Farmer Maggot's Farm: If not locus amoenus, then what?

Since I am actively looking for places where the Hobbits and the ring company experience rest and rejuvenation along their journey, I feel compelled to pause and consider Farmer Maggot's farm.  Farmer Maggot's farm is a place of rest, yes.  They eat and drink as they rest.  But is it a locus amoenus?  And if not, then what?

The meal is a homely one--a homey one, we might say--farmhouse fare.  It consists of mushrooms and other appropriate foods, and it is eaten within man-made--or hobbit-made--walls rather than in nature.  In particular, there is no running water.  There is also no priest.  Farmer Maggot is a shrewd fellow, but he does not, in fact, preside over the meal.  His wife is more instrumental than he in laying the table, and his part in the tableau is to analyze recent events rather than to serve.  That the main part of the meal is made of mushrooms suggests an earthiness, or perhaps we might say an earthliness.  This is good, nourishing food, but it is food of the earth rather than heavenly food.  So perhaps sometimes a meal is just a meal? And yet, I'm not sure.

The meeting with Farmer Maggot follows close on the heels of the meeting with the elves at Woodhall.  In fact, it is the very next chapter.  Like the supper with the elves, this supper is communal:  the hobbits share a meal with others, bringing the total to 14--the same number (if memory serves) as the voyage to the Lonely Mountain in the Hobbit, without Gandalf.  Interestingly, it is also one more than the total of Jesus and his 12 disciples at the Last Supper (which some would say is the origin of 13 as an unlucky number).

Farmer Maggot, though not a priestly figure, offers sanctuary.  He shields Frodo from the Black Riders and transports him to the Ferry.  But in spite of not being a "priest" figure (there seem to be no priests among hobbits, even though Gildor calls Frodo a prince among hobbits), he has been in the Old Forest, and has even had some dealings with Tom Bombadil, who reveals his respect for Farmer Maggot later.  And while the food is earthly rather than spiritual, he and his wife provide food for Frodo, Sam, and Pippin for their journey, and they later share it with Merry and Fredegar Bolger.

The positioning of this "ordinary" scene of communal eating so close to the extraordinary scene of communal eating and celebration begs for the reader to consider the possible connections.  The spiritual food of the elves is different in kind than the homely, earthy food of the farmer, and yet both nourish the body.  The eating of the communal meal at Farmer Maggots does relieve their fears, but the communal nature seems to be responsible for that relief rather than the food itself.  While it is a man-made shadow of something that, with the elves, touches the divine, a communal meal nevertheless anticipates and participates, in a small way, in that taste of heaven.  Here, we glimpse how ordinary moments become elevated to the sacramental in Tolkien, and as we live in this world, such a moment can be equally significant.

On the Edge of Ruin...: Rereading and what is "Notable."

I cried last night while reading The Two Towers.

Unlike Mrs. Gibson, the teacher who cried while reading Charlotte's Web to our 5th grade class, the I rarely cry for any fictional character--in fact, the death of Théoden may be the only time time it has happened, and it is certainly the only time it has happened repeatedly, even predictably.  But I was not reading of Théoden's death.  Rather, I cried as Théoden rode to meet with Saruman, his parting after his first meeting with Merry and Pippin:

"Farewell, my hobbits! May we meet again in my house! There you shall sit beside me and tell me all that your hearts desire: the deeds of your grandsires, as far as you can reckon them; and we will speak also of Tobold the Old and his herb-lore. Farewell!" (545)

It is a truly notable moment, and one that could easily be missed in a first reading of Lord of the Rings.  What we have in this scene is a reunion between the members of the Fellowship who still remain West of the Anduin.  Merry and Pippin are introduced to Théoden and learn that the Rohirrim, having come from the North, preserve a memory of hobbits in oral, folk memory, whereas the scholars of Middle Earth (the Elronds, Sarumons, and Denethors), and even the Ents, who also carry oral wisdom, have none.  Théoden in particular seems to remember tales of hobbits--holbytlan, in the language of the Mark--particularly fondly, and in his goodbye ("Farewell, my hobbits!") I hear a good deal of wonder, and ownership not only of their acquaintance, but of the discovery that they do exist.  More than in battle, this exchange seems to make the years fall away from Théoden, Lord of the Mark.

It is the following line that had me choked up, however:  "There you shall sit beside me and tell me all that your hearts desire: the deeds of your grandsires, as far as you can reckon them; and we will speak also of Tobold the Old and his herb-lore."  Gandalf has cautioned Théoden that hobbits will sit "on the edge of ruin" and discuss the minutiae of everyday life and geneology.  Théoden, while enraptured by what Merry has to tell, must ride on to meet with Sarumon, and bids them farewell until another time.  The tragedy, of course, is that this time will never come.

These words of Théoden look forward to Théoden's death, which moves me primarily because of this--the loss of opportunity to sit in peace and discuss the history of the Shire.  It almost an unfilfilled promise--a moment that never comes fruition.  Otherwise, Théoden's death is heroic--a matter, the Rohirrim might say, for song and not for tears.  Of course, there is a sense in which heriosm, pointing to something larger than mortality, is itself a matter for tears, if not quite for tears of sadness.

The words also look back--at least, in the structure of the book.  The Prologue, "Concerning Hobbits," has seemingly been written in reference to this conversation with Théoden.  The phrase "concerning hobbits" occurs within the exchange ("never till now have I found a people that knew any story concerning hobbits" - p. 544), while the section "Concerning Pipe-weed" quotes a volume of herblore written by Merry, undoubtedly in memory of Théoden, that tells of "Tobold the Old and his herb-lore."  This moment contains the Beginning, Middle, and End of The Lord of the Rings--all three books!--though "Concerning Hobbits" and "Concerning Pipe-weed" were "written" ( by Merry) long after the events have concluded.  I have not yet considered the fact that a very scholarly, written tract functions as a dedication to the king of Rohan, which still exists (more or less) as a primary oral culture.

Though I do not attribute to my own experience the emotional impact of the scene, I can't help but recall the months leading up to my grandfather's death.  When he was in the hospital after his heart attack, I went to read to him.  Having recently finished a college course on Ancient Greek literature, I thought he would particularly enjoy Robert Fitzgerald's translation of The Odyssey.  I began reading, but became overwhelmed by the hospital setting--seeing him hooked to machines.  Feeling dizzy, and watching the edges of the world become black, I patted his hand and told him that I would be back--then I turned and left.  Although he was in the hospital for 6 more months, that was the last time I saw him, and I did not return to read more of The Odyssey.  It is something I have come to terms with, though I don't think I exactly blamed myself.  Rather, like the words of Théoden, my promise was one that did not come to fruition.  It was a lost opportunity--and interestingly, an opportunity that centered on stories and history.

Sometimes, it is good to cry.  Even in the lost opportunity of Merry and Théoden, there is connection, and the desire to share with someone else something that is precious to us, though I feel the irony in using that particular word, and to know that they are eager to sit and hear the tale.  My tears are as much for Théoden's wonder at the existance of the holbytlan, and for the beauty that is interrupted but can still be recalled, as for the sadness of the unfulfilled promise, and for my certain knowledge of Théoden's glorious death.  It is impossible, perhaps, not to think of Fallenness, and Promises, and Glory in this moment--so that even in tears, there is Hope.

Note:  I made a small change to the paragraphs about the Prologue, since Merry is not the primary author, only a source.  I think the overall reading of symmetry in the moment "on the edge of ruin" still holds, however!

Language and Race, Nostalgia and Place - Stopping in Hollin/Eregion: A Notable Moment

It's a funny thing about Notable Moments.  Once I commit one to writing, my mind becomes oriented in that direction--seeking, finding, and writing notable moments.  (And now I need to publish this one so that I can write about the Ents and Entwives...) This is another thing I hoped to inspire in my students during that second-to-last semester teaching when I introduced the "notable moments" blog assignment--a habit of thought and a pattern of writing down thoughtful analyses and questions.  Because Notable Moments don't have to come to conclusions, and unlike research papers (particularly graduate research papers), there is no pressure to say something that no one else has said or thought.  In fact, on the internet, saying something original is not particularly important.  Saying things that others have thought, in fact, builds community.

***

A few pages past my last post, when Elrond sends the fellowship on their way(s), they reach Hollin, which had been Eregion.  It is a moment of beauty and longing, and I paused over it fondly to think about what it is that I find so compelling about the passage:

     "I need no map," said Gimli, who had come up with Legolas, and was gazing out before him with a strange light in his deep eyes.  "There is the land where our fathers worked of old, and we have wrought the image of those mountains into many works of metal and of stone, and into many songs and tales.  They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr.

     "Only once before have I seen them from afar in waking life, but I know them and their names, for under them lies Khazad-dûm,the Dwarrowdelf, that is now called the Black Pit, Moria in the Elvish tongue.  Yonder stands Baranzinbar, the Redhorn, cruel Caradhras; and beyond him are Silvertine and Cloudyhead: Celebdil the White, and Fanuidhol the Grey, that we call Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr.

     "There the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget: Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the Elves call Nanduhirion."

[....]

     "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram," said Gimli, "and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla.  My heart trembles with joy that I may see them soon."

