While tackling some British classics, it's also fun to read what British folks are reading today. For a start, I just couldn't resist a book with this fabulous title: A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, by Marina Lewycka (a lecturer at Sheffield University, not far from York). A breezy, entertaining story of a quirky family set amidst the Ukrainian immigrant community of the British midlands. A long ways from the thick, literary depth of Ivanhoe but a fun book to curl up with for a couple nights.
One of the benefits of our sojourn here in York is that it means we're "unplugged" from some of the frantic pace that characterizes life back in the States, freeing us up for some dedicated time of reading. So one of my goals for this semester is to read a number of British classics that I've only dabbled in before. I've brought along Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, Cardinal Newman's Apologia Pro Vita Sua, Evelyn Waugh's Scoop, and others. But I dove into the pile by first reading Sir Walter Scott's 19th-century manifesto, Ivanhoe.
One of the courses I'm teaching here is "Victorian Britain and Postmodern Culture: Contemporary Medievalisms" (the informal title is "Everything Jamie loves about 19th-century Britain!"). As England was undergoing the upheaval of the Industrial Revolution--which, for all its "economic growth," also fragmented families and entire ways of life--the middle of the 19th century saw a backlash and critique in the form of a new fascination with medieval modes of life. Scott's Ivanhoe was a huge part of this. While penned as a story, it was adopted as a manifesto, calling England back from the atomism spawned by the "Satanic mills" of industry to the organic (and admittedly hierarchical) organization of the body politic in feudal times.
Scott's book (much of which is set right here in Yorkshire) embodies all the (often caricatured) pictures we've come to inherit: knights in shining armor, damsels in distress, tournaments and jousts, Richard the Lionheart and the despicable Prince John, characters hearkening to Robin Hood and Friar Tuck. But this is no mere lads' tale or entertainment. One has to be struck at the genuine literary quality of the book; this isn't some sort of proto-"genre fiction." And there are very interesting subplots and themes: One concerns the status of Jews in late medieval England, and here what appears to be Scott's traffic with typical anti-Semitic slurs is actually undercut, I think, by how Isaac and Rebekah function within the story. While anti-Semitic readers might have heard what they wanted to hear, on the other hand I think their attitudes are consistently undercut by Scott's narrative.
The other theme is historical and political, namely how "the English" came to emerge from the meld of Saxon and Norman--the indigenous English and the interloping French. King Richard and Ivanhoe's friendship marks the end of their animosity and the beginning of "the English."
[Sorry to have left 1 & 2 hanging; I was lost to preparations for packing for our move to York, then the transition here--which means I'm now away from my library, but I'll comment on these books from memory.]
1. The Correspondence of Shelby Foote and Walker Percy. This book has left an indelible mark on me, perhaps most of all because of the circumstances in which I read it. In February of 2007, our family endured a tragedy, the thought of which still brings me to tears: our niece, Sophie, just one year old, died very suddenly. We returned to Canada to be with my sister-in-law, her husband and their boys, and with the rest of the family. I was both honored and terrified when asked to co-officiate the funeral. But over the course of that horrific week, my wife and I, drawing on the prayers of friends at home, were able to keep ourselves together for the family to lean on. But when we got back to Grand Rapids, my world fell apart (it's still not quite back together). One of the most tangible effects of this sorrow was that I simply couldn't read. The world had become so dark and flat and empty that I couldn't muster the psychic energy to pick up a book or even a magazine--me!, who has books literally strewn across every room in the house! For almost two months I couldn't bring myself to crack open a book. Part of me just couldn't re-activiate my imagination, part of me felt like I didn't deserve the joy that comes with reading, part of me was too angry to even see straight, and part of me was scared what I might find.
One day while crawling into bed I glanced at the books stacked in my bedside shelf and spied this volume, which I once purchased in a used bookshop in Stratford. I can't say exactly what drew me to it, but I picked it up, clicked on the lamp, and couldn't put it down for hours. The book seemed to embody just the tension I was feeling inside: between Foote, the wry cynic and skeptic, and Percy, the existential Catholic (walking in the paths of both St. Thomas and Kierkegaard). The correspondence crackles with the love of a long friendship. Clearly Foote is the more faithful and fulsome correspondent, always the initiator of epistolary volleys, pestering Percy to reply or come visit--but it is a pestering that craves presence, craves Percy's friendship (Foote seemed to be lonely even when others were around). Foote especially pours himself into the letters so that they are themselves a kind of literature. It is also a fascinating peek behind the curtain of "the writer's life"--it's joys and ecstacies, its valleys and sorrows, its pet peeves and quirks. Over the course of the correspondence both Percy and Foote emerge to become the giants of American letters that we now know them as, but the letters provide an account that is decidedly un-romantic, and yet precisely because of that, engenders a certain romance about the bohemian life of "the writer."
