Because everyone loves a good story
Out of the Silent Planet
When it comes to C.S. Lewis, I’ve tried to read pretty much everything he’s written. (No, I haven’t read his academic treatises or all of his letters…yet.) So when I picked up his science fiction trilogy for the first time several years ago, I was both surprised and delighted, for reasons I’ll discuss in a moment. I’ve written plenty of posts about Tolkien and other authors this year, but I wanted to end 2018 with this 3-part series on Lewis’ sci-fi trilogy: Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, and That Hideous Strength. In each post, I’ll look at the influences behind the book, what I loved about it, what surprised me about it, where it may daunt you, and why you should read it anyway. Check it out!
Influences
The first major influence on C.S. Lewis’ science fiction books was a man named Charles Williams. Although I’ve never read Williams’ novels or poems myself, I have read a bit about him as an author and a person, and boy, was he odd. He is said to have combined Anglican Christianity with some magical and occult beliefs, although I’m not sure how that’s possible. While Tolkien never approved of Williams (or of Lewis’ friendship with him), Lewis managed to see some redeeming qualities in the mind and writings of Williams.
After reading one of Williams’ metaphysical thriller novels, Lewis wrote to him to offer sincere praise and to invite him to a meeting of the Inklings (a small group of Christian writers), should Williams ever be in the area. When Williams did move to Oxford three years later, he joined the Inklings and began to share his works with the group. While Lewis was probably interested in science fiction long before this, the influence of Williams certainly pushed him to try his hand at this genre that is so unlike the rest of his works. Many people agree that the third book in Lewis’ science fiction trilogy bears the closest resemblance to Williams’ style, but I mention him at the outset because I think their friendship was a major catalyst in Lewis’ writing these books in the first place.
What I Loved
One thing I loved about this book was Lewis’ descriptions. He describes the space ship and journey that transports the protagonist, Ransom, and the two villains, Devine and Weston, to Mars. When they reach the planet, he paints a verbal picture of the terrain, creatures, and climate. All of his descriptions are fresh and interesting, even if they’re not scientifically probable. I mean, it’s science fiction, after all. What do you expect?
I also loved the creatures he encounters on Mars. Not only are the three types of beings distinctly different from humans, but they are also distinctly different from each other. For example, the hrossa are big, fuzzy creatures that remind me of Wookies. They love poetry and hunting for the monster that lives in their lakes. The second type of beings, the sorns, are like long, creepy humans in shape, but they are pale and feathered. They are the wise and scientific ones. The third beings,the pfifltriggi, are like a cross between a grasshopper and a frog. They are great at all things mechanical and artistic. But the main difference between these beings and humans is in their purity and simplicity. They aren’t competitive, selfish, angry, or dangerous. All those traits come with the men in the space ship.
What Surprised Me
I’ve already told you that I love the books, but I’ll be honest—they did surprise me at the beginning. First, they are a complete change of style and content from anything else I had ever read by Lewis. His Narnia books are written with children in mind, and his novel, Till We Have Faces, is historical, grave, and beautiful. Even his non-fiction feels like a lecture from a friendly British chap. But after having read so much of his other works, I initially felt like these three books came out of left field! When I read them through a second time, however, I was much better able to see the Lewis-esque touches throughout. His humor and irony are especially evident, and his love of language and theology can’t be hidden.
What surprised me about the first book specifically was Lewis’ condemnation of the western, Imperial mindset of Devine and Weston, the men who brought Ransom to Mars. He depicts one of them as a selfish, money-loving manipulator and the other as a self-righteous promoter of the rights of mankind over those of any other sentient beings. Their worldviews are not only stated but displayed by their actions, and Lewis’ disapproval is palpable. I began reading the book with the assumption that Lewis just wanted to set an entertaining story on another planet; however, I came to realize that he had a message to share as well.
Where It May Daunt You
In pursuit of an honest review, I’ve decided to include a brief section about where the books may daunt you. This, of course, is purely my own opinion and probably won’t be true for the majority of you. But as long as I’m bragging about the books, I may as well include some aspects that may throw you off when you begin reading them. For Out of the Silent Planet, you may be thrown off within the first few chapters if you’ve experienced Lewis only in the context of Narnia. These books bear very little resemblance to The Chronicles of Narnia, although they have great merits of their own.
You may also feel put out by this first book if you admire the depth to which Tolkien went in developing his elvish languages. Lewis dabbles in Martian languages in this book since the main character is a philologist, but he certainly didn’t write a whole dictionary full of words for it; that wasn’t his purpose. He includes enough of the Martian languages to be interesting and lend a bit of realism, which is good enough for me.