     "May you have joy of the sight, my good dwarf!" said Gandalf.  "But whatever you may do, we at least cannot stay in that valley.  We must go down the Silverlode into the secret woods, and so the Great River, and then---"

     He paused.

     "Yes, and where then?" asked Merry.

     "To the end of the journey--in the end," said Gandalf.  "We cannot look too far ahead.  Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over.  I think we will rest here, not only today but tonight as well.  There is a wholesome air about Hollin.  Much evil must befall a country before it forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there."

      "That is true," said Legolas.  "But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them.  Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone.  They are gone.  They sought the Havens long ago." (FOTR 276)

And might I just take this moment to say that the feature of Mac OS that allows you to hold down a letter key to bring up all of the accented letters (à, á, â, etc.) and choose one with a number key or a click is AWESOME?

In this passage, the first thing I notice is language.   This is new to this particular reading--although I am well aware of Tolkien's attention to languages, when I have read Fellowship of the Ring before, or listened to the audiobook, I did not necessarily register how many different names were given for the mountains.  Only Caradhras registered--the important one.  And yet, consider:

Baraz	Baranzinbar	the Redhorn	Caradhras
Zirak	Zirakzigil	Silvertine	Celebdil the White
Shathûr	Bundushathûr	Cloudyhead	Fanuidhol the Grey

There are four distinct designations for each mountain.  The six names in dwarvish are interesting in that the first are shortened versions of the second, and that each is shortened in a different way.  Baraz takes the first two syllables of "Baranzinbar," but omits the "n," perhaps because, linguistically, the first "n" in "Baranzinbar" mirrors the second, in the syllable "zin," while also creating a full stop before the third syllable.  In the shortened form, there is no need for the mirroring--particularly when the "n" would become "swallowed" by the "az" anyway (there's a linguistic term for this, but my Old English is far behind me...)--and since the "z" is now part of the second syllable rather than the third, there is no need for a pause within the word.  "Zirak" is a more simply shortened form--simply the first two syllables of "Zirakzigil"--while "Shathûr" is the last two syllables of "Bundushathûr."

In addition, you have the elvish names--Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol, presumably the Redhorn, Silvertine, and Cloudyhead in the common tongue.  On the umpteenth reading, I think I finally noticed that "Caradhras" and "the Redhorn" are the same mountain, which others no doubt caught on the first reading...  That "Silvertine" is the mountain designated "the White" by the elves is interesting to me; I wanted the clouds ("Cloudyhead") to be white and Fanuidhol the Grey to be silver ("Silvertine"), but my instinctive preference does not account for the fact that there is a reason present in the description.  Fanuidhol is grey because of the clouds, presumably.  And it is the bright white of Celebdil that makes it shine like silver--in the names are embedded more clues as to the appearance of the mountains.

I would argue that Tolkien's deep studied and instinctive connection to language is on display in this passage in more varied and obvious ways than it is almost anywhere else in Fellowship of the Ring--and it centers on the dwarves, who are evoked more poignantly in this scene than in the whole journey through Khazad-dûm.  The phrase, "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla," sends a little thrill through me every time I read it, though "dark water" and "cold springs" are, in themselves, unremarkable.  Quite apart from the place-names, which are exotic and strange and evoke the unknown culture and history of dwarves, the phrasing itself--the syntax--is made ritualistic through parallelism:  "dark is the water," "cold are the springs."  One can imagine this being a responsorial chant (and dwarf poetry, as Tolkien shows us, has the feel of a chant, a march, a procession) or a greeting.  And indeed, it becomes a greeting when Galadriel, to comfort Gimli and show her understanding, says also, "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla," and adds that "fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone."  It does not simply evoke a place and a description, but a custom, and a culture, and, in fact, a spirituality.

The passage is also replete with nostalgia, and nowhere more clearly than in Gimli's recitation of the dwarf proverb.  However, the passage holds a less distinct nostalgia as well.  Gimli feels nostalgia for Khazad-dûm, but though they are passing through Hollin, which was Eregion, a great kingdom of elves in the Second Age, Legolas, who represents the race of elves on the quest, does not feel nostalgia.  While Gandalf asserts that "much evil must befall a country before it forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there," Legolas feels only strangeness:

"That is true," said Legolas.  "But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them.  Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone.  They are gone.  They sought the Havens long ago."

Here, there is a different kind of nostalgia.  The narrative makes it clear that something is lost, and gives the reader a sense of nostalgia without using the memory (personal or collective) of a character.  Rather, the fact that Legolas should not be able to remember or to feel the imprint of his kin--except that the elves who dwelt there were not of the same race as Legolas, exactly--seems to evoke a different kind of sadness.  The loss of Eregion is a more complete loss than the loss of Khazad-dûm.  And yet, the rocks, which were directly manipulated by the elves, and which did not continue to live, die, and replace themselves like trees and grass, do still bear the imprint.  In that which is not living, the memory survives--hauntingly, since the memory and their handling by the elves grants the stones a sense of life... almost a soul.

In this lost place, we see a small hint of a recurring motif in Tolkien:  the locus amœnus.  This is a literary term that I learned in the context of a graduate class on Dante, and which I have not encountered elsewhere in literary scholarship.  Perhaps it is an outdated concept; perhaps it is simply foreign to the American tradition of literary criticism, which seems likely, even given the advent of ecocriticism, which purports to root itself in place.  I have not ever found an answer to this question, but the locus amœnus is a concept I find useful and compelling, particularly with reference to Tolkien.  Wikipedia has a brief entry on the term that encapsulates most of what I was taught.  Locus amœnus means "pleasant place," but more--there is a hint of heaven or Elysium.  It is a place of safety.  In the Commedia, a locus amœnus is a resting place, particularly when there is a transition--some kind of shift in the journey. There are multiple loci amœni in the Purgatorio, and some have said that Dante's representation of Limbo, itself a nod to pagan Elysium, is a locus amœnus.  They are shadows and foretastes of heaven, safe places, resting places, pauses on the journey.

By this definition, a reader of Tolkien could, fairly easily, trace the loci amœni through Lord of the Rings.  I am not going to count the Shire, because except in memory, it does not seem imbued with power the same way that others are--though Farmer Maggot's house is a decent candidate for a locus amœnus.  Tom Bombadil's house is most certainly one, as is Rivendell.  As the reader progresses further into Lord of the Rings, the power of the locus amœnus becomes more apparent, and patterns emerge:  there is a priest-figure; there is water; there is a sacred or solemn or celebratory feast.  Many of these places are revealed in The Two Towers--my favorite of the three parts of the journey, perhaps for this reason.

So what about Hollin?  It has "a wholesome air."  But it is not safe for very long.  They are forced to continue along after being detected by spies of Saurumon (presumably).  The priests--if ever there were priests--were gone.  And yet... the stones seem still to bear the mark.  Were they consecrated?  Even if the elves are corrupt, which these were--descendents of Fëanor for those who know the Silmarillion--elves are still powerful and, in their very essence, good.  Or so it seems in this age of Middle Earth.  In Hollin, formerly Eregion, we have the memory of a place that had been a locus amœnus, but is no more.  It shows how even a foretaste of heaven can be subject to destruction--utterly obliterated, except for the memory of the stones:  a small trace of holiness.  A former locus amœnus offers no protection, and the fellowship must continue on, while the reader might remember Elrond's words--that if the Ring were kept in Rivendell, they would hold out as long as possible, but eventually would fail.  And perhaps only the stones would hold the memory of the elves who had once lived there.

Snape's Marriage: A Notable Moment in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Now, don't get excited.  Those of you who are here expecting a fan fic, you can hit the "back" button now.  It's nothing of the sort.  Rather, I was just starting my re-read of The Half-Blood Prince, having wrapped up The Order of the Phoenix last night and remarking to myself that there didn't seem to be much--nay, anything--to analyze in Book 5, when I came to the end of chapter two, and Snape's Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa Malfoy.

Snape's Unbreakable Vow is an interesting and clever device.  He is able, with his status as a double agent, to keep his vows to both Dumbledore and the Death Eaters, even as he seems to be committing the ultimate act of betrayal against Dumbledore.  But it strikes me as interesting in another way, too.  Deprived of the one woman he was ever in love with--seemingly the only woman to who he ever felt attraction--the Unbreakable Vow that he takes in his book-framed bachelor pad (which might in fact have been his family home, nestled in an industrial area, presumably in London), is the only formal vow he takes, bound to a woman, the mother of a boy to whom he is devoted, presided over by a female Death Eater, who has been inscribed by the Dark Lord.  Although Ron's later knowledge of the spell suggests that it is not necessarily dark magic in the sense of Unforgivable Curses or some of the more sinister hexes, like Septumsempra, it has all of the weight of a dark sacrament--in fact, of a marriage.

Beyond the rare interaction between Snape and a female character, the actual process is striking:

• Snape and Narcissa join hands (albeit right hands)
• A witness, who also acts as an agent to bind the two, is necessary
• As Narcissa asks a series of three (3) questions, Snape answers "I will"
• Three "tongues of flame" shoot from the wand of the witness to bind Snape and Narcissa

Leaving aside any possible phallic implications of tongues and flames and snakes and ropes shooting from wands (and there are some, I believe, though perhaps not here), many elements point to a sort of marriage.  First, the very idea of a vow, and one that is unbreakable.  Rowling may or may not have any real connection with the Catholic Church, though I swear the Weasleys are Irish Catholic, and there is some talk of her being a Chestertonian (though not a personal devotee of Chesterton, I can't vouch for the significance of that), but she has Catholic moments, and this seems like one.  The Anglican Church is sacramental as well; however, this is an unbreakable union, and unless I am very much mistaken, only priesthood and marriage in the Catholic church are an unbreakable joining by way of a vow.