This book did nothing short of recreating the world for me. It also convinced me that I want to be a "writer"--not just an author, but a real, live writer.
2. Cormac McCarthy, The Road. Recall that one of my criteria for "best" in this list is the ability of a book to continue to haunt me, keep me up at night, awake with me in the morning, and generally not let go of my imagination. McCarthy's widely praised book did that beyond any other this year. Like All the Pretty Horses, this story chronicles a paired relationship (I think three's a crowd for McCarthy) in ways that are as sparse as they are intimate. Dialogue rarely get beyond a few words each, and yet so much is said (and unsaid). I also found it a convicting book, on at least two levels: on the one hand, the father's love for his son is so patient and compassionate in the face of such dire scarcity and violence that I'm ashamed at my own impatience with my children in the face of safety and plenty. On the other hand, the father & son's world is pared down to such necessity that one becomes very conscious of our own embarrassment of riches (and our culture of waste). For weeks after reading this I couldn't even allow myself to ever say I was "hungry" (which usually means that I haven't had a full meal in the last 2 hours!). McCarthy quite intentionally invokes the language of mendicant friars in the book, calling to mind disciplines of simplicity and solidarity.
In fact, I think the book is suffused with ritual and thus a kind of sacramentality. Quasi-liturgies both make and hold together the remnants of a "world" for father and son. In fact, for the book I'm currently completing--Desiring the Kingdom: Liturgy, Learning and Formation--I'm using a passage from The Road as an epigraph:
The boy sat tottering.The man watched him that he not topple into the flames.He kicked holes in the sand for the boy’s hips and shoulders where he would sleep and he sat holding him while he tousled his hair before the fire to dry it.All of this like some ancient anointing.So be it.Evoke the forms.Where you’ve nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.
3. Joseph Pearce, The Unmasking of Oscar Wilde (can be previewed at Google Books). Pearce's biography traces Wilde's "complicated" (to say the least) relationship to Christianity, and Roman Catholicism in particular. Noting that many of the French "decadent" authors the influenced Wilde (particularly Huysmans) later converted to Catholicism, Pearce discerns implicit longings throughout Wilde's corpus. Surprisingly (but not if one looks closely) he suggests that the supposedly scandalous Picture of Dorian Gray only "works" precisely because the decadence of the protagonist is implicitly criticized at every turn. It is hardly a celebration of immorality; rather, it is a morality tale in a classical tradition. I imagine that Wilde found himself wavering between two different Oxfords, or two different visions of the Renaissance that he learned at Oxford: one from Ruskin, the other from Pater. Pearce suggests that it was Ruskin's Renaissance that made the more longstanding impact.
4. It is perahps curious that in a year in which I read so much Joyce Carol Oates, I also had stacks of Graham Greene on my bedside table. The giant among them was certainly The End of the Affair. I can hardly begin to describe it because I find such a prospect so intimidating. Perhaps a couple of choice quotes might stand-in:
"I have never understood why people who can swallow the enormous improbability of a personal God boggle at a personal Devil. I known so intimately that way that demon works in my imagination. [...] I can imagine that if there existed a God who loved, the devil would be driven to destroy even the weakest, the most faulty imitation of that love."
"Oh well," [the priest] said, "I'm not against a bit of superstition. It gives people the idea that this world's not everything." He scowled at me down his nose. "It could be the beginning of wisdom."
5. Looking back, I read quite a bit of Joyce Carol Oates over the past year, including her novella The Corn Maiden: A Love Story (in Transgressions, ed. Ed McBain), short stories collected in High Lonesome: Selected Stories, 1966-2006, criticism in Uncensored: Views & Reviews, and one of her novels: You Must Remember This. JCO is a compelling storyteller whose writing extends an invitation into a world (worlds often set in upstate New York). But when one begins to map the Oatean world, one finds that it is a nihilistic world that is laced with violence (boxing appears constantly as a crystallization of this in her work, particularly in You Must Remember This). And I don't use "nihilistic" in an off-handed sense: I mean quite literally that Oates seems to not only see ubiquitious violence in the world; she inscribes it into its very structure--as the essential conditions of the world. (This, I've suggested before, might actually be where she differs from someone like Cormac McCarthy: while McCarthy's barren worlds are riddled with violence, I find in McCarthy a hint of hope that it might--that it could and ought--to be otherwise.) For instance, in You Must Remember This, Felix's violent and incestuous abuse of his niece Enid is the condition of possibility for her music, college success, yea her very sense of identity. I don't have the heart for such a Hegelian world.