Why You Should Read It
So if you can put up with those minor caveats, then I think you will thoroughly enjoy the book as a whole. For one thing, reading Out of the Silent Planet and knowing that it’s written by C.S. Lewis is like experiencing a new surprise from an old, familiar friend. It’s exciting! Just when you think you know Lewis’ style, you’ll be back to square one with his science fiction persona. You should also read it because of the contrasting worldviews that I mentioned earlier. Lewis does a great job portraying the beliefs of the antagonists and the extreme actions they could lead to if left unchecked. It’s a novel and a cautionary tale in one.
So if you haven’t yet read these books, I suggest you find a copy at your local used book store soon. You’ll probably want to read them more than once, so get a good set! You may also enjoy the audio book version of the first one since it contains so many made up words–that way the narrator can figure out how to pronounce them out for you. I’d love to hear your thoughts about the books as well! Feel free to leave a comment, and tune in next week for a discussion about Perelandra, the second book of the trilogy and my personal favorite.
Check out the next post here!
Regarding Liturgies and “Every Moment Holy”
Every Moment Holy
Today I’d like to do something a little different: rather than waxing eloquent about a poem or author, I’d like to recommend a book I’ve never read. Sound risky? Maybe so, but read on to see why I’m willing to take this risk.
While browsing through the recent posts of Andrew Peterson’s “The Rabbit Room” website, I stumbled across an article entitled “A Liturgy for Setting Up a Christmas Tree.” Obviously, my curiosity was piqued. I remembered that The Rabbit Room had published a collection of modern liturgies for everyday situations, but I never got around to ordering one last year. I sure meant to, though, since I love so much of what comes from Andrew Peterson and the folks he endorses.
I dug a little deeper and found an article in which Peterson explains the purpose of this book. He says, “Doug McKelvey’s Every Moment Holy reminds us that there are no unsacred moments; there are only sacred moments and moments we have forgotten are sacred.” And this reminder was just what I needed to hear.
Why Liturgy?
Maybe the better question to begin with is, “What is liturgy?” I looked up several definitions and examples, and they all seem to say the same thing: liturgy is a religious tradition made up words and sometimes actions in which one person leads and the congregation participates. Often, liturgy refers to a set reading or a performed ritual. From these definitions, you may be getting the impression that liturgies are pretty boring. Granted, it’s not a word that usually connotes much excitement or enthusiasm.
So why recommend a book of liturgical prayers, especially one I’ve never read? Because, until I read the article by Andrew Peterson, I had forgotten how helpful these sorts of prayers can be. In my own pursuit of God, I’ve read two or three books that fall into this category of laid-out prayers, and they have all been immensely helpful. Let me share a couple of them with you.
Handbook to Prayer
First, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed a tiny little book called “Handbook to Prayer: Praying Scripture Back to God,” by Kenneth Boa. Now, Kenneth Boa didn’t really write the book, per se, since almost the entire thing is made up of scripture passages. But he selected the passages, arranged them by topic, and laid out a way to pray through various aspects of the Christian life for each day. Each day’s prayer includes scriptures of adoration, confession, renewal, petition, intercession, affirmation, thanksgiving, and closing prayer. While there’s nothing magical or extra-holy about praying through a book like this, I’ve found it very helpful. When I use it, it keeps my prayers from becoming lazy or drifting away entirely, which they sadly tend to do. Granted, this isn’t strictly liturgical because it is meant for private prayer instead of corporate, but its formulaic structure seemed similar enough to mention here.
The Valley of Vision
Second, I love the collection of Puritan prayers called “The Valley of Vision.” The Puritans in general were much cooler than we give them credit for, and this little gem is a great example of why. The book has collected old prayers in all kinds of categories, including redemption and reconciliation, penitence and depreciation, and gifts of grace. The prayers are so simple, honest, and deep that it makes me realize how shallow and rushed my own prayers often are. Praying along with these old saints helps focus my heart on things deeper and better than I would have thought of on my own. And while these aren’t necessarily laid out to be read in public worship, I’ve seen them used for that purpose to great effect.
Read These Articles
I’ve kept today’s post short and sweet in hopes that you’ll head over to the Rabbit Room website and read the two articles I’ve been talking about. First, read Andrew Peterson’s description of Every Moment Holy. I think you’ll find the explanation helpful and encouraging, even (or especially) if your church isn’t very liturgical.
Then, if you’re in the mood, read the prayer entitled “A Liturgy for Setting Up a Christmas Tree.” You may already have finished your decorating, but it’s not too late to use the tree as a reminder of the sacredness of every moment, especially in this Christmas season.