The three questions are conspicuious, as are the three "tongues of flame," which every person who has wished to defend Rowling's novel by way of Biblical references has no doubt cited as a reference to Pentacost, and the loosening of the tongues of the disciples.  Interestingly, these flametongues bind two who are unable to speak of the dreadful plan/order/secret that necessitates Snape's vow to protect Draco, and to finish his assigned task if he is unable to do so.  Rather than a loosening of tongues, they underscore the secretive nature of the proceedings.  Does this contradiction, then, of the Pentacostal imagery make this an anti-sacrament?  Perhaps.  But the vow still remains unbreakable as far as we know, so those flaming tongues might have done something, even in the unholy atmosphere of secrecy and dark wizardry.

And since I have used the word flaming, and it is too good a segue to pass up, let's talk about to whom Snape is making the vow, and to whom he is likely to be foresworn.  And I mean Dumbledore.  Because he has sworn to Dumbledore as well as Narcissa, though presumably Dumbledore would not bind him with a vow that, if broken, would claim Snape's life.  Although the other possibility here is that he is not so much vowing to Narcissa, but to her son, Draco.  There are critics and readers enough who would capitalize on Rowling's ludicrous assertion that Dumbledore is gay and read homoerotic subtexts throughout the series (or write fan fics; whatever).  However, I am disinclined to see any homoeroticism in the attitudes of Snape to Draco, or Dumbledore to Harry.  I'm going to stick to teacher and student for the moment, so I will make no assertions about the relationship between James and Sirius, or Voldemort and whomever.  There is a kind of sex-segregation at Hogwarts that mimics the traditional male-centered atmosphere of Oxford and Cambridge, where a professor of mine when I was undergraduate said the old male professors told her that Restoration Drama was not necessarily an appropriate subject for a young woman.  McGonnegal and Madame Pomfrey, Professor Grubby-Plank, Professor Sprout, and Sibyll Trelawney are all there, and even one of the original founders (Ravenclaw) was female, as is the Ravenclaw ghost;  however, the action centers around the males, and largely around male relationships.  And that's okay.

So does Snape marry himself to Narcissa in making the vow?  Is he wedded to Dumbledore?  To Draco?  Well, yes, in fact.  The beauty of his vow is that it doesn't actually require the contradictions of betrayal, though the act he must perform is loathsome to him, and it is not one that I can endorse, even as an act of mercy, as the novels would have the reader accept it to be.  I don't blame Snape; nevertheless, I do not see it as a moral, or even an amoral act.  I venture to suggest that neither Snape nor Dumbledore sees it that way, either, so perhaps the morality of the act is not the question as much as whether Snape is to blame.  

In dismissing the potential implications of Snape being "wed" to Draco or Dumbledore by his vow with this woman, I want to point to something about Hogwarts instead.  I have not yet mentioned the word "vocation," but teaching is, in fact, a vocation for each of the teachers in the same way it was meant to be at Oxford and Cambridge.  J. R. R. Tolkien was in the minority being married and a professor, and his relationship with his wife was, if memory served, strained by his separation from her in favor of male companionship.  It was a source of disagreement between the Inklings that, while Tolkien's wife was banned from meetings, Joy Gresham was not.  Hogwarts seems to require a similar dedication from their teachers, who after all, live on premises during the school year.  There is no evidence in the books to suggest that any of the Hogwarts teachers are married.  They are married to their vocation (and, indeed, marriage is understood as a choice of vocation, as well as priesthood and religious life).  The school is like a spouse, and the students, their intellectual if not physical heirs.  The distant "parent" role emerges as well in the role of Head of House, of which Snape, in fact, is one.

Having failed, then, to make one marriage, Snape makes a different kind of marriage--a different vocational choice.  And he devotes himself to it wholeheartedly, though it does not help him to lose the bitterness which colors his tragic backstory.  Probably my favorite character, Snape, and a very notable moment, which ties the novel together and revelas something about the nature of a teacher, perhaps, to start off his story (or at least the one named for him).

Close Reading on the Web

This blog has become, more or less, an excercise in close reading--which suits me just fine, because it's what I enjoy the most!  However, I do see myself as being somewhat outside of internet book culture because, with few exceptions, I avoid book reviews.  I also tend to write critically--not only in terms of exercising "critical thinking" and having a "critical eye," but also by being somewhat negative.  By offering critique.  By saying what I see as being wrong with a book.  And this is something that many book bloggers avoid or sugar coat.  I think it's part of the culture.

This is how I do close reading, although most of the time my close reading has more to do with interpretation and analysis, discourse and association.  At least, I think so.  I haven't been told otherwise--yet!  But what I'm wondering is. . .  where else is Close Reading happening on the web in general, and on blogs in particular?  Book reviews are not close reading.  They can't be!  Their goal is to give an overview and promote the book (usually)--or else not so  much.

I will actually be presenting a paper in September on the "close reading" method of blogging, because I know it's out there.  I can't see that anyone has labeled it as such, but I've seen it in political and religious contexts, when a blogger focuses very closely on words and phrasing in order to reach a fuller understanding, as in Melanie's Waste Land and Nicene Creed projects, or in order to argue for a particular point or interpretation.  I have also seen it in Ann Althouse's Great Gatsby Project, which must be getting an absurd number of hits since the movie re-adaptation (and here's Althouse getting indignant about her idea--*sigh*).

So I will be gathering some data on this particular topic, and if I find anything interesting, I'll share.  It's good practice and good accountability!  Because you know.  I might be writing the conference paper in the hotel otherwise...

And please--if you find any examples of close reading, no matter what the context (well, okay, I do have some limits, but I don't think my readership will take it there...), please leave a comment and link and tell me about it!

Voyager: Title Changed to Prevent Search Engine Issues

It may not actually be the case, but it seems as though I have already written about sex more with reference to Voyager than with either of the other novels, and that feels strange to me, and a bit misleading, because when reading the books this time, it has felt as if the sex doesn't reach out and grab the reader by the appropriate appendage the same way in Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager as it undoubtedly does in Outlander. In fact, the point throughout Voyager is that, really, Jamie and Claire aren't having much sex.  They are separated from each other, and while they both find themselves in positions which require (though that seems too strong a word) more-or-less reluctant sexual intercourse, these acts are infrequent.  And yet, because the overall emphasis is on celibacy (sort of/not really--perhaps "denial" is a better word), each sexual act takes on thematic significance. It is in sex that things happen in this particular novel, and the sexual act is the locus of interaction between men and women, with all of the various complexities that sex--along with interpersonal connections, and gender and power relationships--entails.  (I find myself thinking, as much for my own benefit as others', "See?  Lit crit does tell us something about life.")  So while I was consciously not stopping to talk about each sexual encounter in Dragonfly and (especially) Outlander, I find myself feeling compelled to talk about each sexual encounter in Voyager.

And so it is, after remaining celibate for years after Culloden and Claire's departure (longer than Claire, whose encounter with Frank apparently happened within two years or so of returning), and refusing to think about a woman as a mate or a spouse or a sexual object for 7 years, Jamie is presented with a "gift"--a "sending off" and opportunity for tenderness and release from a woman for whom Jamie was laird and a benefactor of sorts.  This description suggests an unequal power relationship.  In fact, there is not one--or at least, not a traditionally unequal one, as Jamie does not, in fact, possess (or desire) power over her.  Lacking Claire, Jamie is always at a disadvantage when he enters into sexual situations with the three women with whom he copulates during her 20-year absence.**  Mary McNab is the first.

The occasion is Jamie's last night in a cave near Lallybroch before giving himself up to the English for a ransom to provide for his family and tenants.  Mary brings him his meal, and then lays out his bed.  When Jamie refuses her, she begins by giving him back his title, and granting him some of the power and identity that he has lost:

     “My lord!” she said.
     He stopped, but did not turn around. “It isna suitable to call me that,” he said.
     “Lallybroch is yours,” she said. “And will be so long as ye live. If ye’re its laird, I’ll call ye so.”
     “It isna mine. The estate belongs to Young Jamie.”
     “It isna Young Jamie that’s doing what you are,” she answered with decision. “And it isna your sister that’s asked me to do what I’m doin’. Turn round.” (90)

Because she is effectively restoring his position, I sense an ironic echo of the droit du seigneur--the right by which a French feudal lord could choose to deflower a bride on her wedding night.  Mary is not a virgin, and Jamie is not that kind of lord.  And that is largely the point.  Except that, through sex, she is able to restore him to his proper station--before it is stripped from him entirely.