However, the passge from the novel that sticks with me is a bit of a throw-away scene later in the story. Felix, the former boxing star and current town "player," poses a question to his brother, Lyle, a used furniture salesman eeking out an existence on the working side of town: "What's it like being a father?" Lyle, resisting his "first instinct" to "make a nervous joke," instead replied: "It depends. Sometimes it does seem to me I'm thinking about them constantly, obsessively, even when I'm not exactly aware of it." Recounting his worry over the children when they were younger, Lyle feels Felix's intense stare and concludes: "I suppose it's the crucial thing in my life. All Hannah and I have really done, you know? Because, well, what else is there...?"
I'm not sure if JCO is participating in a bourgeois mocking of this work-a-day vocation of raising a family, or whether she's giving voice to a sanctification of the ordinary. I found myself moved by Lyle's confession as a valorization of the "work" of domesticity, of family-making and child-rearing. It is perhaps especially poignant for those who have a kind of "public" life, whose professional work gets recognition and acclaim through other channels. But at the end of the day, I'm with Lyle: what more important work could there be? While I'm not at all inclined to the idolization of the family (as in a disordered "focus" on the nuclear family), I do think that the "domestic" work of family-formation trumps much of our "public" work. Indeed, in an era when the pursuit of self-interest translates into, at best, serial monogamy, there might be nothing more "counter-cultural" than the "work" of family. In fact Lyle's remark called to mind a centuries-old admonition to parents, Jacobus Koelman's 1679 The Duties of Parents, which he opens by reminding fathers and mothers that the vocation of parenting "is the most important duty God has put on your shoulders." So often the arts and literature see domesticity as a poison and threat to an "interesting" literary life; but right here in a "literary" novel we hear Lyle suggesting otherwise.
6. I continue to find myself going back to Charles Taylor's A Secular Age. This is a book that has dug a deep well that this generation and the next will continue to drink from.
7. Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men. For the life of me, I can’t imagine how this book could possibly be a movie. Not because it isn’t a compelling story with all sorts of chilling thriller potential. And not because it isn’t populated with deep, fascinating, haunting characters (Chigurh is one of the most chilling characters I’ve run into in a while). The reason I can’t imagine this as a movie is because of McCarthy’s genius, namely his ability to paint such powerful pictures with such a simple palette and so few strokes. McCarthy’s prose is so frugal it borders on being stingy—and somehow (just how?!) he creates an engulfing world with two-bit dialogue and miserly description that says so much with so little.
The book also got me thinking: I think those who regale McCarthy for his “nihilism” (as I was wont to do a couple years ago) might be falling for a trap. I think we need to perhaps read McCarthy the way we ought to read Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray: we ought not confuse the author’s voice with that of the protagonist. So is it Chigurh who embodies Cormac McCarthy’s “worldview?” Or should we rather listen to the voice of Sheriff Bell?
Heading out into the chaotic moonscape that is Chigurh’s habitat (and creation, in a way), in an exchange with Molly, Sheriff Bell
pushed the chair back and rose and got down his gunbelt from the coatrack behind his desk and hung it over his shoulder and picked up his hat and put it on. What is it that Torbert says? About truth and justice?
We dedicate ourselves anew daily. Something like that.
I think I’m goin to commence dedicatin myself twice daily. It may come to three fore it’s over.
