Reading Tolkien, Reading Reality...

It had been a number of weeks since I was able to read Fellowship of the Ring to my boys. When we picked it up again last night, I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to get into the story… But by the second sentence, all three of us were engrossed. We last left Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin in Tom Bombadil’s cottage… which is an unusual and seemingly digressive part in the plot and we were even mid-chapter (which is an awful place to resume a book that has collected some dust)… Nothing, however, deterred our immediate reengagement with the story.

Needless to say, I am amazed by the power of Tolkien’s writing. The story resonates with so much realism and truth. Tolkien writes like someone who has not only lived, but also as one who has thought about life and who understands it. Lord of the Rings is truly a remarkable book, probably one of the best books of all time. On my own, I am reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which is an incredibly enthralling story, but it falls far short of the depth and profundity of Tolkien’s tale of hobbits and wizards.

At the heart of Tolkien’s insightfulness is undoubtedly the fact that he is writing from a Christian perspective. He understands the world the way it actually is. Last year I also read Albert Camus’s existentialist novel L’Etrange: in many ways, Camus is attempting to capture the world authentically, dispensing with romantic ideals and unfounded optimism; however, I was unable to relate to the protagonist. Camus’s story, despite being incredibly captivating, fails to depict the real world; rather, it depicts his philosophical beliefs. Lord of the Rings, it could be said, does the same; the only difference is that Tolkien’s philosophical outlook is more consistent with reality.

In the chapters we read together last night, Frodo humbly aspires to be courageous and to lead his merry band of Shire-folk; he does this out of necessity and he often falls short… So, he still needs help, sometimes help from his friends and always help from the Divine, who although remains unnamed, is present in the story. At one point in the story, while in the Barrow-downs, Frodo musters courage to protect his friends from a Barrow-Wight. He resists the temptation to use the ring to disappear and run away, saving himself; instead, he stays and risks his life to save others. He also has the humility to cry out for Tom’s help; miraculously, Tom answers the call and rescues the hobbits from the Barrow-Wight. Frodo’s courage is growing, but he hasn’t arrived yet; before he has the courage to battle his foes, he must first have the courage to overcome his own fears and temptations. How true for us all! All the events of these two chapters paint a beautiful picture of life in this world, albeit not a perfect picture. Frodo’s actions were like a keyhole of light in a dark room; minuscule yes, but in a dark room, a key hole of light is a very beautiful thing indeed. This is the world I live in. This is reality.

Wise Blood by Flannery O'Connor

This weekend I read Flannery O’Connor’s novella Wise Blood. I hadn’t read O’Connor for a few years, and I felt like I needed a break from Virgil and Schaeffer, my two staples as of late. Picking up O’Connor again, reminded me of the perceptivity of her writing. Her style is accessible and engaging and her characters are palpable albeit grotesque; yet most compelling is her insightful portrayal of reality, which is both comical and accurate.

In Wise Blood, the main character—Hazel Motes—is attempting to deal with the problem of sin and redemption by denying the existence of sin and the soul altogether. In his spiritual quest to deny spiritual needs, he ends up preaching a “new” gospel: the Church without Christ. His effort to find freedom from sin by denying “sin” results in a false conception of the real world, a world which is rank with sin.

In the novella, a small demonstration of this impractical relativism can be seen in O’Connor’s symbolic use of Haze’s automobile. The “rat-colored car” is an unreliable lemon he purchased for $50 at a shady used-car-dealership. Haze refuses to believe the truth about his car: i.e., it is a pile a junk. Below is a comical demonstration of ridiculous relativism. (Excerpt from Wise Blood, by Flannery O’Connor)

Haze had driven his car immediately to the nearest garage where a man with black bangs and a short expressionless face had come out to wait on him. He told the man he wanted the horn made to blow and the leaks taken out of the gas tank, the starter made to work smoother and the windshield wipers tightened. The man lifted the hood and glanced inside and then shut it again. Then he walked around the car, stopping to lean on it here and there, and thumping it in one place and another. Haze asked him how long it would take to put it in the best order.

“It can’t be done,” the man said.

“This is a good car,” Haze said. “I knew it when I first saw it that this car was for me, and since I’ve had it, I’ve had a place to be that I can always get away in.”

“Was you going some place in this?” the man asked.

“To another garage,” Haze said, and he got into his Essex and drove off. At the other garage he went to, there was a man who said he could put the car in the best shape overnight, because it was such a good car to begin with, so well put together and with such good materials in it, and because, he added, he was the best mechanic in town, working in the best-equipped shop. Haze left it with him, certain that it was in honest hands.

After the car is “fixed” it continues to be an unreliable clunker. Like Haze, the car was in need of a radical redemption, a recreation, a rebirth. Haze’s refusal to believe in spiritual redemption translated into his refusal to believe the automobile needed “redemption”, a “salvation”. He kept searching for a “truth” he could believe in, a “truth” that corroborated his fixed mindset. The real truth of the first mechanic’s appraisal remained constant throughout the story, despite the contrary opinion of the rip-off artist at the second garage.

Wise Blood, although at times grim and gritty, is a weighty and philosophical book. All of O’Connor’s stories are chalk full of humorous yet profound anecdotal and symbolic vignettes, which illustrate the powerful role of redemptive grace in the real world. More Christians ought to read her work. Her short stories, in particular, are the best I have ever read. As one Christian writer states, allusions to O’Connor’s writing should be a common currency among Christians. Next time I allude to Haze’s “high rat-colored car”, you will know what I mean.