The scene is one of a non-sacramental union.  From a Christian perspective, it would have to be regarded as fornication.  But though that is the perspective that formed Jamie's consciousness and world view long ago, he has been muted by sorrow and suffering, and a little bit of relativism from Claire (though not in the matter of sexuality, where she does, in fact, expect and demand a high level of honor and fidelity).  The issue of fidelity is raised, in the narrative, by the woman herself (and I wonder, here, if Mary McNab is a type of Mary Magdalene as she has existed in various traditions--giving something to her Lord that He could use):

     “I ken weel enough what ye’re thinkin’,” she said. “For I saw your lady, and I know how it was between the two of ye. I never had that,” she added, in a softer voice, “not wi’ either of the two men I wed. But I know the look of a true love, and it’s not in my mind to make ye feel ye’ve betrayed it.”
[....]
     “What I want,” she said quietly, “is to give ye something different. Something less, mayhap, but something ye can use; something to keep ye whole. Your sister and the bairns canna give ye that— but I can.” He heard her draw breath, and the touch on his face lifted away. “Ye’ve given me my home, my life, and my son. Will ye no let me gi’e ye this small thing in return?” (90)

And so what we have in this sexual moment is human need for tenderness and physical contact (though the emphasis is not on physical release), along with a pagan joining and sending off--a secular/pagan "communion" of sorts--and another testament to the integral nature of body and soul.  Sex has power, the narrative argues, even outside of the Sacrament.  Even so, it is used gravely, as a sacrifice, and with reverence.

Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander) (p. 90). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition. 

**There is a larger point to be made about the vulnerability of masculinity.  Jamie is thoroughly unmanned in this novel, and has been at risk since Outlander--from Jack Randall, from Claire, from the English, from childbirth, and now from women, though he retains dignity (perhaps separate from masculinity, or perhaps a redefinition of what masculinity means.  Still thinking about this...  It is certainly his vulnerability that makes Jamie such an attractive Romance hero for Diana Gabaldon's fans.)

Voyager: A Novel of Purgatory?

Claire. The name knifed across his heart with a pain that was more racking than anything his body had ever been called on to withstand. 

If he had had an actual body anymore, he was sure it would have doubled up in agony. He had known it would be like this, when he sent her back to the stone circle. Spiritual anguish could be taken as a standard condition in Purgatory, and he had expected all along that the pain of separation would be his chief punishment— sufficient, he thought, to atone for anything he’d ever done: murder and betrayal included. (Kindle ed. 4)

Voyager begins with Claire's present--1968--and Jamie's past forming parallels.  Though separated by 200 years, the paradox of time travel allows the events to exist in a kind of simultaneous state of happening.  Jamie lives the past that Claire and Roger try to reconstruct.  So in the early pages of the novel, Jamie believes he has died.  Concluding that he must be in Purgatory, his meandering thoughts hint at a repeated thread:  that his absence from Claire is itself a as a Purgatorial state.

This moment is one that highlighted, but almost did not analyze, until I considered... why the constant references to Purgatory, and Jamie's sins?  How might Voyager be a Purgatorial novel?

In Dante's Commedia, Purgatory is a place of movement.  The closer one gets to heaven, the more movement there is.  To stop moving is to delay the journey toward heaven.   The object is becoming--becoming purified and holy, worth of the rewards of heaven.  In Catholic thought, the earthly journey is the same.  "Voyager" suggests movement. It does not necessarily suggest movement forward, but it could.  There is a subtle difference, I think, between a "voyager" and a "traveler."  Perhaps a traveler has a less finite destination.  Perhaps there are many destinations, with a circuitous route.  A "voyager," by contrast, does not necessarily return to a starting point.  In some ways, as Claire reminisces and and the novel flashes back to Jamie's experiences, the novel outlines the process of becoming for both while deprived of the light of each others' presence (see my hint at the redemptive power of physical/human love).  But though it is preoccupied in the beginning with a replay of the identity-shaping moments that lead up to the "present" (present past?  past present?) the novel makes it clear that there is no going back.  Claire may return to Jamie, but she does not return to a starting point. Moving forward.  Becoming.  

Yet when the novel opens, Jamie is in stasis.  And in fact, his journey without Claire, though a journey of becoming, is marked by long periods of delay--in a cave, in prison, at Helwater, and finally, in Edinburgh.  She is the necessary element of his voyage toward whatever concept of heaven there is in the Outlander series (a heaven that may be characterized by ghostly togetherness, as in the film version of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, mentioned in the same post as redemptive human love).  It is not until Claire returns that reconciliations happen (well, sort of) and the journey--a purgatorial journey marked by confession and guilt--continues.

Dragonfly: Saintly Ghosts

Looking back on Outlander as I finished the novel, I thought about a curious scene in which a seemingly ghostly Jamie looks in on Claire in 1945.  I will return to ghosts as I work through the rest of the novels, because while I don't necessarily see them functioning in the same way in each instance, the spirits of the dead remain with the characters in ways that become familiar.

In Dragonfly in Autumn, remembering the untimely death of his older brother and holding the small snake his brother carved for him when he was a child, Jamie describes how he talks to his brother:

"I talk to Willie, sometimes, in my mind," Jamie said. He tilted the snake on his palm.  "If you'd lived, Brother, if ye'd been laird as you were meant to be, would ye do what I've done? Or would ye find a better way?" (551)

There is a specific connection here to Jamie's own self-doubt, and feeling of humility at having inherited a role that should have belonged to his brother.  In a quite different way, he is also aware of his father's presence at unexpected times:

"I hear my father's voice sometimes, in the barn, or in the field.  When I'm not even thinkin' of him, usually.  But all at once I'll turn my head, as though I'd just heard him outside, laughing wi' one of the tenants, or behind me, gentling a horse."  (552)

There is obligation and responsibility that accompanies Jamie's memories of both his father and brother, but the interactions are different--his brother seems a confidante and guide; his father a trusted companion.

While Jamie's conversations register as manifestation of memory (mostly), but as Claire recounts her own experience of talking to the dead, there is a kind of shift from memory to a presence, particularly when she imagines her mother after her miscarriage:

"I do the same," I said softly, after a moment.  "With Uncle Lamb.  And my parents.  My mother especially.  I--I didn't think about her often, when I was young, just every now and then I'd dream about someone soft and warm, with a lovely singing voice.  But when I was sicker, after... Faith--sometimes I imagined she was there.  With me."  A sudden wave of grief swept over me, remembrance of losses recent and long past. (551)

The presence of Claire's mother beside her bed, as she coalesces after miscarriage, is of course the mother connection of childbearing women, but also hints at Claire's closeness to death.

Jamie crystallizes what they are both feeling:

"I think sometimes the dead cherish us, as we do them." (551)

In this particular exchange, with the descriptions of Claire and (especially) Jamie, I can't help hearing a kind of echo of Tevye talking to God in Fiddler on the Roof, but of course, without the conversation partner being God.  I also remember how, growing up, I imagined relatives I had never met, who died before I was born, looking down on me and watching over me.  Eventually, this is how I came to understand the Catholic concept of the Communion of Saints--not sure if I picked up on this from relatives who had been Catholic, or if it was just a child's way of theorizing death.  Either way, I see these ghostly memories, these presences, as being particularly saintly.  It is a comforting way of viewing the dead, and one that Gabaldon makes the most of in the Outlander series, beginning, in a way, with this conversation between Claire and Jamie.

Outlander: Innocence and Experience Pt. 2

Claire's sexual experiences in the Twentieth Century--from her first kiss at 8, then premarital sex (mentioned casually in a later novel) before wedding Frank--as compared with Jaime's relative inexperience throughout the series, highlight i/Innocence in a way that ultimately transcends sexual inexperience.  In this first book at least, Jamie--in spite of his experience of war and colonial "justice"--is an innocent.  He is a virgin, he has a strong sense of honor, and his sense of honor is, at least partially, tied to his idea of virginity.  Beyond a demonstrated unwillingness to compromise Claire's honor when they are mere acquaintances by spending the night in her room, and absolute indignation at the idea that he might have bedded Claire without wedding her, Jaime recounts his father's romanticism and good advice:

"[O]nce I got old enough for such a thing to be a possibility, he told me that a man must be responsible for any seed he sows, for it's his duty to take care of a woman and protect her.  And if I wasna prepared to do that, then I'd no right to burden a woman with the consequences of my own actions." (602)

and

"He said the greatest thing in a man's life is to lie wi' a woman he loves...." (603)

It is important to recognize the tie between sex and love in the latter, and the tie between sex and reproduction in the former.  These--and the concept of honor that, for Jamie, ties them all up in a neat package--go hand-in-hand with his innocence.  Though his r/Romanticism sets him apart from the men around him, many of whom do exploit women, he is also set apart from Claire's time, in part by comparison with Frank's experience:

There was nearly fifteen years' difference in their ages, for one thing, which likely accounted for some of the differences between Frank's urbane reserve and Jamie's frank openness.  As a lover, Frank was polished, sophisticated, considerate, and skilled.  Lacking experience or the pretense of it, Jamie simply gave me all of himself, without reservation. (305)

Earlier, the narrative voice of Claire had remarked that he "made love with a sort of unflagging joy that made [her] think that male virginity might be a highly underrated commodity" (287).

Not surprisingly, Jamie's innocence--almost prelapsarian--is the blurring of the distinction between soul and body--a split that manifests itself in striking ways when the texts introduce additional Twentieth-century characters.