8. Edmund Wilson, Letters on Literature and Politics, 1912-1972. Wilson was one of the twentieth-century America’s great critics—from a time when criticism mattered (Norman Mailer, in a Paris Review interview, talks about his respect for critics like Wilson and Kazin), as well as a time when critics weren’t housed primarily in academia. Wilson and Kazin were part of a class of public intellectuals that has almost passed from the contemporary scene (Christopher Hitchens might be a bit of a throwback in this respect). I’m a correspondence junkie, so it’s easy for me to have a soft spot for a collection of letters from a sparkling figure like Wilson (who also was quite famous as a “character” in the literary scene; if the letters became a movie it would almost surely earn a ‘R’ rating). But letters like these also bring out my Luddite romanticism: it seems to me that the advent of email means we’ll never have books like this again. Our correspondence is too fleeting and flippant, too mechanical and utilitarian. No one will confuse our terse emails with the rich sorts of letters that Wilson and his circle used to swap. Wilson valued the letter (even the post card) as an outlet for literary flair and creation. Though he lacked any social filters and was only too willing to let his friends (like F. Scott Fitzgerald) know exactly what he thought of their work, one also finds here his appreciation for wise teachers and literary confreres.
Caving in to the general media mania for “lists” as the year draws to a close, I’ve looked over my shelves and recalled the ten best books I’ve read in 2007. A couple of provisos should be made: (1) These are books I read in 2007, not necessarily books that were published in 2007 (in fact, I think only one of them appeared in the past year); (2) by “best” I simply mean books that were significant for me in some way. Usually this just means that they were books I kept thinking about, books that kept re-inserting themselves into my consciousness and imagination, perhaps books that changed my mind in some way.
So over the next week or so I’ll be posting some brief reflections, in reverse order (though the ranking shouldn’t be taken too seriously).
9. Russell Kirk, Edmund Burke: A Genius Reconsidered. Since reading this book, I’ve continued to dive into Burke’s corpus (in fact, he will be an important part of the Studies in British Culture course I’m teaching in York, England next semester). As David Brooks has noted, Burke’s conservatism is precisely what has been forgotten by the neoconservatives that currently pass for the Right.
10. William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury (in the old Random House Faulkner Reader, which also includes his Nobel Prize address). This is one of those reads by which I keep trying to make up for my lack of a liberal arts education. Faulkner is often cited as an important influence, or at least background, of the “Southern Catholic” writers I appreciate (Walker Percy, Flannery O’Connor), so I felt an obligation to dive into this rather intimidating book. You sort of have to let it wash over you. It requires the reader to be willing to be out of control, to feel lost, to trust the author that it’s going somewhere. At times I have to say it felt maddeningly obfuscating. But Faulkner also paints multiple words in a minimalism that brought to mind the sparse dialogue of Cormac McCarthy. In fact, I need to check about influences of Faulkner on McCarthy, since Faulkner also has an uncanny ability to let the third person narrator’s voice accommodate itself to shifting characters and locales, as well as an art for dialogue (including difficult dialects) that are true to the characters. Nothing short of a literary experience.
Even critics will have to recognize that The Stillborn God is a stunning book. (It is also a handsome book, just the sort of thing one expects from Knopf: stout, creamy, a pleasure to hold. Only deckled pages would have been an improvement.) Lilla’s erudition informs a sweeping narrative of the early modern liberation from “political theology” effected by Hobbes, giving rise to the “Great Separation” between private claims to revelation and the public arbitration of politics by appeals to reason alone. But the remainder of the story tracks all the ways that “political theology” came back to haunt the modern West—particularly in German contexts. The core problem of the book is that it buys into the simplistic myth of religious violence and secular peace, resting on the unsubstantiated empirical claim that “religion” (whatever that is) breeds violence whereas institutions of liberal democracy foster peace (current world conflicts not withstanding). Lilla also continues to cling to the myth of a “secular” political philosophy. In both of these respects, he is culpably ignorant of contemporary scholarship (particularly the work of William Cavanaugh, John Milbank, Nicholas Wolterstorff and Jeffrey Stout). And Lilla can’t simply plead that he’s doing history; what’s at stake is his historiography. Despite these fundamental problems, it remains an important book that can’t be ignored.
The recent passing of Norman Mailer has been an occasion for the literati to reflect on both his genius and craziness (Christopher Hitchens' reminiscence is a treat). But perhaps the most voyeuristically captivating is Dick Cavett's recollection of the infamous episode of his late night TV talk show on ABC in 1971 wherein the talk show couch became an impromptu boxing ring as Norman Mailer squared off with Gore Vidal. The antics are ludicrous; and yet they stem from a sense that literature and criticism mattered (after all, the thrown-down-gauntlet that occassioned the fray was a claim Vidal made about Mailer in the New York Review of Books.)