Teaching 21st Century Novels

I just finished a novel that I was previewing as a possible text to teach next year. It is called, Water for Elephants. It is a New York Times best seller and was highly recommended by a number of avid readers. In the past, I have taught The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini and Old School by Tobias Wolff. I make a point to include 21st century novels on my reading list for Senior English, but alas, I am often disappointed with the trite, anachronistic, and unauthentic content of post-modern literature. Protagonists are spineless at the beginning, and they remain spineless at the end. They resolve the crisis of their "spinelessness" by simply embracing it. They lack moral fortitude when it comes to the “conventional” morality, but they are stalwart defenders of political correctness. Water for Elephants was no different. The captions on the cover say things like, “I couldn’t put it down for one minute.” I must admit, there were times I couldn’t pick it up… even for a minute. The novel is set during the Great Depression. It begins with a slighty contrived crisis in the life of a young man about to graduate from Veterinary program at Cornell. His parents are suddenly killed in a freak car accident and he is left penniless because the bank---unflinchingly---foreclosed on his entire inheritance. So, he runs off with the circus… (I know… THE CIRCUS…?). In truth, that is the most interesting part. The author researched extensively the American travelling circus in the twenties and thirties. The circus is a fresh and interesting setting, full of possibilities for examining the strange and bizarre behaviour of human beings---both those who go to the circus, and also those who run a circus. Unfortunately, the author fails to develop, with any authenticity, a single believable human being in the story.

The protagonist, Jacob, was a man ahead of his time... Way ahead. In fact, it seemed as though he just entered a Vancouver Star Buck’s and was inadvertently sucked into a trans-temporal worm hole, thrusting him into the previous century. I may have bought into the tribute to post-modern relativism and egalitarianism if I could have seen some growth in the character caused by relevant experiences. The novel begins like a Bildungsroman, but the protagonist never really comes-of-age. His character is static---other than loosing his virginity; he doesn’t really learn anything or change. Even when the novel alternatively flips from the 1920s circus to a 21st century nursing home, we see no real growth in the elderly Jacob compared to the youthful Jacob. And, as a result, the reader experiences no growth either; we are simply served up another helping of the bland post-modern, 21st century tofu and rice cakes we get from media like un-real "reality" TV.

Political correctness seems to be the backbone of the novel. The most glaring anachronism is the fact that the protagonist is innately unprejudiced toward people groups who have been historically discriminated against: women, prostitutes, Jews, short people, stout people, labourers/working class, and so on. No classicism and no prejudice. I am not upset with the values he holds; however, as a reader, I am disappointed with the unjustified presence of late 20th century values. His resolution to adhere to political correctness (while still damning the sinister bourgeois) comes without any catalyst. In contrast, Mark Twain’s novel, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, demonstrates the reality of how values are formed; Huck undergoes conflicts between experiences, his conscience and external pressures. Through a series of incidents and personal struggles, Huck eventually overcomes the social and societal prejudices instilled in him and he realises that Jim is truly human being… truly the best of men. In Gruen’s novel, however, the protagonist starts the novel fully acclimatised to modern values. He is an egalitarian who has more in common with the likeminded working class than he has with upper management of the circus. The irony is, of course, he comes from an upper middle class family (his father is a veterinarian) and he attended a veterinary program at Cornell. While rubbing shoulders with the elite at Cornell, in a professional program, with peers who are rich enough to be studying at a prestigious school during a depression… it is unlikely he would be sympathetic to the poor, working class. Yet, lo and behold, when he finally meets poor, working class people, it turns out they are all decent people. Even the “rough” security personnel do their job reluctantly. I also get the impression that Jacob is a feminist (who although tempted to objectify women, resolves—inexplicably in the novel—to treat women with equality and respect); in addition, he is an animal activist, engineer of social welfare and a moral relativist. Very modern indeed. I am surprised Jacob isn’t also a vegetarian who decries the amount of garbage the circus creates. That would be going too far, perhaps. In the ending of the novel, Jacob takes on a very 21st century demeanour when he refuses to grow up (even though he is now 93 years old) and he opts [spoiler] ...to run away with the circus... again.

What I did like about the novel is the vocabulary. Gruen has clearly researched the vernacular of the circus and she uses vivid precision in her diction. At times, though, it seemed she was using a thesaurus too often, when simpler words would do, in an effort to present a high-brow façade to divert the reader’s attention from the contrived storyline: an orphaned veterinarian running off with the circus, falling in love with a show girl who is already married to a mean and nasty man, and ending up adopting a pet elephant, marrying the girl and working at a zoo. I am very surprised the publishers accepted this pitch. A vet, the circus, an elephant and a happy ending… perhaps they were confusing the pitch with a James Harriot novel.

After finishing the novel, I turned back to Homer’s The Iliad to finally draw to a close my reading of this epic poem. It was like going from a lunch of instant microwavable mac ‘n cheese and no-name pizza pops to an evening dinner of steak, baked potatoes, sautéed mushrooms and red wine. Why can’t we write stories like Homer anymore?

The Annotated Hobbit

Even though I have dedicated my reading time to C.S. Lewis over the course of this year, I have indulged in the occasional, “non-Lewis” reading material this summer. One of the books is The Annotated Hobbit. It is a beautifully annotated edition of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. I have looked at this book on numerous occasions while perusing Chapters bookstore, but I have not purchased the book (…it costs $60!). I recently found the book at our local library.

I am a big fan of reading annotation, particularly on a book I have re-read. There is much controversy among hard-line readers as to whether one should read annotations. I feel that they are useful to provide context or background information which I do not possess. Reading annotations provides a rich experience. This is especially true when reading ancient or historic literature. In addition, I always read with a pen, and the margins of my books are littered with my own comments, questions and reactions… my own informal annotations. I would feel like a hypocrite if I complained about annotations while writing my own!