Claire responds to Jamie's innocence.  It connects her soul to his.  But she views the world through her Twentieth-century lens of experience (represented by her own early experiences of physical demonstration), which Jamie negotiates from his vantage point:

     "Not the same thing, is it?" I said.  "Loving and wanting, I mean."
     He laughed, a little huskily.  "Damn close, Sassenach, for me, at least." (599)

It is Jaime's i/Innocence, here, that closes the gap between the physical (wanting) and the spiritual (loving).

***

And in some ways, Claire steals his innocence--a topic I will revisit when I move through Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager.

Outlander: "Flesh of My Flesh"?

Continuing my reread of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander, I have come to what I feel is one of the most important and central ideas that runs throughout books 1-7 in the  Outlander series:  the embodiment of love.  And whatever boundaries the books might challenge or cross, including the frank representation of sexual encounters, as much for the purpose of titillation as for any other purpose, the representation of embodied love--and I mean this to be distinct from embodied gender or sexuality--can be read as distinctly Catholic.

The moment against which the amorous physical encounters (and there are non-amorous physical encounters as well) should be measured occurs after the marriage liturgy of the two main characters.  In a gesture that the male protagonist, Jamie, admits is somewhat pagan, the bride and groom have their wrists cut and bound together as they recite, in Gaelic, the following lines:

Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. 

I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. 

I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.  (267)

There are obvious correlations here to Christian marriage (and the narrative admits as much), particularly the central line, with the union of bodies through marriage joining two into one.  Two become one in the sexual act, but also in the conception of a child--the creation of a new soul that is One from the Two of the married couple.  The procreative meaning is implicit and explicit in the marriage liturgy and in Catholic theology of marriage.  However, though the lines sort of rhetorically evoke that idea--tapping into the things we might already know about marriage--the novel's particular dramatization of the marriage rite does not evoke the possibility of offspring.  Frankly, there's no time to consider it.  The circumstances in which the marriage occurs--with both characters on the run from the English (and a sadistic bastard of an Englishman, to boot), the bride dealing with a coerced marriage of necessity, knowing that she is already married to a man who will not be born for 200 years (and that her two weddings will take place in the same church)--do not leave room for fruitful considerations.  Claire's childbearing hips do receive some attention in the following chapter, but as her previous marriage has been sterile (the separation of spouses during the war receives partial blame), procreation just isn't an urgent concern.

In the first line of this presumably pagan vow, "Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone," there is (appropriately) an echo of biblical Creation.  The creation of generic 'woman' from generic 'man' is echoed in the first line, which is predictable, as that particular verse from Genesis generally frames the Sacrament of Marriage, and is transferred to this particular man and woman.  The Man and Woman recreate each other.  In marriage, each, somehow, participates in the creation of the other.

Taken as a whole, the vow also evokes Incarnation and Sacrament--the physical manifestations of spiritual Truth.  The giving of Spirit that accompanies the giving of the Body firmly connects the spiritual and the physical.  There is no dichotomy--no split between Body and Soul in the Outlander novels.  Sex--married physical union in particular--as the expression of a transcendent spiritual love, binds the body and the soul together.  Love is Embodied. (Love is Incarnate.)  The Soul is Embodied.  And there's the hint that this embodied love--this complete connectedness--is the means by which the Soul endures.

This is particularly worth noting in a book with such... thorough dramatization of... enthusiastic marital sexuality.  It becomes difficult to dismiss the scenes as gratuitous when they so very clearly represent what is right between Jamie and Claire. The Outlander books inundate the reader with physical unity. That's nothing special in itself--any romance novel might do the same. But there is something about the connection between the two that is desirable, and special, and different, and feels True.  This novel tells the reader something about love that bears thinking about.  The series is peppered with counterexamples as well.  So here, in the first novel, in the context of a marriage--THE marriage--the reader is told explicitly:  Love is Embodied.  Love is physical.  And to commit to Love spiritually and emotionally is to commit to its Physicality.  That's a profoundly Catholic concept--even when we're not talking about marriage and sex.  Love has a body.   And when that Embodiment is denied, and when commitment to the physical union is incomplete or lukewarm--that's when the reader can expect conflicts.

Is Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market a Marian Poem? - pt. 1

I have taught Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market several times-mostly in the context of my Introduction to Literature course focused on fantasy, but most recently in my Survey of British Lit II. Through teaching the poem, and including selections from C. Rossetti when I teach Children's Lit, I have come to an appreciation of her as an author that I otherwise would not possess. Goblin Market in particular is a strange poem--one of the "long" poems that were popular among poets of the Victorian Period, sharing this designation with E. B. Browning's Aurora Leigh (another I have come to appreciate through teaching), Robert Browning's The Ring and the Book, In Memoriam and Idylls of the King by Tennyson. Unlike the others, which are about British, poetic, or personal identity, and unlike In Memoriam, which is about the conflict between religious belief and, well, just about every aspect of contemporary life in the event of a loved one's death, Goblin Market is about temptation, sin, and redemption. I am not at this point terribly well acquainted with what critics have said about this poem, as I like to teach literary works from an understanding of the author, time period, and navigate meaning via student responses and my own interpretive instincts rather than relying on what the standard opinion happens to be. When my students have written papers about Goblin Market, we have had difficulty locating sources on the poem. One interpretive difficulty, however, is the ending of the poem, and how to interpret the relationship between sisters Lizzie and Laura.

The poem tells the story of Laura and Lizzie, who are subjected to temptation by goblin men, who offer them choice fruits for their pleasure. While Lizzie takes a "see no evil, hear no evil" approach (l. 50-51), Laura succumbs to the temptation, buying the goblins' goods with a lock of hair, and begins to be consumed with desire for the forbidden fruits--a desire which causes her to waste away and lose interest in ordinary sustenance and "modest" activities and pleasures, and which can not be fulfilled because the goblin men are no longer visible or audible to her (l. 242-259). The eroticism of the poem is striking, and has been captured in many illustrations, including illustrations published in Playboy. When Laura buys the fruit, for example, for which she pays with her body-- "a precious golden lock" and "a tear more rare than pearl"--she "suck'd their fruit globes fair or red" ((l. 126-128). The description of the experience of eating the fruits and the fruit itself fairly oozes with sexuality (no pun intended):


Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow'd that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck'd and suck'd and suck'd the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck'd until her lips were sore. . . .

That the poem's subject is sexual temptation is very thinly veiled, and presents no interpretive difficulty.

However, the poem does the unexpected: it redeems the sinner. Laura's sister Lizzie opts to communicate with the goblin men in an attempt to save her sister--she offers to pay with money, but the goblins are unwilling to have her take the fruit rather than consuming it. The sexual allegory here may be seen to fail or to remain consistent, as sexual experience is not something that can be carried away, or taken for another, and certainly two sexual sins do not produce redemption. Lizzie does not, however, consume the fruit, though she is subjected to physical abuse and though the goblins smash the fruits on her lips in their attempts to make her eat. These juices, licked and sucked off of Lizzie, make Laura well.

The nature of the sisterly relationship and the nature of the redemption are points open for analysis, as both are provocative. Any Christian allegory would have to place Lizzie as a Christ figure who sacrifices herself--albeit only partially--to redeem her sister but it seems unlikely that Rossetti, a strict, traditional, and increasingly High Church Anglican, would have created a female allegory for Christ.A facile answer is that it is not meant to be strict allegory, but merely an allegorical tale of Christian self-sacrifice. Even accepting it as such, it is difficult to see how, in the Victorian period, a fallen woman could be redeemed, in spite of the prevalence of paintings that treat the theme of redemption after sexual sin. In the paintings, the woman is sometimes taken from the streets by a male relative or simply has her conscience awaken from within as she bestirs herself to leave the lover who "keeps"her. In Goblin Market, the fallen woman is redeemed by a woman in a scene that is almost as erotic as Laura's original sexual encounter with goblin fruits.

The redemption of woman by woman is not necessarily a surprise given Rossetti's own work with reforming prostitutes--testimony to her own belief in female solidarity in the face of men's sexual use and abuse.The poem's moral focuses on the nature of sisterhood rather than sexual temptation, downgrading what has previously seemed to be the focal point of the poem:

"For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands."

The final lines of the poem provide both a puzzle and a somehow unsatisfying resolution. "There is no friend like a sister" seems a weak close to a poem that seems to portray allegorically both male-female and female same-sex eroticism.The relationship between the sisters is described in sensual terms early in the poem, as

Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down in their curtain'd bed:

The sisters sleep entwined, "Cheek to cheek and breast to breast/Lock'd together in one nest" (197-198).When Lizzie returns with the juices, the sensual descriptions begin to seem sexually charged, as Lizzie tells Laura,

"Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez'd from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.(467-474)

And Laura does:

She clung about her sister,
Kiss'd and kiss'd and kiss'd her:
Tears once again
Refresh'd her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kiss'd and kiss'd her with a hungry mouth.(485-492)

This seemingly sexually charged encounter with her sister causes Laura, in essence, to die to self and sexual desire, to suffer and emerge reborn.