But don't miss the really significant and depressing point: apparently in 1971, late night talk television was home to literary figures like Mailer, Vidal, and others. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine Cormac McCarthy and Joyce Carol Oates on Letterman? Or Alice Munro and Tom Wolfe making an appearance on Leno? Sadly, if this was ever going to happen on late night TV, I'd expect to see it on Comedy Central's Daily Show or Colbert Report.
I'm not given to conspiracy theories about the "liberal" or supposedly anti-religious bias of the media. Indeed of late, with the emergence of the so-called "new atheism" of Dawkins, Dennett, Hitchens, et. al., I've been encouraged to see outlets like the New York Times and Washington Post bring in voices that weren't just echoing choirs, but pushed back on the shoddy scholarship and inflated claims of these works. But I must confess to being puzzled by one thing: why is it that Keith Ward's book, Is Religion Dangerous?(Eerdmans, 2007) has not yet been reviewed in a major outlet? It's British version (2006) was reviewed (and praised) in places like the Times Literary Supplement and the Daily Telegraph. Why has its American release been ignored by the Times, the Post, the Globe, and other usual suspects who've given space to the new atheism?
Ward's book is excellent. Regrettably, it was published (in the UK) before the appearance of Dawkin's God Delusion and Hitchens' God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything; but nonetheless it already anticipates the sorts of flimsy arguments that they spout. While Ward's Christianity is a little liberal for my tastes (he's more enthusiastic about demythologizers like Tillich than I would be), the core of the book is on the money. It is even-handed, absent the screeching alarmism that tends to characterize these debates. And it is peppered with a wry British wit. Easily accessible for a general audience who's been following these conversations.
For many Protestants, “postliberal” theology has often also been an invitation to a more “Catholic” theology—a theology that is more properly ecclesial, written from and for the confessing, worshiping community. For instance, postliberalism has emphasized the extent to which “the Word of God” is the church’s book, rightly interpreted only within the stakes and interests of the confessing ecclesia. In a similar way, postliberalism has emphasized a role for tradition that counters the tradition-allergies of both conservative and liberal Protestantism. Thus one might suggest that Robert Barron’s wonderful book, The Priority of Christ: Toward a Postliberal Catholicism (Brazos, 2007), brings postliberalism back to its Catholic home. Drawing on the insights and intuitions of Lindbeck, Frei and others, Barron articulates a Catholic systematic theology that takes “the narratives concerning Jesus Christ as epistemically basic.” Thus his postliberal Catholicism is a narrative Catholicism, teasing out the implications of this for Christology and the doctrine of God, as well as ethics and epistemology—all drawing on a prodigious knowledge of the history of philosophy and theology. On top of all this, it is a downright lovely book, written with a kind of winsome literary flair that exhibits the inviting clarity of a master teacher. Highly recommended for sharp undergraduates; required reading for graduate students and scholars.
Taylor’s massive tome, A Secular Age, is one of those big, heavy landmark books that is destined to be a definitive classic. Taylor is out to tell a story about the emergence of our “secular” age, articulating a new kind of secularization thesis that also functions as a criticism of tired, triumphalistic versions that confidently predicted the steady withering of religion in our “modern” world. On Taylor’s account, secularity or secularization should not be merely identified with a diminishment in religious belief or the decline of religious observance. Rather, a “secular” age is one in which belief in God is no longer axiomatic. The shift that gave rise to secular modernity was a shift in the plausibility conditions of society such that even religious believers recognize the contestability of religious belief. In this respect, Europe (with little public religious observance) and the United States (rife with public religiosity and high religious participation) are both secular insofar as religious belief is considered one option among others. This shift in plausibility conditions makes possible the emergence of an “exclusive humanism” that, for the first time, imagines human flourishing without reference to transcendence. Essential reading.
For further discussion of Taylor's book by signicant scholars, visit The Immanent Frame.
With thanks to my good friend, Mark (my "music pusher"), I have been absolutely absorbed by Josh Ritter's new album, The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter--like, I mean, seriously obsessed with it to an absurd degree. In particular, I just can't shake a stunning song, "The Temptation of Adam." It tells a fascinating, rather surreal story while at the same time exploring the aspects of the sort of "love" that only lives in sequestered situations ("desert island"-relationships, you might call them). The lyrics indicate something of the poetry, but this doesn't do justice to it as a song (with mellow acoustics). The YouTube video of a live performance captures some of this, but I would highly recommend splurging on the album. (And it really is an "album"--a throwback to the days when an album was a "work," a kind of sustained meditation on a theme. This album [plus bonus CD] have a symphonic quality about them insofar as one keeps hearing echoes and reprise. Great stuff.)