This particular edition of The Hobbit provides rich commentary and cross references on all aspects of the story. It is very interesting and illuminating reading. For example, the annotator (Douglas Anderson) cites a hypothesis that Tolkien invented the name Baggins from the Lancashire English word “bagging”, a term that the Oxford English Dictionary defines as eating food “between regular meals”. In use, the word would be pronounced “baggin”, dropping the terminal “–g”. Tolkien was a philologist, and his interest and knowledge in language is crucial to his development of his Middle Earth mythology. The hypothesis about the origins of Baggins is given further weight by the citation Anderson provides from Walter E. Haigh’s A New Glossary of the Dialect of the Huddersfield (1928), which Tolkien himself “wrote an appreciative forward”. Haigh deifnes baggin as “a meal, now usually ‘tea,’ but formerly any meal; a bagging. Probably so called because workers generally carried their meals to work in a bag of some kind”.
Such is the nature of the annotations provided on Tolkien’s The Hobbit. The book also includes illustrations from various editions over the years, as well as references to the publishing history of the book. In short, it is a delightful book. If you can afford it, then buy it. If it is in your library, then borrow it.

The opening inscription in the book cites Horace: “What we read with pleasure, we read again with pleasure.” Reading The Annotated Hobbit is very pleasurable indeed!

The Christian and Literature

Starting this Sunday night, I will present a four part series on "The Christian and Literature" to my local church. The first session will deal with poetry.

At the heart of this series is my hope to adequately answer the question, "Why should Christians read literature?" In short, literature fosters "imagination"---true imagination, God honouring imagination. Pastor and author John Piper writes, "imagination is not merely a device for writers, it is a duty for all Christians. We must exercise it or be disobedient."

Over the course of the four sessions, I hope to show the truth of this statement. I also hope to post some of what I will be saying in these sessions on my blog. Stay tuned!

Tolkien galumphs through the tulgey wood of Beowulf criticism

In J.R.R. Tolkien’s essay on Beowulf (cited in a previous post), he lists dozens of far-reaching, varied and contradicting opinions on the Old English poem. In the midst of this forest of opinions, Tolkien writes that “a view, a decision, a conviction are imperatively needed.” Tolkien then alludes to Lewis Carroll’s nonsense poem in his effort to sort out the “nonsense” (but not necessarily bad) opinions on Beowulf:

“For it is of their nature that the jabberwocks of historical and antiquarian research burble in the tulgey wood of conjecture, flitting from one tum-tum tree to another. Noble animals, whose burbling is on occasion good to hear; but though their eyes of flame may sometimes prove searchlights, their range is short.”

I am just glad I am not the only one who borrows freely from the tulgey wood of nonsense poetry. For the original poem “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll, see the sidebar link “Why a blog called galumphing?”

The New Beowulf: Death of a Hero?

“The time of heroes is dead, Wiglaf; the Christ-god has killed it, leaving humankind with nothing but weeping martyrs, fear and shame.”
Beowulf, 2007 (director Zemeckis)

The Old English poem, Beowulf, is one of my favourite works of English literature. Last year, in my enthusiasm and excitement for this poem, I rushed out and purchased the DVD of the newly released modern film version entitled, Beowulf and Grendel. To my disappointment, the noble culture and heroic landscape of the poem was translated into a misguided but strong culture that was being eradicated by Christian usurpers. The result of the "Christian impact" (as portrayed in the film) was a replacement of the original, pure culture by disillusionment, cynicism and weakness. The only wise and stable character in the film is a sorcery-practicing witch (where does she fit into the original poem?). Beowulf is portrayed as an arrogant charlatan, who learns (too late) that the true hero of the story is Grendel (a misunderstood cromagnum man) who is trying to avenge the prejudicial and unfounded murder of his father. Huh?

This year, I was more cautious when the Robert Zemeckis’s animated film Beowulf was released on DVD in February. I resolved not to make any rash purchases. Curiosity overwhelmed me, however, and despite the mysterious presence of Angelina Jolie in the film, I rented it.

To my delight, what I found was a dazzling animation, a visually satisfying recreation of the world of Beowulf. To my disappointment, I found another anti-Christian rendering of the poem. Focus on the Family’s movie review site Plugged In, gives a candid review of the positives and negatives of this film version from a Christian perspective. Unfortunately, there are more negatives than positives.

The real poem---the poem I admire---is the earliest major literary work in the English language. Written by an anonymous Christian poet in the 8th century, the work describes a Scandinavian-based myth/legend; the primary subject is the humble Geat hero, Beowulf, and his battling of two monsters and a dragon. Despite the pagan context, the poet infuses a Christian worldview into the story, what Douglas Wilson describes as redeemed “northernness” (Wilson 4). Literary scholar, J.R.R. Tolkien, also underscores the Christian foundation of the poem. His essay, entitled “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics,” was described by recent Beowulf translator Seamus Heaney as “epoch-making” and “brilliant literary treatment” of the poem (Heaney xi). In this essay, Tolkien rejects the theory that “[Beowulf] is a string of pagan lays edited by monks” or that “it is the work of a learned but inaccurate Christian antiquarian” (8). He also rejects the notion that the poem was written by “muddle-headed” and “beer-bemused Anglo-Saxons” (8). Tolkien argues that Beowulf “moves in a northern heroic age imagined by a Christian, and therefore has a noble and gentle quality” (45). Tolkien cites another writer who explains that Beowulf's heroic quality is more distinctly “a Christian knight” heroism than a Greco-Roman mythological heroism (20). Tolkien also compares Beowulf’s continual battle with monsters and foes to Christians battling the “enemies of the one God, ece Dryhten” (eternal Lord); like Beowulf, Christians were (and are) “hemmed in a hostile world” (22).

According to an interview on the DVD bonus content, the co-screenwriters Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary believe that they are undoing the edits made by supposed monks, monks who wrecked the poem by Christianizing it. In the film, Beowulf laments, “The time of heroes is dead, Wiglaf; the Christ-god has killed it, leaving humankind with nothing but weeping martyrs, fear and shame.”

On the contrary, Christ is the ultimate hero, the only true authentic hero in history. Literary heroes face incredible adversaries; Odysseus faces the Cyclops, Beowulf faces Grendel, St. George faces the dragon. The Christ-hero faces man’s greatest adversary---death---and he defeats it. Then Christ promises to battle our enemies in and through us. The screenwriters seemed to miss this central theme: before Christ, the world of Beowulf was an endless cycle of death and defeat. Christ brings true victory and ultimately, true heroism.