Critics have discussed whether this is, indeed, a homoerotic encounter, thinly veiled by the invocation of biological sisterhood that is reinforced by the somewhat forced moral at the end. It seems that the relationship between the two women is either homoerotic, with "sisterhood" as a metaphor, or a literal "sisterly" relationship in which sensuality spills into sexual imagery. On the other hand, existing within the sisterly relationship (however defined) is a sub-text of woman-for-woman Christian self-sacrifice that can redeem (hetero)sexual sin. The nature of this Christian self-sacrifice is somewhat vague, as it can not be linked allegorically to what Tolkien would later call "the true myth" of Christianity, which means that this kind of redemption must only have personal and perhaps social significance rather than pointing, as Christian allegory is wont to do, to religious Truth--unless it points directly to the role of woman in the "true myth" of Christianity, and so reveals a religious Truth that directly impacts the sisterhood of all women. There is much in Goblin Market that points to Mary, the new Eve, as intercessor who reveals Christ to women, or leads women to Christ. In fact, Goblin Market might be said to recommend Mary as an intercessor to women whose experiences of men make them unable to accept God in the person of a man.

To Be Continued. . .

Eden, Suffering, and Redemption

In Mass tonight, I was struck by something in the homily. It was nothing new, really. The deacon was mentioning a common theme of our pastor's--that everyone around us has their own crosses to bear. He went so far as to catalogue possible misfortunes or causes for suffering that one or another person there might have had to bear, or might currently be bearing. This strategy has a mixed effect on me. On the one hand, I recognize its truth, on the other hand, I find the suppositions--the anonymous attributions--to separate me further from the people around me rather than bringing me closer, simply because of the emphasis placed on the unknowability. It ends up registering a little bit existential.

But at one point, the deacon paused and said, "What people have a hard time with . . . . is that," and he turned to the large, centrally placed, intricately carved wooden crucifix that I have always considered a little too evocative, or graphic, or whatever, with its drawn face and jutting ribs. 'Lest it sound like his words and gesture bordered on irreverent, they were not. In fact, they were deeply reverent. When he continued, he elaborated his meaning: that people are puzzled by the role of suffering in redemption. The reference was to Peter's shocked denial that any of the horrible things Jesus said would happen to him would, in fact, happen. We don't want to believe that those things will happen to someone we care about, look up to, someone who is so real and present to us. But they can and they do. He did not mention directly that people question why, but it was implicit: that question people ask about why God allows suffering. I admit that I was turning inward, thinking not about why God allows suffering, which never seemed a question worth asking, really. Suffering is a part of life. We know this. Why God would see fit to end suffering might be a more valid question, and often in the midst of creating my own suffering, I ask tentatively, gratefully, and perhaps fearfully why I am allowed to have the existence that I take for granted. It is perhaps because the deacon mentioned our occasional moments of clarity that I had what I consider to be a moment of clarity. It is difficult to know which thought came first. I believe it was the idea that in suffering, we realize the full strength of our human potential--that there is a spark of the divine in our nobility in the face of suffering. And I thought of the beauty of art that focuses on human suffering--how does beauty come out of suffering? Why does beauty come out of suffering? Perhaps because in bearing our suffering, we are approximating the beauty of the Redemption, which also came out of suffering. "About suffering, they were never wrong, the Old Masters. . ."

But the second thought involved the Garden of Eden. And it occurred to me that in the story of the Garden of Eden, Man and Woman are in an ideal, sinless state, we see that peace does not prevent the human traits of jealousy and greed from emerging. Rather, in that ideal state we find a breeding-ground for competitive impulses and jealousy of God--it only required a seed. It may be a problematic conclusion, but human nature, once corrupted by the suggestion, could only descend into ignobility in that idyllic state. I do not mean that the idyllic state produced the greed and jealousy, only that in peace there was nothing to prevent the corrupting suggestion from inspiring rebellious thoughts and defiant actions. After the first disobedience, suffering entered the world. The story gives a basis for understanding the presence of suffering--and why God allows suffering to persist. Suffering, by this account, seems so intrinsic to the human condition--such a direct result of our natures--that it seems pointless to question it. However, if suffering is intrinsic to the human condition, so is the bearing of suffering with nobility one of the most admirable human traits. It is in adversity that we see what a person "is made of," as the saying goes. And in this, we tap into the Redemption through suffering, that suffering that leads to Redemption. And I suppose this is what is meant by "taking up the cross."

I have posted this on my Booknotes blog, first because it was too large a thought to commit to the obscurity of memory, and second because it relates back to The Power and the Glory, which all Catholic thoughts about suffering seem to do. I couldn't help thinking about the suffering of the priest in that novel, much of it self-inflicted, and I struggled to think of a setting or scene in which he is allowed relative peace, and relieved of suffering. I thought fairly quickly, though not at first, of the house/estate/town of Mr. Lehr, a protestant, who is kind, polite and tolerant of the religion that he does not understand. I thought of the routine quality of the priest's dealing with the people there--his dealings admit no empathy with the people, and he almost forgets his own pain in the comfort and the promise of peace. And he slips back into the wheedling to make certain the people are paying enough for their sacraments--in short, in peace, all that made his character ignoble, traits buried for most of the novel, resurfaces. Were he to die in this place, there would be no question of his being a saint. However, he does not die there. Rather, he is made by pity and by duty, and by the virtues bestowed by his office, to return into danger, to administer last rites to a dying criminal who would surely be damned without him, and it is in the pull of his sacramental duty--and the accompanying suffering--that he begins to appear noble to the reader. In Eden, we are pulled toward greed and jealousy; in suffering we are noble, and are redeemed.

Triangulation, Participation, Sacramental Fiction

My reading took a more recreational turn as I tore through Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince to refresh my memory before the movie comes out later this month. I was struck by some distinct similarities to The Lord of the Rings, although I had been thinking that the books became less derivative as the series progressed. . . Mainly, the Inferii in the lake reminded me of the dead marshes, the link between Dumbledore and light and fire was conspicuous, and the last chapter, "The White Tomb" seemed reminiscent of a certain "white tower" and "white tree." I was a bit bothered, this read, by the seats all clustered around the "white table" on which Dumbledore's body was to be lain--it reminded me uncomfortably of an altar--and by Harry's being splattered with "water and blood" from his unintentional (almost) attack on Malfoy. Those scenes reminded me of certain charges of anti-Catholicism, though I wouldn't be prepared to go that far. I might attribute those examples to a misjudged appropriation of Christian imagery instead.

At the end of the book, I was struck by the blatant message of happiness and normalcy in the midst of fear and darkness, as well as the reminder that we should continually fight evil although there is no final defeat of evil--both themes of Lord of the Rings, rather more artfully communicated by Tolkien. The similarities led to the contrast--that Rowling seems much less trusting of her reader, and seeks to directly point to the meaning behind the events rather than letting readers ruminate on it. The only things we are left to speculate about are characters--specifics about the wizards and their world rather than the meanings communicated. Basically, when reading Harry Potter, one gets caught up in the characters and their world, the plot, the fantasy that is ordinary wizarding life. One does not get caught up in the great ideas, however many Rowling may have tried to sprinkle throughout the books. Contemplating big ideas--such as the nature of good and evil, and whether we are good or evil according to nature or according to the choices we make, for example--often leads to dead ends or uncomfortable conclusions in the Harry Potter books.

These dead ends stand in marked contrast to the other works I have been reading, notably the Graham Greene. His works are pointedly open--they create openings in theological questions to invite consideration of the nature of God and humanity, God's forgiveness and human frailty, understanding, and misunderstanding. I am rather obsessed with this idea of "opening up space" for contemplation of ideas, or for experience of spiritual crisis before renewal or despair. And this has a lot to do with the reader--the relationship that the author fosters between the reader, the work, and the subject matter of the work, in addition to how the author wishes the reader to act on the ideas transmitted by the work.

In an off-blog (on Facebook) follow-up discussion to my last Graham Greene post, Melanie (of the Wine Dark Sea blog) helped me toward a further development of this "Sacramental fiction" concept that I'm working through right now. Thinking about my analogy between the saint's "dark night of the soul" and the author's exploration of spiritual crisis, Melanie remarked that "the difference between the saint and the poet, I suppose is that the saint never despairs but even in the darkness is certain that there is light and grace. While the poet can get stuck in the dark and grace is more oblique." (Thank you, Melanie!!) This points in part to the nature of the different writers/personalities involved--the saint is heaven-bound, while the author is mucking around in this (human, secular) world. As one who has always enjoyed mucking around in the darkness--Existentialism, Symbolism, Decadence, Modernism--I couldn't help thinking about what it is in the darkness that I find so enlightening. As I remarked to Melanie, I think the interesting thing about getting stuck in the dark is that the reader has to search for the light and really contribute to making meaning by thinking his/her way through the darkness. Now, this is not true of all of the movements I mentioned--indeed, with Symbolism and Decadence, the whole point is to revel in the darkness and mock the light (been there, done that, grew up. . .) But thinking about the type of fiction (and poetry) I mentioned in my previous post, the kind that I find typified in Greene, T. S. Eliot, Tolkien, Auden, and Joyce, I'm led to think that the spiritual crisis--the darkness represented by authors who nevertheless leave some room for hope--is that the open-endedness of the fiction as well as the presentation of ideas about the nature of God and human nature make for a participatory model of fiction. And for a while, that's as far as I had gone with this idea.