"The Temptation of Adam" Lyrics:
If this was the Cold War we could keep each other warm I said on the first occasion that I met Marie We were crawling through the hatch that was the missile silo door And I don't think that she really thought that much of me
I never had to learn to love her like I learned to love the Bomb She just came along and started to ignore me But as we waited for the Big One I started singing her my songs And I think she started feeling something for me
We passed the time with crosswords that she thought to bring inside What five letters spell "apocalypse" she asked me I won her over saying "W.W.I.I.I." She smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me
Oh Marie it was so easy to fall in love with you It felt almost like a home of sorts or something And you would keep the warhead missile silo good as new And I'd watch you with my thumb above the button
Then one night you found me in my army issue cot And you told me of your flash of inspiration You said fusion was the broken heart that's lonely's only thought And all night long you drove me wild with your equations
Oh Marie do you remember all the time we used to take We'd make our love and then ransack the rations I think about you leaving now and the avalanche cascades And my eyes get washed away in chain reactions
Oh Marie if you would stay then we could stick pins in the map Of all the places where you thought that love would be found But I would only need one pin to show where my heart's at In a top secret location three hundred feet under the ground
We could hold each other close and stay up every night Looking up into the dark like it's the night sky And pretend this giant missile is an old oak tree instead And carve our name in hearts into the warhead
Oh Marie there's something tells me things just won't work out above That our love would live a half-life on the surface So at night while you are sleeping I hold you closer just because As our time grows short I get a little nervous
I think about the Big One, W.W.I.I.I. Would we ever really care the world had ended You could hold me here forever like you're holding me tonight I look at that great big red button and I'm tempted
It's always a treat when voices that move, inspire, and evoke us come together on the same page of criticism: Who doesn't find an almost voyeuristic pleasure in reading living literary giants writing about other great contemporary literati? I'm a junkie for such criticism: reading Evelyn Waugh reviewing Graham Greene or P.G. Wodehouse, Joyce Carol Oates reviewing Don DeLillo--you get the idea. Those who enjoy the same intersections will find a treat in this Sunday's New York Times Book Review: Christopher Hitchens on John Updike's new non-fiction collection, Due Considerations. Not surprisingly, Hitch thinks Updike is just too damn nice.
If, like me, you enjoy reading in literary and political magazines outside of the mainstreem, consider signing this petition:
On July 15, the postal rates for many of this nation's small magazines increased by 20 to 30 percent, due to a decision made by the Postal Regulatory Commission (PRC) that turns against more than 200 years of postal policy.
We believe this issue to be of such importance to small intellectual publications on both the right and left that we felt it imperative to alert our readers. This rate increase has the effect of shifting costs from the large publishers, such as Time Warner, to smaller publications, such as The New York Review, Commentary, The National Review, and The Nation. These unfair and onerous rate hikes threaten the future of many smaller, independent publications.
Congressional hearings have been scheduled for next Tuesday, October 30. Prior to that, we are requesting that all concerned readers sign a congressional email petition that can be found here: http://www.freepress.net/postal/
Free Press, working with a wide variety of small publishers, is hoping to collect well over 100,000 signatures by the end of this week in order to get the attention of the committee members prior to the hearing. We hope you will join in this effort. These new postal rates threaten the existence of the small independent magazines and journals that are so important to a free press and a vibrant democracy. Thank you for your help.
On a rainy afternoon a couple weeks back, my wife and I curled up at Shuler's, a local bookstore. I found the latest issue of The Paris Review and was immediately sucked in by a fascinating interview with Norman Mailer, part of their "Art of Fiction" tradition of interviews with leading writers. Mailer is typically irreverent and spiritual at the same time, a kind of avant-garde conservative. The interview is a riot and filled with some absolute gems about matters including style, God, character development, wives and ex-wives ("every wife is a culture," Mailer remarks), the absence of a generation of critics to succeed Wilson, Kazin, and others--and much more. A wonderful read.
Today I went looking for the interview online (I couldn't quite afford to drop the twelve bucks for the journal) and found a veritable treasure trove: the journal has made available dozens and dozens of past "Art of Fiction" interviews since 1953. And they're being made available (many downloadable as .pdfs) absolutely free! A fantastic resource that will have me sidetracked for days.