The screenwriters’ and director’s efforts to restore Beowulf to its original form by “undoing” the edits by monks is ironic. The only editing that actually occurred in this film adaptation is the edits made to remove the fundamental Christian elements. Another ironic aspect is the confessions of the screenwriters and the director that they hated Beowulf when they had to read it is high school. Who hired these guys? Question number one should have been, do you like the story? Question number two should have been, have you actually read the story?

Avoid the film and read the poem yourself. Students of the poem should be especially wary. As Paul Asay from Plugged In writes, “The film has very little to do with the book… So anyone who uses this film as a sort of CliffsNotes is bound to get all the questions wrong on the semester test.” I recently read Irish poet Seamus Heaney’s New York Times bestseller translation of Beowulf this fall and I highly recommend it.

• Heaney, Seamus. “Introduction” pp. ix-xxx. Beowulf. Trans. S. Heaney. New York: Norton, 2001.
  


• Tolkien, J.R.R. “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics”. pp. 5-48.The Monsters and the Critics and other Essays. Ed. C. Tolkien. London: Harper, 2006.
  


• Wilson, Douglas. “North of the World” pp.4-5. Credenda Agenda. Vol. 9 No. 4 Idaho: Community Evangelical Fellowship, 1997.

Family and The Odyssey

Yesterday, I was chatting with a friend about the importance of family. From the outset of creation, God established the family. He made Adam and Eve to be the first marriage and He commanded them to procreate (i.e., make a bigger family). God's relationship with us is described in family terms--we are His sons and daughters; Christ is our brother.

When I was reflecting on the biblical view on family, I couldn't help but think how counter-culture this view has become in the West. North Americans and Western Europeans are not having babies, they are marrying much later in life, more are not marrying at all. In a recent study by the Canadian Department of Human Resources and Social Development, Canadians are spending less time with their families and more time on their own. Eating as a family is becoming a novelty reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Children are being raised by daycare workers and public schools. Spouses pursue divergent careers, hobbies and holidays. The term Family seems to hold only legal and biological significance.

Some would say, who cares? Leave It to Beaver went off the air long ago. Is family important? Ironically, the two founding worldviews of the Western world---classical and Christian---celebrate family as the building blocks of civilization. I have already mentioned briefly the fundamental import of family from Genesis. Similar value is reflected in the "bible" of Classical Greece, The Odyssey.

The term "odyssey" has come to mean, in a colloquial sense, a quest or journey in which one engages on life altering adventures. However, the Odyssey is really a story about a hero's return home--his "nostos". The hero, Odysseus, shuns pleasures of goddesses and wealth, in order to return to his family. He must be a father to his son and a husband to his wife. His journey does not end until Odysseus has returned to his marriage bed. In the epic, Odysseus's return home to his island kingdom of Ithaca restores order and civilization. Odysseus is an absentee father who realizes the importance of family to a meaningful life and a civilized society. If this sounds too much like a Hallmark card synopsis, you need to read the epic poem yourself. Odysseus's return is not a "touchy feely dead-beat-dad redemption story"--it is a profoundly human proclamation of the monumental significance of family to human existence. This concept of "family" became the quintessential social underpinning for the Greek world.

Western civilization needs to return home; we need our odyssey, our nostos.

A comment about Fantasy and English Classrooms

I am a big fan of the Fantasy genre, although I have only explored the works of George MacDonald, J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. I know the genre has exploded in the past fifty years. One reason for the popularity of Fantasy is the lack of ambiguity and haziness so often associated with modern and post-modern literature. In a world of wizards, dragons, hobbits and knights, there are clear lines of virtue, character and morality that our current cultural context yearns for. The success of the Lord of the Rings and the The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe films is an indication of our interest in clearly delineated roles for good guys and bad guys. A friend of mine who works at Chapters tells me that Lewis's Narnia books are still best sellers, even before the recent film. Our culture has become too cynical, and fantasy can act as an antidote for this disparaging attitude. The explosive success of the Harry Potter series underscores this interest among adolescents. Certainly fantasy should find a place in our English classrooms. In some respects, fantasy novels can be more real and authentic than a cynical, post-modern novel. Such texts could create very interesting discussion in an English classroom.

Flannery on English Education

I continue to dabble in the writings of Flannery O'Connor this summer, and last night during my son's soccer game (he wasn't on the field at the time) I read a fabulous essay on a subject near and dear to my heart. Here is a gem of a quote from Flannery O'Connor:

"Ours is the first age in history which has asked the child what he would tolerate learning, but that is a part of the problem I am not equipped to deal. The devil of Educationism that possesses us is the kind that can be cast out only by prayer and fasting. No one has yet come along strong enough to do it. In other ages the attention of children was held by Homer and Virgil, among others, but by the reverse evolutionary process, that is no longer possible; our children are too stupid now to enter the past imaginatively. No one asks the student if algebra pleases him or if he finds it satisfactory that some French verbs are irregular, but if he prefers Hersey to Hawthorne, his taste must prevail.

I would like to put forward a proposition, repugnant to most English teachers, that fiction, if it is going to be taught in the high schools, should be taught as a subject and as a subject with a history. The total effect of a novel depends not only on its innate impact, but upon the experience, literary and otherwise, with which it is approached. No child needs to be assigned Hersey or Steinbeck until he is familiar with a certain amount of the best work of Cooper, Hawthorne, Melville, the early James and Crane, and he does not need to be assigned these until he has been introduced to some of the better English novelists of the 18th and 19th centuries.

The fact that these works do not present him with the realities of his own time is all to the good. He is surrounded by the realities of his own time and he has no perspective whatever to view them..."