For me, bringing the reader into the equation rather smacks of Reader Response Theory, which falls under the category of critical methodologies to avoid, since Reader Response Theory rather serves to deconstruct any idea of fixed meaning in a text, and I don't go there. Ever. Reader Response Theory is also rather a nightmare theory when considered from a teaching perspective since it rather feeds into students' assumptions that "anything goes" in terms of interpretation of texts. I spent the better part of the fall semester in a futile attempt to shake 33 or so education majors out of the assumption that literature is about the reader's impressions. I rather worry that a "participatory" mode of fiction might imply that the reader's participation in the meaning of the text creates the meaning itself, rendering meaning subjective. On the other hand, a well-articulated theory of "participatory" fiction might serve to bring the concept of the reader to the forefront in a way that validates the reader's role in fiction while contradicting the more subjective notion.

I'm not really sure where along the lines I became enamored of the reader, but it must have happened in the course of my investigation of representations of literacy in fiction, which followed on the heels of my interest in narrative theory, which theorizes the "implied" and "actual" reader. The implied reader is a textual construct; the real/actual reader can not be categorized, as the audience of a work of literature is shifting and unpredictable. Studying literacy theory, the literate individual (or, more often, the literate culture or society) is more often the subject than the piece of writing, and what I generally look for is the representation of the reader in the work of literature, to get an idea of what vision of "the reader" or "the literate individual" more generally is presented in the work of fiction. My overarching question is what theories about the uses of literacy do literary texts project? By extension, I might ask, what do we as readers learn about literacy from works of literature? -or- What are various consequences of reading and writing, according to literary texts from various time periods and authors? The goal, of course, is for the individual reader to better understand how reading operates on his/her own consciousness. Yeah, it's pretty much justification for being a bookworm and devoting one's life to studying literature.

So I find that my fascination with the reader has grown and expanded into different places, but still relates to the purpose of literature, and how literature acts on the consciousness of the individual. I think at root, that the acknowledgment that literature acts on the consciousness of the individual in abstract ways and concern with how it does so is very un-academic, at least in terms of literary study. At least, that is how I fear it will be perceived. I think my theories are very great-books-y, which I think is great, since I have always admired a great-books approach to liberal arts education, but that model is outdated and rejected by most universities these days. So much for that digression.

A few years ago now, I read the introduction to an anthology of contemporary Catholic poetry edited by a professor of mine. At the time, I was trying to understand, basically, various Catholic concepts related to the term "Sacrament." Not being raised Catholic, and having attended various Protestant churches, there was a lot for me to wrap my mind around! I had recently read Andrew Greeley's book The Catholic Imagination, the gist of which seems to have been, if you've been influenced by Catholicism culturally, you know about Catholicism indirectly--or all that you need to know. It was very much a divorcing of Catholic culture from the Catholic Church and the practice of the Catholic Faith, which is a common gesture in popular culture. But I think there must have been something theoretically interesting in the Greeley book, since it is linked in my mind to the anthology of poetry that I mentioned at the beginning of this meandering paragraph. If I'm remembering it correctly, the anthology's introduction discusses the idea that literature can be "sacramental," not "sacramental literature" as in "literature relating to the Sacraments," or literature used directly for prayer or lectio divina, but rather, literature that can act like a sacramental--a visible sign that reminds us of God and propels us toward Him. Again, not a very "academic" line of reasoning. But can it be?

I was reaching toward a concept of "Sacramental fiction" when I wrote my earlier Graham Greene post. But I want a theory that does not limit itself to Catholic authors writing determinedly Catholic works--such as Greene or Tolkien. Even in my previous discussion of Greene, I mention non-Catholic writers whom I feel participate in this mode of literature, and even Joyce, who was raised Catholic but repudiated it. Clearly, these are not writers who intend (bad, evil word for literary critics) to write Catholic literature. But can they nevertheless tap into something larger? A discourse, perhaps, on the nature of God that involves the reader directly? And if so, how do they do so?

So I turn from the abstract theorizing of audience, reader, and text, from the realm of theorizing the nature of literature that propels humanity toward God, to the very tangible realm of rhetorical theory, grounded in words and situations, about which I am presumed to know more than I actually do.

I think that the concepts I'm reaching toward--this authorial linking of audience with subject matter in a way that encourages "audience participation"--can be discussed in terms of "triangulation." This "triangulation" is a nautical metaphor used in rhetoric to describe authorial use of rhetorical appeals to align the reader's position with his/her own in relation to a subject of interest to both (Killingsworth, Appeals in Modern Rhetoric p. 3-4):

"The act of navigation . . . depends upon triangulation. Sailors navigate by the stars. The ship goes from launch to landing, but the direction is guided by the stars. Appeals go from author to audience but their success may well be determined by some association the author forms with a third entity, the metaphorical equivalent of the stars." (Killingsworth 3)

The importance of rhetorical theory, here, is that seeing the fictional work as a piece of rhetoric implies movement of author and audience from disparate positions to positions that are closer together--that is, there is the movement, not just of plot, but also of the reader, of whom the writer/text demands action. However, the plot is what inspires the movement in the case of fiction--makes the appeal to the reader, in rhetorical terms--and in the specific case that I'm considering, the spiritual crisis, the Dark Night of the Soul, is the appeal that the author makes to the reader, asking the reader to join in the journey to reach--somewhere else. In the case of the saint, the "somewhere else" would be God. For the character in the novel, the "somewhere else" might be death, despair, Salvation, but that is not where the author wants the audience/reader to go. Rather, the author wants the reader to enter into a deeper consideration of the questions that are raised by the action of the literary work.

The image of steering by the stars is very important in this construct. When the author is writing the work of fiction that will form the appeal to the reader, s/he navigates by a set of ideas or values--the "stars" in the navigation metaphor, or the "position of authority or value" in rhetorical terms (Killingsworth 3)--that leads to the destination. The vehicle by which the author steers is the plot itself. But considering the literary text is that vehicle (boat), and exists in different space for each reader than it does for the original author, it stands to reason that the geography in which the reader sails with the text as vehicle (to a destination analogous to--though not exactly the same as--that reached by the author) is different from the original geography--and so the stars that shine down on reader and text are different than those by which the author navigated. Here, rhetorical theory falters a bit, and Reader Response theory stands ready to pounce, because in fiction the appeals may be more oblique or ambiguous, metaphorical rather than literal, indirect rather than direct. And the geography in which the boat sails anew in the hands of each new reader--isn't that the collective experience of the reader that contributes to his/her subjective interpretation of the text?

Rhetoric assumes, at least in part, that the author and audience share some context, or works to foster that impression. Fiction does not assume a shared context, but asks the reader to enter into a setting and set of experiences on the author's terms. Not everything in the reader's experience can be left behind, of course, but more importantly, the reader does not necessarily bring with him/her the luggage that the trip requires. To stop mixing metaphors, the reader often starts from someplace completely different, and so the context from which the writer was working is lost. In a good work of literature, the author and reader do not need to share every context. The fact that the author has studied his Montaigne makes no difference to the reader, who may not catch every specific reference, but nevertheless gets the gist of the ideas involved. How specifically the reader is able to identify the author's context, however, is determined by the shared experience of author and reader. It's the difference between identifying the elves' lembas as "spiritually sustaining food" vs. "the Eucharist." All this goes to say that the extent to which literature is "Sacramental" depends on not only the stars by which the author steers, and the seaworthiness of the vehicle, but also on the geography from which the reader embarks, or, if you prefer, the luggage that accompanies him/her. The importance, then, is the ability of the work to propel the reader into consideration of common ideas--the nature of God, etc. The author starts the process--gets the reader to share a set of common questions (and that is the shared destination)--but the reader's geography determines in what direction the reader's questions tend, or even if s/he is interested in pursuing the questions.

The point, here, is that the reader is a participant. In a closed work of fiction, the author has wrapped plot and worldview in a neat package, and the reader is invited to accept the truth of what the work concludes--or not. I am thinking of the difference between the Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings. In a "closed" work, such as the former, there is no further action required of the reader other than to pick up the text and read, then to close the text and regard it as something experienced, perhaps, but a completed experience. It can be revisited, but it doesn't ask anything of the reader--the reader is not expected to act in any way in order to complete the reading process. It might be worth noting that my two "closed" examples--Narnia and Potter--were written explicitly for child audiences.

Here, I want to give a very different example--that of Arthur C. Clarke's "The Star." Clarke's story of a Jesuit priest and scientist who travels with an expedition to a distant planet only to discover that the civilization that inhabited the planet was annihilated by the very star that illuminated the path for the magi to find Christ invites theological questioning. Indeed, only extreme intellectual laziness stands as an excuse for not turning the matter over in one's mind: What kind of God would allow such an event? The question implies criticism. According to Clarke's worldview, it should imply criticism and questioning--of God. But the very presence of a Jesuit priest begs the question--is the only possible conclusion the inhumanity of God? The reader is invited to contribute to the meaning of the story, but if the reader is starting from a position of faith rather than atheism or agnosticism, that faith may be able to reconcile the speculative scenario presented in the story. The point is not so much the conclusion reached, but the common questioning--that the reader participates in the meaning of the story--extends that meaning past the boundaries of the story--and moves toward some greater understanding of God (or the nature of the universe, if you prefer).

Graham Greene, Catholic Discourse, and the Dark Night of the Soul

The above title is what I would title the article if I were writing one. Unfortunately, the ideas that I get in the shower or bath never seem as unified once I get back to my computer. My husband suggested that the humidity in the air might influence the way the oxygen gets to the brain. If so, that might explain why I feel smarter in New Orleans than in Texas.

