fall back upon as both escape and inspiration!

Curious allies?

 We've been watching the BBC version of "Father Brown" lately, though we aren't yet through season 3.  I was vastly curious to see how the BBC would portray G.K.Chesterton's priestly detective, as the company's views are hardly those of either the Catholic Church or even the social mores of a hundred years ago.  They've done very well at times with some of their adaptations while others have been a little unsettling.  Overall, I must say I have been rather impressed at their mostly respectful treatment of christianity and christians, at least I don't feel that they don't stereotype and degrade doctrine or faithful characters any more than they do any other character or creed.  Actually, it is a very human experience, with mystery and humor and warmth and curiosity and beauty and fear and anger and sorrow and joy, mercy and grace and forgiveness.  It is a refreshing change compared to most modern American productions, which are really just a celebration of vanity, selfishness, violence, sex, and politically approved social trends.  There's no complexity, no depth, no real virtue or vice, no plot, no characters, no interest save a carnal delight in individuality and selfishness in most American shows.

I've never been a huge fan of Sherlock Holmes, the books or the various live action versions, while somewhat interesting, they aren't very interesting because they aren't human.  Holmes might be brilliant but he doesn't have a heart, sort of like reading a story written by a computer, while factually stimulating, it must needs be rather flat in every other aspect.  There's no charm, no humor, no philosophy, no heart, no emotion save horror and disgust, and nothing but the cold calculations of a nearly inhuman mind.  Chesterton's detective is anything but brilliant but he's everything human!  And the BBC has captured that, heart and soul.  They've made significant changes to the original stories, they really had no choice, but each one has been well written, well acted, beautifully filmed, and is a solid, quality piece of art.  And nobody is pushing a political agenda.  A character isn't inherently evil or good or brilliant or insipid because of his political or spiritual views; people can have a discussion without hating one another simply because they don't agree.  What a difference from our modern political and social climate and most modern TV!

I'm not saying I agree with everything they've done, but overall, I believe they have captured the spirit of the character and the stories, especially the pervasive attitude that this bumbling priest is a superstitious fool because he believes in things unseen but somehow earns the respect of those around him, even his enemies, by his whimsy, warmth, willingness to listen, and keen understanding of human nature; he neither swerves from the truth nor uses it as a bludgeon against those who don't yet see things his way.  A lesson it would be well for the church as a whole to learn, for so does the world view us, it always has, but by being who and what Christ has called us to be, we too can earn the grudging respect and curiosity of the skeptical and cynical world!

Dangerous splendors

 I wrote recently about a little book I had found at the local thrift store, and while a nifty little story, the main attraction was its introduction of Charles Williams, a hitherto unknown to myself compatriot of C.S.Lewis, J.R.R.Tolkien and the other 'Inklings.'  Curious, as the aforementioned authors are some of my personal favorites, I plunged into some of his writings.  Whereas Lewis and Tolkien write fantasy set in another world, place, or time, Williams prefers to haunt 1930s England with his own visions.  I read all seven of his novels and discovered an excellent writer, his writings are as deep and vivid and perplexing as 'That Hideous Strength' and 'The Man Who Was Thursday,' but a disquiet shadow, barely discerned, looms over them.

When asked about his 'Screwtape Letters,' Lewis remarked that it was quite easy to keep going on in that infernal vein once one got in the habit, but it was so disconcerting that he daren't continue overlong in such a study for his own sake and that of his readers.  I wonder if that is what haunts William's novels, especially his last two.  I haven't read up on his history or writing or personal beliefs or the reaction of his contemporaries to his works, but I did read a brief overview on a blog dedicated to the subject and was rather disturbed to find him an avid occultist, one with questionable intentions towards young ladies, in that light his final two novels don't surprise me in the least.

From his writing I can discern that he was a man of supreme spiritual vision, with the ability to craft a story that draws his reader into that fabulous and terrifying world, but underlying it all seems to be a gradual drift in thought away from the good and the right and the true, into a spectral grey world of ambivalent evil and banal light, wherein there is only Power and all ends the same.  Did that gifted writer, that great spiritual visionary, unlike Lewis, drift ever more gradually into the darkness, did he take Lewis's surest road to Hell, unmarked, gradual, easy underfoot?  Was he so blinded by spiritual splendors and terrors beyond his comprehension and his fascination therewith that he gradually drifted into a sort of moral stupor in which the Power was everything and the Truth nothing, in which all ends were the same and the means certainly justified thereby?  An addict of spiritual phenomena drawn inevitably to destruction like so many others drawn likewise by the more common addictions of drink, drugs, lust, or gambling?