O'Connor, Flannery. Flannery O'Connor: Collected Works. "Fiction is a Subject with a History" Library of America: NY, 1988.

On Flannery O'Connor

Yesterday while taking my son to swimming lessons, I managed to read a short story by Flannery O’Connor. She has been a topic of discussion recently with an issue of Credenda Agenda devoted to her and a brief mentioning on Dr. Haykin’s blog.

Flannery O’Connor was a Catholic writer who lived in the Protestant American South. Although I have significant theological qualms with Catholicism, I am very fond of the writing of three other Catholics: G.K. Chesterton, Graham Greene and J.R.R. Tolkien. Given my affinity for these Catholic writers, and after reading Doug Jones’ take on O’Connor in C/A, I decided to check out a collection of her writing from the local library.

To my delight, the story I read yesterday was remarkable. I have never been a fan of short stories; as an English teacher I have bumped short stories out of the courses I teach. But O’Connor seems to have perfected the art.

The difficulty I have with short stories is that they are “short”. Authors are limited in their ability to develop convincing and authentic characters or developing a sufficiently deep, rich and layered plot. Life is complex; short stories, because of their restrictive length are too simplistic—in terms of form.

In her story, “A View of the Woods,” O’Connor masterfully uses her economy of words to narrow her focus on one character. Good writers say more with less, and she has done this. The story is only twenty pages long, yet O’Connor draws in her reader into a deep and complex arena by using a number of ingenious techniques. The most profound is her use of narration. The story is told 3rd person limited omniscience—in other words, the story is told from a 3rd person perspective but the readers are only given access to one character’s personal thoughts (as opposed to 3rd person omniscient, where the reader has access to all the major character’s thoughts as well as actions). The result is effective. O’Connor “taints” the “objective” narrator’s perspective with that of one of the characters. This gives us a much deeper picture of the main character and enhances realism. In life we only have access to our own thoughts when we are trying to make sense of the world around us. O’Connor could have used first person to accomplish this, but instead she uses the façade of objectivity. This is highly appropriate because the lead character believes that he is omniscient and that only he sees the world objectivity and accurately, untainted by pedantic and small-minded perspectives of his family. The irony is, of course, that he is “limited” and he is “tainted”. Also, by using third person, O’Connor is able to expose this irony “inadvertently”—in other words, although the narrator is tainted by a limited perspective, it still must record events and dialogue as they occur. A first person narration has the liberty to “revise” the events recorded, forcing the reader to read between the lines.

She also uses vernacular very well; she not only conveys an authentic sounding Georgian accent, she also conveys “personality” through the speaking style of her characters. Her physical descriptions are brief but meaningful. She does more than paint a picture of her characters in the readers mind; she uses physical description to tell the reader something about her characters. The names are also important in this story. The protagonist is named Mr. Fortune and his ne’er-do-well son-in-law is named Mr. Pitts. She playfully yet unobtrusively uses these names to deepen the sense of irony in this story.

Most profound is her use of humor. The story was not a “comedy” at all, yet I did laugh out loud on a few occasions. Referring back to my comments about the limitations of short stories, O’Connor adds depth and authentic complexity by incorporating a range of human emotions in her story. Humor is a part of life in almost all circumstances. She uses it authentically and effectively.

Because of her Catholicism, O’Connor also “says” something from a grounded perspective. Unlike many of her contemporaries that write as though they are jelly fish awash in a sea of relativism, O’Connor is judging her character. He is a fool. He does the wrong thing. This “judgmental” perspective is not overt in the story; it is assumed. O’Connor assumes a Christian worldview, where there is such a thing as up and down. This is the heart of her authenticity. The world actually functions according to the Christian worldview. O’Connor is not attempting to preach a moralizing sermon. She is simply observing the world with the clarity of Christian understanding. Tolkien writes LOTR with this sort of depth. He too assumes a Christian worldview; as a result, Midde-earth is an authentic place in the reader’s mind. The reader can relate to the world of Tolkien and of O’Connor because it is a reflection of the world as it is.

Although my reading agenda is jammed packed this summer, I hope to squeeze in a few more O’Connor stories. I also think that more can be said about Catholic writers. Good writers, whether Catholic or not, observe the world with clarity and reflect it in their work accurately. The further removed a writer is from the Christian worldview, the harder it is for the writer to see clearly and retell accurately. When time presents itself, I would like to explore a Protestant Christian perspective on Catholic writers and their work.

Why the best Allegory is Christian Allegory: III

Why Narnia is not Allegory

The first reason the Narnia stories are not allegory is because Lewis says they’re not allegory. Being a scholar of Medieval and Renaissance literature, he did not, ironically, like allegory all that much. His intention in writing the Narnia stories was to tell the Christian story without “stained-glassed windows.” Allegory would work to accomplish this but he wanted the freedom to tell Bunyan’s story while creating a new and different story. For example, the White Witch is a Satanic-like figure, but she is not "representing" Satan in an allegorical way (see comments on "How allegory works" on blog post below). The Witch is an evil sorceress who is inadvertantly brought into our world and then into Narnia by young Digory in the The Magician's Nephew.

The difference between allegory and Aslan is that Aslan actually is the Lion of Judah as he manifests himself in a different universe. He does not represent Christ, he is Christ in a fictional context. The parallel universe of Narnia that Lewis created is fictional, of course, but in the fictional reality of the novels, Narnia is as real as Lucy Pevencie’s England, and Aslan is as real as Christ. Narnia does not symbolize our world; it is an entirely different world all together. That being said, Lewis wasn’t attempting to create an alternative religion of Aslan-worship. His purpose was to lead his readers to the real Jesus Christ. In the 1950s, a concerned mother wrote to C.S. Lewis stating that her son “loved Aslan more than Jesus.” In a lengthy and delightful reply, Lewis writes, “But Laurence can’t really love Aslan more than Jesus, even if he feels that’s what he is doing. For the things he loves Aslan for doing or saying are simply the things Jesus really did and said. So that when Laurence thinks he is loving Aslan, he is really loving Jesus: and perhaps loving Him more than he ever did before.”