I finished reading a second book by Graham Greene last night, The Heart of the Matter. It was an interesting read, but not what I would call riveting all the way through--unlike The Power and the Glory. It picked up momentum at the end, though. An interesting thing about this book is that it didn't begin as a Catholic novel, but it became one, and certainly ended that way. It presents a number of particularly Catholic dilemmas, asks theological questions, and only begins to hint at any possible answers. As the protagonist is British in West Africa, his fellow countrymen are not Catholic, which becomes a subject of comment and contrast as the book progresses, and his fellow Catholics (other than the priests, who do not enter into the story much) are separate from him by station, skin color, culture, and language. His wife is separated from him both because of the human dilemma of what it means, what it costs, and whether it is possible to understand another person, and also because she wishes to leave the place they are living, and he arranges for her passage to a more hospitable part of the coast while he remains to perform his police duties. So the concept of the Church as "One Body" is only present in its insistent absence. There is nothing in the text to indicate that that was a concept stressed in Greene's time in the way it is now.

Indeed, there is a real conflict in The Heart of the Matter, as in The Power and the Glory, between duty to one's own soul and duty to others. In The Power and the Glory, the conflict arises because the unnamed priest, whom critics call the "whiskey priest," a derogatory term used in the novel which the character nevertheless transcends, has an unconfessed mortal sin, but still must preside over Masses when he arrives in villages (including consuming the Body of Christ himself), administer the Sacrament of Reconciliation, and finally, instead of crossing the border into a relatively "safe" zone for Catholics, who were being persecuted throughout Mexico during the revolution, he is called to give the Last Rites to a dying criminal. So his choice is to face almost certain capture and execution in order to perform his priestly duty, or to tend to his own soul by going into safety, where he can easily confess the sin he has carried with him since before the time frame of the novel. The person of the priest and his office, though sometimes conflated in the reflections of the character on his own actions, are distinct from each other in the eyes of the reader, who realizes that the priest does not fail (though he does falter) in his vocational duties, and so judges him lightly both for his unworthy reception of the Body of Christ, and for his sin and inability to Confess. Throughout both novels, the characters repeat (and in The Power and the Glory it takes the tone of a mantra), that an individual's first duty is the salvation of his own soul.

In The Heart of the Matter, the conflict between personal salvation and attention to others' needs is more ambiguous, as the duties to others are secular, perceived needs based on social and self-imposed obligations. Interestingly, though he has spent his life attending to others' needs at the expense of his own peace, it is duty to God that causes the central character, Scobie, to lose hope. That in itself is a strange concept, that while the main character doubts his faith in God, and resolves himself to mortal sin because he can not find the motivation to stop or to confess, he nevertheless is moved to the unforgivable sin--suicide--by his knowledge that to receive God in his state of mortal sin is desecration, like inflicting wounds on an already suffering Christ. His desire not to wound anyone, and least of all God, leads him to inflict wound after wound on his own soul, descending finally into despair and rationally calculated damnation. Greene leads us to question the notion that any sin--including suicide, final abandonment to despair, the final rejection of the redeeming and healing power of God--is truly unforgivable, even indicating in one scene that God, who is capable of anything and can break His own rules, can certainly break this one, and allow for redemption. Greene suggests at the end that Scobie calls upon God in something that might be seen as repentance, but is too brief. But it is essential that Scobie does not believe that there will be an exception for himself. Had he killed himself with the notion that he could be forgiven, the act would not have held the pathos or illustrated the despair that it does otherwise.

I read a review of The Power and the Glory by a user of an application that I access through Facebook--I forget the name of the app--that says that "only Catholicism can find beauty in spiritual rot." This was intended as a backhanded comment--a critique, insult, what have you. I had to read further to determine this for myself, though, as my instinctive reaction was "YES! YES!!" But truly, there is a tradition in Catholic fiction, nonfiction and poetry that acknowledges the dark times of faith--the Dark Night of the Soul tradition that St. John of the Cross so poignantly displays in his poetry, that Dante chronicles before meeting Virgil in the Commedia, that Santa Theresa de Avila experiences as well as Mother Theresa. It is, in fact, a mark of great faith to have experienced such spiritual darkness. It is also a mark of great twentieth-century Christian writers of the Catholic and Anglo-Catholic traditions that they see in the darkness of humanity something of beauty, as if by acknowledging the darkness we are reaching out to forces larger than ourselves, acknowledging their power and our smallness in the face of such things. I think, here, of Eliot in The Four Quartets, or Auden in many of his poems, but especially "Musée des Beaux Arts": "About suffering they were never wrong, the Old Masters. . . ." In a sense, there is redemption in despair for these writers. In the writings of the saints, they struggle not to succumb to despair, and in the performance of everyday tasks, as in the sustenance of the Eucharist, they are able to continue, though the blackness might continue also. In the writings of Tolkien, the inexorable sense of loss that permeates even victory against evil suggests a final defeat of humanity, and a light that transcends that defeat. Even Joyce partakes of this to a degree in Dubliners, most notably in "The Dead."

In the Liturgy of the Eucharist, the congregation and priest pray "protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ." There is much less of "joyful hope" in the works of the writers I have mentioned than there is of "anxiety." And if we are supposed to wait "in joyful hope," why do we find beauty in works that emphasize the darkness? Certainly, in his portrayal of spiritual darkness in The Heart of the Matter, Greene shows how descent into despair leads to an acknowledgment of need for God. It even opens up the possibility of a dialogue with God, which may lead to personal spiritual redemption. This dialogue with God is dramatized in the final pages of The Heart of the Matter. But there is an even earlier precedent that dramatizes the power of spiritual darkness that leads to dialogue with God--the Agony of Christ in the Garden. And it is perhaps His spiritual darkness that is poignantly evoked, that makes us feel the power and beauty of the questioning and striving against the darkness, and makes the most skillfully executed accounts reach out to something larger rather than staying within the meanness of human experience. It is what makes Father Rake declare in the end that Scobie perhaps loved God more than anything at all: that his despair, though he was finally unable to conquer it, was larger than the despair of human existence.

"Le Mont des oliviers," a French Romantic poem by Alfred de Vigny transforms the Agony in the Garden into a dialogue of the Son with the Father. Though Vigny lived during the Revolution in France, at a time when the Church was challenged, rejected, and even demonized, and participated in a literary and artistic movement that sought to glorify the "energy" of evil (as in Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell) and redeem Satan (as in one of Vigny's own poems), he taps into the Dark Night of the Soul in all of its poignancy, power, loneliness, and near despair in "Le Mont des oliviers"--"The Mount of Olives"--which I translated (in part) when I was an undergraduate: Then it was night, and Jesus walked alone/ Clothed in white, like one who is already dead/ the disciples slept at the foot of the hill,/ Towards the olives, a sinister wind blew. . . A few lines later: He fell to his knees, his chest against the earth;/ Then looking at the sky, called, "Oh My Father!"/ -But the sky was black, and God did not respond.
The conclusion of the poem is to reject the divinity by whom we are rejected--a truly existential moment in French Romantic poetry. And given that the twentieth century saw the advent of existential philosophy as such, one might expect that Greene would come to similar conclusions. While he is able to condemn humanity to the judgment of God, Greene is unable to condemn humanity to God's indifference.

Here, I have lost a reference I believed I read in The Power and the Glory to Christ's Agony in the Garden--one of those pieces that would have tied everything together for me and created beautiful symmetry in my discussion. There are many references to the sacrifice of Christ in The Heart of the Matter--more obvious references than in The Power and the Glory, though it too has many New Testament references. But this brings me to the Liturgy of the Eucharist again. In the Liturgy, one finds represented the Last Supper ("On the night He was betrayed, He took bread and gave You thanks and praise. . .") and the Crucifixion. However, apart from the Triduum, the Church does not reenact the Agony in the Garden during the Sacrifice of the Mass. (The Agony in the Garden is memorialized in the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary, however.) In rhetorical terms, we might conclude that that absence in the regular liturgy of reference to the Christ's Agony creates a kind of discursive space which is filled by the experiences of the faithful, the writings of the saints, and the moments of spiritual darkness that emerge in Catholic Sacramental literature.

Here, I'm afraid I must end abruptly, as this is the beginning of something rather than something complete and unified. Without being too abrupt in this transition, I want to finish with the observation that both of Greene's novels, as well as The Painted Veil by W. Somerset Maugham, strike me as mature works--not pointing to the maturity of the novelist as a practitioner of his craft, but rather his representation of the life of the individual. In The Heart of the Matter, there is great emphasis on responsibility, and on the consequences of one's actions. The Power and the Glory could not have been written without the sense of responsibility that is greater than oneself. But that responsibility is not something that the characters rebel against--they recognize that it would not remove the responsibility to rebel. I have been fond of saying lately that the Romantics are the adolescents of English literature while Modernism is its mid-life crisis. Which would leave mature adulthood for the Victorians? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I have found myself disillusioned with the Romantics and the Modernists both because well, that's not where I am in life right now. And admittedly, the Greene novels and Maugham novels do not portray characters that I can relate to, but they engage me with ideas that I find compelling from where I am in life, and actions that do not disgust me with their triviality.