I'm not sure what it is about this surname, but to my list of "favorite poets named Wright" (James, Franz), I have recently added Charles. I only recently encountered his work: first in the summer issue of the Virginia Quarterly Review, then, about a week later, on the new arrivals shelf at the Grand Rapids Public Library where I picked up his recent collection, Scar Tissue.
Wright does a wonderful job of capturing the colloquial in ways that honor it without making it "high falutin.'" I hear in him a chronicler of sides and spaces of American culture that don't often receive the attention of poetic homage. VQR very generously provides access to one of my favorites, "Cowboy Up" and "The Gospel According to Yours Truly."
Cowboy Up Charles Wright
There comes a time in one’s life when one wants time, a lot of time, with inanimate things. Not ultimate inanimate things, Of course, but mute things, beautiful, untalkbackable wise things. That’s wishful thinking, cowboy.
Still, I’d like to see the river of stars fall noiselessly through the nine heavens for once, But the world’s weight, and the world’s welter, speak big talk and big confusion.
The Gospel According to Yours Truly Charles Wright
Tell me again, Lord, how easy it all is— renounce this, Renounce that, and all is a shining— Tell me again, I’m still here, your quick-lipped and malleable boy.
(Strange how the clouds bump and grind, and the underthings roll, Strange how the grasses finger and fondle each other— I renounce them, I renounce them, I renounce them. Gnarly and thin, the nothings don’t change . . .)
I finally had an opportunity to read Lamin Sanneh's wonderful little book, Whose Religion is Christianity? The Gospel Beyond the West. Sanneh, of Yale, is one of the leading voices reminding Western & European Christianity that it doesn't "own" the Church. And the book is written in the very engaging format of a dialogue, which makes it almost breezy (why don't more of us adopt this strategy?).
The book is a very helpful corrective and antidote to those (like myself!) inclined to a dreamy notion of Catholic liturgy and orthodoxy as the panacea for all global ills. While Sanneh is very interested in considering how world Christianity contests the secularism of the West, the shape of this "counter"-narration is very different from Western and European Christian critiques of secularism (as in Radical Orthodoxy--though I also think there are some important resonances).
According to Sanneh, the most interesting explosion of world Christianity bears little genealogical relationship to colonial missionary endeavors (which gave us "global Christianity", the globalization of European Christianity, not "world" Christianity, which springs from the bottom up). Rather, the most interesting movements of Christianity in the global South are indigenous. However, the current explosion owes one important factor to western missionary endeavors: the translation of Scripture into the mother tongue for different global contexts. The result, according to Sanneh, was that once colonial presence withdrew from these regions, Africans (for instance) were free to encounter the Gospel as Africans because they had the Bible in their mother tongue. And according to Sanneh, these contexts were especially primed for the Gospel precisely because their indigenous and primal religious sensibilities made them open to the dynamics and enchantment of a creator God who would come to inhabit history, would suffer, and rise from the dead. In other words, primal religions functioned as an especially fertile and open horizon for the reception of the Gospel--but now "discovered" indigeneously, and thus not freighted with European colonial baggage.
This is a fascinating story, and Sanneh, though emphasizing indigenous Christianity, is not simplistically anti-European precisely because he sees their role in translation. (I think he would also have to concede the formative role of 'Western' Christianity in shaping the very shape of the canon of the Bible that would later be translated into these mother tongues--but perhaps, in fact, the formation of the canon already included African and Asian voices.)
I do worry that there remains a hint of a new Christendom project latent in this story, but nonetheless, it is a story that needs to be heard far and wide in the West.
While, fittingly, on the beach, I finished Ian McEwan's latest, On Chesil Beach. Lingering in the ambiguous space between novella and novel, the book is exquisite. McEwan sketches worlds in fine-grained detail, but does so with a minimalist, almost sparse style. What I found most intriguing and remarkable, however, is his command of time. It is the rhythm and cadence of the novel that struck me. In the course of a focused, slice-of-life story about a wedding night, he also manages to narrate two complete lives. And he does so without having to resort to tricks or gimmicks like flashbacks. Instead, the story wends from past to present to future to present without missing a beat, and without the least jarring of the reader's temporal sensibilities. One of the summer's few "beach" reads that will repay re-reading.
Professor of Philosophy, Calvin College and Editor of Comment magazine. / / This is my space for "thinking out loud," an arena for practice at writing quickly and off-the-cuff. Comments are off, not because I don't value the opinions of others, but simply because I don't have time to do justice in reply.
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