Would I recommend his books?  Lewis really liked 'The Place of the Lion," and I believe it had some influence upon his 'That Hideous Strength.'  I certainly rank them highly as far as literary experience, quality of the writing, philosophical questions posed, and overall a satisfying experience, but they are haunted and haunting.  'The Shadows of Ecstasy' is probably his most problematic book in that light and I found very little redeeming virtues therein.  'The Greater Trumps' is a fascinating and beautiful work, if falling utterly flat at the end and failing to make much sense of what started out to be an intriguing idea.  The others are excellent books in their own right, and I would not hesitate to recommend them save for that lingering whiff of brimstone, barely discerned in most of them, but ever stronger in each successive work.  If you are looking for something to fascinate and challenge your spiritual sensibilities and you have already tackled Lewis and Chesterton, then you might be ready for Williams.  If you are wishy-washy in your faith or lax in your literary habits, start with Lewis, not 'That Hideous Strength,' and build up your spiritual and literary muscles before tackling something so alluring yet also potentially dangerous as Williams, lest you find yourself following unwittingly down that easy road to Hell, so enamored of the terrific visions that you lose sight of the 'Way, the Truth, and the Life.'   

A real book review about a real book!

 How long has it been since I've read something new...wow, I can't remember, which might mean it was two weeks ago but more likely several years.  I just finished 'Here There Be Dragons' by James Owens, a novel I found at the local thrift store, the title alone requiring my purchase thereof.  Usually I get sucked into good books and end up staying up too late trying to finish them, something that old age and kids and life responsibilities have made untenable any more, which is why I rarely read anything new but spend my rare reading time treading old and beloved paths, that and I've been so disappointed with modern writers that I invest so much time and emotion into their worlds only to give up in dismay halfway through and move on with my life.  Pern has grown merely political and tawdry, the Wheel of Time went flat, Harry Potter lost its magic, and the entire Star Wars extended universe was chucked in a wormhole to be replaced with films whose plots were taped together at random out of discards from the cutting room floor of the original trilogy.  So needless to say, I am very wary of starting anything new, especially in a modern sense.  Ware, for there be slight spoilers ahead!

On the surface this is a delightful book, and if you, like a dabbling duck, just stay on the surface and happily paddle along, it is an enjoyable read with a nifty little twist at the end, but if you are a diving duck, fearless of the watery depths, beware, for the bubble of heedless literary abandon will burst and leave you rather muddled and flat.  I love the idea, the very concept of this book, the literary Easter eggs, but like modern culture, which has reduced the celebration of the pivotal moment in human history to a celebration of a fat rabbit depositing strangely painted unripe chickens in random locations, this book has turned three of the foremost writers of fantasy and Christian thought into flat, witless, uninteresting bozos who can't see a plot point the size of a freight train bearing down on them.  While Lewis and Tolkien (I have not read anything of Charles William's yet, but I intend to, the one redeeming part of this whole book!) write with the unshakeable undergirding of their faith (as does Williams supposedly) firmly beneath their own created realities, this book seems to take dibs and dabs from just about everywhere (everything from Greek Mythology to Sherlock Holmes), pastes a classic 'conflict of good vs. evil' montage over the whole thing, with a little 'look inside yourself' mantra to soothe modern sensibilities and tries to pass it off as the inspiration to some of the world's most beloved writers.

The problem is you need to believe in good and evil, truth and deception, right and wrong, light and darkness, like the three protagonist's actual faith inspired in their own lives and writings, to write a compelling story about it.  Lewis had all sorts of pagan deities and mythological creatures peopling Narnia, but they were subservient to 'the deeper magic,' they were aware of the Emperor Across the Sea, the whole world was a product of a greater reality from which the rules of their own were derived, not a bevy of random literary characters thrown together in a seemingly random collage of all stories with only the barest threads of magic and disbelief to connect them.  It is a happy little dream, this bold little book, but to paraphrase Lewis, 'five minutes real toothache (or actual thought) would put all this fluff to flight.'  The Inklings believed this stuff and could therefore actually write compellingly about it, I have no idea what Owens believes, but I don't want to read anything written by his protagonists, if they are as vapid as he portrays them to be, though in reality two of the three are some of my favorite writers.