And if you’re up for even more, maybe we should both order a copy of Every Moment Holy. After all, our days have plenty of routine already; we may as well intend to sanctify the moments. Books of liturgy are a great practice to help us do just that.
Masterful Poems, Part 2: “Meditation 1.1”
What love is this of Thine that cannot be
In Thine infinity, O Lord, confined,
Unless it in Thy very person see
Infinity and finity conjoined?
With this beautiful, mind-bending question, Edward Taylor begins his poem “Meditation 1.1.” His wit, wordplay, and sincere devotion are evident in this little three-stanza gem, so read on to have your heart challenged and encouraged.
Edward Who?
Edward Taylor (1642–1729) was a Puritan minister and a gifted American poet. He wrote prolifically during his lifetime, compiling several long collections of religious and other poems, although only two stanzas were published while he was still alive. In fact, his complete works weren’t published until 1960! So what makes this old poet so interesting to me? As usual, it’s the combination of his heart and his head.
Taylor was a pretty smart cookie. After he sailed from England to Boston in order to pursue religious freedom, he immediately enrolled in Harvard University. After his graduation, he accepted a position to become minister of a congregation in Westfield, MA, and there he stayed for the rest of his life. This is where he wrote his best poetry, often as personal preparation for his sermons or communion.
Taylor’s Got Style
Judging from his poetic style, he must have read widely in both classic and contemporary literature. His poems range anywhere from showy to sincere. But don’t be deterred by his ornate analogies and his old-timey words; the poem we’re looking at today is pure gold. It’s referred to as “Meditation 1.1” because it is the first in a series of poems called Preparatory Meditations. He wrote these to prepare his heart to serve the Lord’s Supper.
As you read the poem, look for the various word pictures that he paints to describe the indescribable love of God for undeserving sinners. In these three stanzas, he eloquently depicts the irony of God’s humanity, sacrifice, and grace.
“Meditation 1.1”
What love is this of Thine that cannot be
In Thine infinity, O Lord, confined,
Unless it in Thy very person see
Infinity and finity conjoined?
What hath Thy godhead, as not satisfied,
Married our manhood, making it its bride?
Oh matchless love! Filling heaven to the brim!
O’errunning it: all running o’er beside
This world! Nay, overflowing hell; wherein
For Thine elect there rose a mighty tide!
That there our veins might through Thy person bleed,
To quench those flames that else would on us feed.
Oh! that Thy love might overflow my heart!
To fire the same with love: for love I would.
But oh! my straitened breast! my lifeless spark!
My fireless flame! What chilly love, and cold?
In measure small! In manner chilly! See.
Lord, blow the coal: Thy love enflame in me.
Stanza One: God’s Humanity
Even if you’ve pulled nothing else from the poem yet, I’ll bet you did notice that he’s pretty awe-struck by the love of God. He uses a few different literary techniques to express his amazement. In stanza one, he employs irony to highlight the indescribable magnitude of God’s love: it is so big that infinity itself cannot contain it! In order to express His love fully, God chose to “marry” His infinite godhead with our finite humanity, resulting in the birth of Jesus. The life, death, and resurrection of Emmanuel—God with us—was the best way for God to display the fullness of His love to us.
Stanza Two: God’s Sacrifice
In stanza two, Taylor uses the metaphor of a flood to elaborate on this love and redemption. God’s love was not content merely to stay in heaven and look down on condemned souls in hell. Instead, His love overflowed heaven, spilled over onto earth, and poured down into the deepest chasms of hell. Taylor pictures this flood of love as a rising tide on which God’s elect, like Noah, are carried safely out of judgment and into salvation. The flood that quenches the flames of hell is nothing less than the blood of Christ, whose veins bled in our place and quenched our condemnation.
Stanza Three: God’s Grace
The last stanza is a prayer, and it’s one that I think we can all relate to. After considering the earth-shattering, mind-blowing love of God for us, Taylor looks into his own heart and is appalled to see the comparative apathy that he feels for God in return. He finds no flood of love, no fire of passion. But Taylor knew that we can’t conjure up a love for God on our own; our response of love is a gift of grace from God Himself. So rather than despair, Taylor asks God to fill him with love. In His grace, we know this is a prayer that God is delighted to answer.
And after seeing God’s love through the eyes of Edward Taylor, I echo his prayer as well: “Lord, blow the coal: Thy love enflame in me.”
Sources:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/edward-taylor#tab-poems
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/preparatory-meditations-first-series-1/
Awesome Children’s Books, Part 4: “Where the Wild Things Are”
If you’ve never read “Where the Wild Things Are,” by Maurice Sendak, then I’m not sure where you’ve been all your life, but I know where you need to go: to the library.