Next blog: Why Christian Allegory is the best kind of Allegory

Why the best Allegory is Christian Allegory: II

How does Allegory Work?

In Pilgrim’s Progress (1678) the protagonist named “Christian” flees the “City of Destruction” and travels through the various literal places in the narrative that also carries symbolic meaning. He trudges through a slough called the Slough of Despond. While in the slough, Christian experiences despondency. Later, he travels to a city called Vanity Fair and encounters garish and vain citizens; he visits a Doubting Castle, and (you guessed it), he doubts. The culmination of his journey occurs when he finally arrives at the Celestial City. The entire narrative is a representation of the human soul's pilgrimage through temptation and doubt to reach salvation in heaven.

In an allegory, the various elements of the story systematically parallel other events on a spiritual, historic or literary level. This differs from allusions or symbolism. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, for example, makes many allusions to mythological archetypes evident in the Christian story. Gandalf, Aragorn and Frodo are all Christ-figures, but the LOTR is not an allegory. The allusions and symbolism are not systematic, nor are they intended to reflect a hidden Christian message. Providence is not only symbolically but literally present in the story.

Harry Potter is also a Christ-figure, as is Neo from the Matrix and Superman in the current film Superman Returns. Although these works carry symbolic weight, they are not allegories. Harry Potter does not represent Christ on a spiritual level; he is merely an archetype of Christ. Even the many Christ-allusions in Superman Returns do not make it a Christian Allegory. Here’s a few interesting allusions… Superman was “sent to earth by his father” to be a “light to humanity” and act as a “saviour”—Superman is beaten and humiliated by Lex and his gang is a bloodless homage to Gibson’s Passion of Christ. Superman “dies” saving the world from the new kryptonite continent… as he hurls the rock into outer space, Superman descends to earth is a brief crucifixion pose. After his death, he is resurrected. All this does not make Superman an allegory. Ironically, C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia is also NOT an allegory. More on that next time.

Next blog: Why Narnia is not Allegory

Why the best Allegory is Christian Allegory: I

What is Allegory?

I would like to begin a series about allegory. The discussion recently came on church historian Dr, Michael Haykin’s blog, Historia Ecclesiastica, where he confessed to having not read Pilgrim’s Progress because of a dislike for allegory. I have always been partial to allegory, so I thought it would be fitting to write a bit about it in a seven part series entitled, "Why the best Allegory is Christian Allegory."

Allegory comes from the Greek word “allegoria” which translates as “speaking otherwise.” This concenpt is at the heart of what an allegory is. Essentially, an allegory is a piece of writing (poetry or prose) in which characters, events, and ideas in the piece represent something else on a symbolic level. The symbolism is systematic, functioning like an extended metaphor. In addition, an allegory usually conveys a moral lesson to its readers.

Among the most famous Christian allegories are such works as John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress and Spencer’s Faerie Queene. During the English Medieval and early Renaissance, allegory was a very popular moral and religious didactic form of literature. But allegory is not an exclusively Christian form of literature. The Greeks also occasionally wrote allegory. George Orwell’s Animal Farm is another famous allegory, as well as Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. The latter two works expressing decidedly political perspectives.

Next blog: "How does Allegory Work?"

An Odyssey in Reading

I have been reading Homer’s The Odyssey this summer. I will be teaching it in the fall. Usually I avoid work related reading during the ephemeral and fleeting summer months. However, I have been meaning to read this classic of Western literature for a number of years. I think my hesitancy to engage Homer was a result of my fear of the text. In the hidden depths of my being, I think I subconsciously perceived that The Odyssey and The Iliad were scholarly and enigmatic masterpieces that exceeded my ordinary and average cerebrum.

My subconscious, however, was wrong. The epic poem is a delight to read. It is very accessible and at times (surprisingly) very simplistic. I discovered that Homer was writing long before the absurd and truly enigmatic prose of the 20th century post-moderns. In stead of harping on complex and psychologically deformed anti-heroes of modern prose, Homer addresses themes and issues that ring true to the very centre of our humanity. As a Christian reader, I am given insight into a truly human hero, Odysseus, and I can compare and contrast this view with the truly divine Christ-hero.

Homer is not high brow. He is for the Everyman. Take up and read, Everyman.

(Robert Fagles’s recent poetic translation comes highly recommended. See also Peter Leithart’s Heroes of the City of Man for Christian commentary of Homer and other classic works)

Real Men Read Austen

A few months ago, I published this blog posting on the College & Career blog for my church, Pilgrim Baptist Fellowship. I felt it was worth publishing again on my personal blog.

When I was in University, I took a course on the "novel"--we looked at literature from Cervantes, Flaubert, Dostoevsky to Conrad and Angela Carter. Out of all the novels, my professor, who was a man, stated that his favourite author was Jane Austen. Another teacher of mine, Dr. Michael Haykin, Church Historian and Principal at Toronto Baptist Seminary is also a Jane Austen fan. What is it with men and Austen? Isn't Pride and Prejudice a romance novel? Yes, there is romance, but it is a real, tangible and profound sort of romance.