And why pick on these three if you aren't a closet believer yourself?  It seems weird to write a fantastic account of three overtly Christian writers if you don't want their mythos to creep into your world, unless you are trying to portray their writing as the result of their immersion in a completely different mythology that was only misinterpreted by later readers to be of a Christian flavor and thus more culturally acceptable at the time (which might make a far more interesting story, come to think of it!), but then anything is possible in this convoluted and perplexing age wherein the barricade scene in Les Mis is considered some sort of pivotal and epochal moment for social justice and the whole point of the book when it is only a minor plot point to move the story ahead and the man voicing Aslan in the live action Narnia movies seems to think them to portray all faiths and none, to say nothing of biological realities being a mere societal construct!  Or maybe these books were written to discourage people from reading the books by said authors (another fabulous novel idea!)?  Why not pick three random authors without a common faith but who might theoretically have known one another?  G.K.Chesterton provides a lovely selection in his book on Heretics!  These three were straight out of Orthodoxy, but if you want fluffy reading that doesn't lack in depth, his essays like Tremendous Trifles are delicious.

Overall, a nice little bit of literary fluff but not a series I am going to pursue due to a jarring fault in its worldview that can't decide if it is postmodern or vaguely deistic or a syncretistic hash when its three protagonists are all in reality brilliant men, deep thinkers all, and certainly Christian in their writing, worldview, thought life, and legacy.  Try 'Surprised By Joy' if you want to learn more about the real Jack, in his own words.  Or visit Narnia for real, rather than sailing off in a flimsy imitation of the Dawn Treader and experiencing it second hand.  A good premise but an unsound foundation.  A flashy paint job but the engine is a mess.

An old favorite revisited

 I've always liked Emily, you know Emily don't you?  Anne of Green Gables' more temperamental (to quote the Murrays) cousin?  Yes, Emily of New Moon, don't you consider any literary characters amongst your dearest friends?  Too bad, even if you want to shake them for their idiocy sometimes.  I've always loved L.M. Montgomery, especially the Anne and Emily books and The Blue Castle, to quote Anne, I believe we are 'kindred spirits.'  I just reread the three Emily books, and thoroughly enjoyed the first two on reacquaintance but the third one was a little disappointing, minding me a little of Austen's Persuasion or Mansfield Park or even Jane Eyre, in that the whole book is mostly the main character wading through years of sorrow and struggle, but whereas Jane and Fanny and Anne are all patiently enduring miserable circumstances and heartbreak beyond their control, Miss Emily is mostly a victim of her own pride and her mopery is not much to be pitied.  I've always love Montgomery's ability to paint the splendor of an evening sky or haunted wood with words, which she does a lovely job of in the first two books but in the third it only appears as a mild backdrop against which our mopey miss is contrasted.  The first two books explore what it is to be a sensitive person in a hard world that doesn't understand, a topic very close to my heart, while the third just has Emily moping around waiting for her scorned lover to come crawling back on his knees, perhaps hinting that a career just isn't enough to make a happy life, nor yet are stars or twilit seashores enough to fill an empty, aching soul.  While those would have been a happy moral and a far more endurable tale were they the main plot of the book, rather they are subtle subpoints and hardly explored.

Rather we discover that if you pine long enough, fate will intervene miraculously and the desire of your heart will show up in the last ten pages and magically make everything better without the least bit of humbling on your part, save perhaps an airy paragraph or two expounding your newfound humility.  Mr. Rochester and Mr. Darcy provide a far more interesting and slightly more believable story arc of just that, which is far more edifying and enjoyable than watching Emily mope about while scores of men fling themselves at her feet.  I have far more respect for the bold Rebecca of Ivanhoe who spurns the desires of her heart, staying faithful to her faith even when it might get her burned for a heretic and loses the man who might be called her ideal, leaving him with the rather flat and insipid Rowena, than I can ever now have for poor Emily who suffers from her own surfeit of pride but doesn't seem to learn anything from it until the very last, much like the villainous knight who thought to make Rebecca his own no matter what.  And we don't even get a thrilling jousting match to tie up the plot.  Perhaps one should rewrite the plot entirely as Emily did and so grievously offended Mr. Greaves!  At least Montgomery will not be happening by and throwing heirloom vases at me for my hubris, though no doubt I'll deserve it!

It isn't just me!

 So there's a literary giant I have absolutely no taste for and now I don't feel guilty about it!  Go check out this essay about Flannery O'Connor and her excellent though shocking writing.  I've tried a few of her short stories, and while well written, they are too intense to be ingested too often, much like hot salsa!  Some people can eat spicy peppers with ease while a jar of mild salsa makes me sweat...so too my literary tastes.  Miss O'Connor is probably just the thing to shock modern audiences out of their comfy comas but I'd probably end up in therapy, as they read like my own monstrous childhood, something I don't need to relive to get the point.  Then go give her writing a try, maybe it'll just suit your taste or give you a jolt you didn't know you needed!  I'll be over here trying not to fall asleep over 'Mansfield Park.'