A.S.A.P.
The book will take you less than two minutes to read, but it will probably take you much longer to digest. On the surface, it seems like a simple book with few words and many pictures. But the longer I’ve read it and thought about it, the more I’ve realized there is a lot going on under the surface of the story. Want proof? Read on!
Who Was Maurice Sendak?
Author and illustrator Maurice Sendak was quite an interesting fellow. He was born in New York in 1928 to a family with Polish-Jewish heritage. Because he was sickly, he spent much of his childhood in bed reading books. Believe it or not, he decided to become an illustrator after watching Disney’s Fantasia as a child. A much more tragic influence on his life was the death of many of his overseas relatives in the Holocaust, a fact that colored his fiction and influenced his thinking about mortality.
Sendak illustrated books for many other authors (including Else Holmelund Minarik’s “Little Bear” books!), but he also wrote and illustrated books of his own before his death in 2012. While some of his works are considered creepy or even controversial, he does have an undeniable gift for communication. “Where the Wild Things Are” is probably his best-known work, and when you experience its unique, haunting illustrations and simple, haunting story, you’ll see why. Let’s dig into it a bit more, shall we?
How to Tackle Literature
As you may know, I had the privilege of teaching literature (and other stuff) to students for many years. I absolutely loved the opportunity to pose questions and then watch their minds work. Literature—even well-written children’s books—is a great platform for mental development. I used “Where the Wild Things Are” in both my junior high Reading Comprehension class and my eleventh-grade American Literature class as a way to help them think through plot, purpose, and theme, and I’m excited to do that with you today!
It may be nerdy of me to get excited about studying books like this, but I really can’t help it. I’m a Hermione Granger through and through (even though parts of me often wander into Luna Lovegood territory). But I really do believe that training your mind to ask good questions about what you read, watch, or hear is critical to having a mind that isn’t just a receptacle but is a force of its own. When we interact with our entertainment, shifting into “Why?” mode instead of coasting along in neutral, we are much more likely to understand, enjoy, and benefit from it.
Or maybe that’s just me. Either way, let’s give it a shot together, shall we?
What’s the Plot?
The first question to ask yourself when you read this book is, “What is the plot?” Thankfully, this is the easy question. The book is about a naughty little boy named Max who puts on a wolf costume and wreaks havoc on his house one night. His mother calls him a wild thing, and he threatens to eat her up. In punishment, his mother sends him to bed with no supper. Max falls asleep and dreams that he sails to the place where the wild things are.
At first, he loves it there. He intimidates the wild things by glaring into their eyes without blinking, so they declare him their king. They celebrate all night long with a wild rumpus, of which Max is clearly the ringleader. He tells them what to do and when to stop. But by morning, Max is hungry, tired, and lonely. He “wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.” So, much to the dismay of the wild things, he hops back in his boat and sails home. When he wakes up from his dream, he finds that his mother had brought dinner to him in his room. “And it was still hot.”
What’s the Purpose?
Now, on the surface, it seems like a simple little story about a boy who had a fun dream. If you think about it a little deeper, it could also be a story about a mother’s unconditional love. And while those are true and viable takeaways, I think there may be another layer to the story. What makes me think so? Asking the question, “What’s the purpose?”
For example, whenever there is repetition in a story, it’s pretty likely that the author did it for a reason. This story begins with Max being called “WILD THING!” by his mother, and in return Max yells, “I’LL EAT YOU UP!” But later when Max has had his fill of the other wild things and wants to go home, they say, “’Oh please don’t go—we’ll eat you up—we love you so!’” Also, at the beginning of the story, we know Max’s mom tried to get him to stop making mischief and eventually had to send him to bed without any supper. Later, when Max becomes king of the wild things, he puts an end to their wild rumpus. “’Now stop!’ Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper.” So what’s the purpose of this repetition? In other words, why did Sendak write the story like this? I think he was doing it to communicate something about theme, or the “moral of the story.”
What’s the Theme?
Good books (and movies) don’t just tell a story; they tell a story with a point, or theme. In “Where the Wild Things Are,” the repeated elements help point us to a possible theme. For example, consider how the story puts Max in his mother’s place. At first, she is the one yelling at the “wild thing” to settle down and obey. She is the one sending him to bed without supper because he insists on being unruly. She is the boss, but you can imagine that she’s frazzled and probably discouraged. But Max is angry because he wants to call the shots. So when Max gets to the place where the wild things are, he decides to take charge and be the boss. He leads them. He commands a wild party. He tells them when to be still and when to stop. He sends them to bed with no supper. After all, he is the king.