Peter Leithart, who wrote a number of excellent literary companions (Brightest Heaven of Invention about Shalespeare, Ascent to Love about Dante and Heroes of the City of Man about Greek and Roman epics) also worte a book about Austen, entitled, Miniatures and Morals: The Christian Novels of Jane Austen. In this excellent book, which I gave my wife (an Austen fan) on Dr. Haykin's suggestion, Leithart writes this about real men and reading Austen:

I insist that “real men read Austen” and can read her with interest and profit. Austen, after all, created some very striking male characters. Some of her heroes are more than a little effeminate; Edward Ferrars in Sense and Sensibility is painfully silent in much of the book, though that is in part due to a depression caused by his secret engagement to the manipulative Lucy Steele, which is plenty to take the pluck out of a man… Austen’s other heroes, however, are strong and forceful personalities, and definitely not effeminate. All her great heroes—Darcy, Wentworth, Edmund Bertram, Knightley—are men who hold positions of authority and use those positions for good. Each of them is a Christlike lover who sacrifices, often at some cost to his reputation, to win his bride. They are servant heroes, not macho-heroes. For Austen, machismo is just Spanish for “bluster” and is the mark of villainy.Even without considering her strong male characters, Austen’s novels are highly instructive for men. The mere fact that her novels give men an opportunity to see romance through the eyes of an uncommonly perceptive woman should be enough to recommend them. Even if men do not want to see courtship through a woman’s eyes, who can say we do not need to? She has a strong sense of a man’s role in courtship and his responsibility for the course that courtship takes. More then one male character in her novels proves himself a scoundrel by playing with the affections of a woman. Austen’s first rule of courtship is one I have frequently repeated to my sons: Men are responsible not only for behaving honourably toward women but also for the woman’s response; if a man does not intend to enter a serious relationship, he has no business giving a woman special attention or encouraging her to attach herself to him. Austen sees clearly that men who play with women’s affections are fundamentally egotistical. They want the admiration and attention of women without promising anything or making a commitment...…Nothing happens in Austen… Yet precisely because of this limitation, because so little seems to happen, every nuance and contour of what does happen takes on considerable importance. We begin to realise that men can be cads without kidnapping women and confining them in dark towers, and women can be vicious without poisoning their rivals.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's B-day Today!

Ever since I was a boy, I desperately wanted a magnifying glass, a double brimmed deer-stalker hat and a curved tobacco pipe like the iconic image of Sherlock Holmes. I still enjoy the stories of Holmes. I find Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories to be extraordinarily entertaining.

The Holmes stories are one of the most popular and enduring serial stories ever published. Doyle wrote the stories for a periodical magazine called The Strand. The success of the series was partly due to the form in which the stories appeared. The Holmes stories are written “first person narrative” from Dr. Watson’s perspective. Watson is not only a character and participant in the adventures of Holmes, but also the reader’s personal guide. Since Watson is an old friend of Holmes, we the reader are able to see Holmes through his accustomed eyes. Holmes instantly becomes a man who we are familiar with. Combined with this familiarity, however, is an enduring sense of mystique. For although Watson is an old friend—who lived as a bachelor with Holmes for quite some time—Watson still doesn’t really “know” Holmes. As Holmes’ behaviour and genius surprises Watson, so he surprises the reader. As narrator, Watson is also able to ask the questions we, the readers, would like to ask Holmes. “How did you figure it out, Holmes?” Watson asks. Holmes then gives Watson—and us—the answer.

Since Watson is both an observer as well as a participant, his narrative is given additional credibility. The adventures are more realistic, since they are told by a first-hand witness. Because Watson is a Doctor, his approach to recording the adventures of Sherlock Holmes is accurate and methodical. I am reminded of Dr. Luke and his account of the adventures of the Apostles Peter and Paul. Like Luke, Watson pays close attention to detail and records these details as plainly as he witnesses them.

Watson also acts as a “foil” for Holmes. Watson is in many ways the exact opposite of Holmes; as much as Holmes is extraordinary, Watson is ordinary. The reader can relate to Watson: he is married, he keeps ordinary hours, he enjoys a good meal, he is concerned with people. Watson’s humanity is set against Holmes’ purely logical mind. Holmes is never interested in a case because of the people involved unless there is some curios aspect about them; he is motivated by the case itself, the mystery. He is a scientist of the truest sense. Watson, who is a medical doctor, is less interested in the science of medicine as with helping people with the science of medicine. So Watson provides not only contrast, but also balance to the Holmes’ adventures.

Holmes is not inhuman though. We see glimpses of his humanity when he plays his violin or when he is on a heroine binge. We can relate to his need for a “thrill”—whether it be solving a strange mystery or from a narcotic. In some ways, we the readers are addicted to Holmes himself. He is an intoxicating character.

The Watson-Holmes appeal rests also on the simple fact that we love to read about this wonderful friendship. Some of the greatest stories in English literature celebrate friendship. There’s Sam and Frodo, Crusoe and Friday, George and Lennie, Ralph and Piggy, Harry and Falstaff.

Holmes never actually said, “Elementary, my dear Watson”—but, Doyle could have very well said it himself. He created one of the most enduring yet elementary and formulaic story-characters of all time.

Lord of the Flies and the Lord of Creation

Lord of the Flies and the Lord of Creation

Tomorrow is Yom Hashoah, which is Holocaust Remembrance Day. This is an important day to remember what godless human beings are capable of, what we are capable of, without the divine intervention of God. I am also reminded of William Golding’s novel, The Lord of the Flies. When he wrote his novel, Golding was wrestling with the disturbing realities of the Holocaust that was still coming to light in the late forties and early fifties. How could such a civilized, refined and advanced culture (Germans) be so ruthless, barbaric and evil? How could the 20th Century, the great century of promise, end up being one of the bloodiest centuries in human history?

Golding’s premise is that evil is inherent in all humanity. Golding argued that if human beings find themselves immersed in a deluge of fear and chaos, then the evil within them will surface. This is the scenario he creates on his deserted island filled with stranded British schoolboys.

Ever since William Golding published The Lord of the Flies, in 1953, his novel has been a staple text in English-speaking classrooms around the globe. Students and teachers have wrestled with Golding’s ideas about evil. The story about civilized, well-bred school children becoming ruthless savages and murderers is just as disturbing today as when it was published—perhaps more so given the recent onslaught of school-age killings all over the globe.

If you are familiar with the novel, then you will know that the boys establish a democracy to govern themselves. But it doesn’t take long before the democracy deteriorates and a self-serving, fascist-like dictatorship emerges. Fear of a “beastie” on the island combined with general disorder leads to the rise of evil. Three children die in the story: one is killed as a result of negligence. A second is murdered while the children are chaotically dancing and in a state of terror. A third is murdered deliberately and calculatingly.

As the microcosmic civilisation declines on the island, so does the macrocosm of the global civilization. Golding sets his book in a fictional Nuclear Holocaust, where fear and chaos on a global scale has resulted in a globally destructive nuclear war. As the nuclear war lays waste to the planet, the island is likewise destroyed by a fire the boys start in order to smoke out and murder a boy named Ralph. The boy, Ralph, who at the outset of the novel was the democratically elected leader, becomes the hunted at the end of the novel.

All is lost, so it seems, until a British Naval officer appears and rescues Ralph and the boys. The officer’s presence intervenes and, with his Battle Cruiser and weapons, restores order and a sense of safety. The irony is that the boys are rescued from a wasted and destroyed paradisiacal island, only to be delivered to a wasted and destroyed planet. Golding leaves his readers with a resonating question: who will intervene for humanity? Who will save us from our own evil?

Golding has no answer to give. Looking to Freud, Golding tries to explain the “good” in humanity as the result of the “superego”—a sense of shame and guilt imposed on us by our parents and authority figures. The superego suppresses our animalistic and evil desires, which he dubs the “id.”

If Golding only understood that man is created in the image of God and we bear His communicable attributes of goodness and kindness and mercy and compassion... If only Golding understood that the Lord of all Creation is sovereign over the affairs of men, restraining us from the total depravity, of which we are capable... If only Golding understood that there is indeed a Saviour who not only forgives us of our evil deeds, but also empowers us to live righteously. Golding asks, “Who will save us?” The answer is Jesus.

Classics & the "Weak" Student

Classics & the "Weak" Student

Should we be teaching Shakespeare and other “classics” to Academically weak students? Literature that is well chosen should communicate the fundamentally human experience that exceeds a particular time period and goes beyond a specific culture—including the academic culture. If this is true of Shakespeare, then we must teach Shakespeare to high achievers as well as academically weak students. The approach may differ, but the content is the same—the human experience.

What makes a “classic” a “classic”? The answer, I believe, is three-fold. A classic is a work that was written in a particular time and place by a particular person but has risen beyond its cultural context to apply to humans in any time and place. A classic also needs to have influence on subsequent literature and cultures. Lastly, a classic is a work that reflects the beauty and excellence of human creative ability; in other words, it is well written. I think students need to be exposed to works other than “classics”, but I believe that the cornerstone of an English program needs to be classic literature.

Too many students are disinterested in literature because much of what they have encountered has been blasé or mediocre. As a teacher of Creative Writing, I believe it is essential that students distinguish “good” literature so they are able to write their own. Great Canadian writers Timothy Findley, Margaret Laurence, Robertson Davies, Carol Shields et al were all prolific readers and they all had countless “classics” under their belt. Without an excellent goal to aim for (or surpass) how can we expect our students to excel beyond mediocrity?

Why teach kids about literature?

Why teach kids about Literature?

The central purpose of English teaching goes beyond mere literacy skills. It is the role of education as a whole to facilitate the growth of student literacy. What makes English unique is that it is a subject where the student can grow as a human being. Literature is the gateway to the human experience, by which students are able to explore who they are in context with people who have lived and are living on this planet called Earth.

Teenagers are typically heliocentric. For our students to travel further along the road to maturity means they must become “other-orientated”. Through literature, students are able to live—sometimes intimately—the lives of another person or persons, whether it is the lives of the characters or the authors themselves. Students experience passions, hatreds, evils, acts of courage and heroism; they encounter worldviews and philosophies broader and deeper than their own, all of which allow them to transcend the suburban jungle of X-boxes and MSN. Literature helps to put the students in chronological context as well. Literature connects students to the past, the history, philosophy, worldviews, etc., that laid the ground work for the world we currently live in.

By gaining a better understanding of the human experience, students will become better communicators. Ultimately, people talk to people. The best writers or speakers are those who can empathize with their readers/listeners. I would argue that communication is a fundamental aspect to the human experience. As an English teacher in a secular school setting, I have the privilege of encouraging my students to become better communicators by teaching them—through literature—what it means to be human. Everything else I do—grammar, essay writing, critical thinking, vocabulary, literary devices, etc.—are secondary to this the central purpose of English.

The implementing of this central purpose requires a “good” selection of literature, which is not as nebulous to discern as the average post-modern critic would suggest. In my classroom, we spend considerable time discussing and working through texts, paying close attention to characters’ thoughts, actions and motivations and their mistakes, acts of courage, judgements etc.. We also look at authors of texts as well as characters in the texts themselves. For me, the historical and cultural context of a work is almost as important as the work itself. In other words, I am not a New Criticism subscriber. I believe my students need the historical context to benefit most from the text. I want my students to come to the text listening for a “voice” from the text. I want my students, before they come to the text, to leave behind what they “know” and seek instead to learn something they don’t know. Once they have heard the story of other human beings, heard the voice of characters, writers, philosophers, then they can compare their own worldviews. I ask my students to listen first, talk second, to take in before they opine. I believe this will make them mature humans, good citizens and effective communicators.

Jesus said, "YOU SHALL LOVE THE LORD YOUR GOD WITH ALL YOUR HEART, AND WITH ALL YOUR SOUL, AND WITH ALL YOUR STRENGTH, AND WITH ALL YOUR MIND; AND YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF." (Luke 10:27). In good literature, as in all good art, we see the evidence of God’s communicable attribute: creativity. We also see the beauty of God. By reading, understanding and enjoying good literature, we can come closer to “loving the Lord” with “all your mind”. As for “loving your neighbour”… If reading literature is like walking in another man’s shoes, then literature can help us how to love another human.