But eventually he takes time to sit down and think. And what does the king come to realize? That being the boss can be a lonely, tiring job. That sometimes enough is enough. That maybe, just maybe, his mother was right. He had wanted a chance to be in charge and do whatever he pleased, but when he got it, he realized it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He felt lonely, and he didn’t want to be king anymore.
In fact, he realized that being where someone loves you best of all is even better than being king of the wild things.
In Conclusion
So how do we know that Sendak really intended us to learn this from the story? Well, unless an author leaves behind notes and quotes, we’re really just making educated guesses. But the more we practice this skill, the more educated our guesses will become. Go ahead—try it on some books or movies that you know!
And, for bonus points, watch the movie adaptation of “Where the Wild Things Are.” It’s wild, dark, tragic, and hopeful, and I think it promotes the same theme we just discovered. But don’t take my word for it; let me know what you think!
Source: Sendak, Maurice. Where the Wild Things Are. New York: Scholastic, 1963.
“On Fairy-Stories” Epilogue: Evangelium
“The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories” (155).
Remember how I told you that we’d be looking at the glorious intersection between fairy-stories and the Gospel? Today, my friends, that’s just what we’ll do. It’s our last installment in this mega-series, so buckle up for the last lap; it’s gonna be awesome!
A Realistic Fantasy World
Last week we saw that Tolkien coined the word eucatastrophe to describe the “good turning” of a plot from hopeless sorrow to inconceivable joy. This joy, he asserts, is the mark of a true fairy-story. This week he goes further. As he concludes his lengthy essay about fairy-stories in general, he focuses his epilogue on the way that the story of Christ is “the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe” (156). What makes this news even better is that “this story has entered History and the primary world [that is, the world in which we live as opposed to a merely literary world]; the desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation” (156).
Allow me to explain. Authors of fantasy worlds strive to make them as “realistic” as possible, not in the sense that the setting or plot should seem familiar but that they should feel authentic and believable in that context. Even the unlikeliest storyline can bring joy to our hearts when the eucatastrophe strikes a note for which we’ve been longing. We want the Beast to transform and marry Belle. We want the Ring of Power to be destroyed in Mt. Doom. We want Princess Buttercup and Westley to live happily ever after. When these far-fetched desires finally come true, our longings are consoled and satisfied.
But unless we are a little bit silly, we don’t really think they happened in the same sense that VE Day happened in 1945.
The Story That Came True
However, Tolkien’s point here is not just that well-orchestrated eucatastrophies are, in one sense, believable; his greater point is that the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the story we would most desire to be true, “has entered History and the primary world” where it really did take place (156)! Consider the idea that God Himself—the only Creator—would choose to take on a human body and then be slaughtered so that He could mend the broken relationship with his rebellious creatures. Preposterous! Sacrilegious! Absurd! But also completely and utterly true.
“The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy…. There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many skeptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath” (156). If you read the Gospels honestly, the only explanation for their structuring is that they actually happened. Hallelujah! What a eucatastrophe!
The Divine “Legend”
So why is the story of Christ “infinitely…high and joyous[?] Because this story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified. God is the Lord, of angels, and of men—and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused” (156). What does he mean by saying that the story of Christ is a “Legend” that became History? Doesn’t that degrade divine reality to the level of a made-up story? In this case, not at all. Consider this: what is a legend? It’s a story that someone constructed. Sure, some legends may have roots in a real story, and many legends have been tweaked by various tellers throughout the ages. But ultimately, a legend is a story that someone wrote.
The Divine Author
So who wrote the story of Jesus? I don’t mean who recorded the eyewitness details of His life on earth; Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John did that under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. I mean, who wrote the script for this most eucatastrophic of all stories? God did! Follow with me here: you and I don’t write the script for our own lives. Sure, we make our choices and live our lives accordingly, but we weren’t sitting around before birth thinking of how we’d direct the narrative of our lives. We simply show up and live.
But Christ’s story was written before the world was even created. The Trinity wrote the story of mankind’s redemption by means of the birth, death, and resurrection of the Son of God. That’s why He constantly reminded people that He wasn’t here to do whatever He wanted; He was here to do the will of the Father. In other words, He was sticking to the script. From His conception to His ascension, He was causing the Legend (or pre-written story) to become History in actual fact. Now that is infinitely high and joyous!
A Takeaway for Authors
So what does this mean for those of us who aspire to be Christian authors? Should we fill every book with a re-telling of the story of Jesus in order to tap into the greatest Story ever told? No, not in Tolkien’s opinion. Rather, he affirms that “the Evangelium [aka, the story of Christ in the Gospels] has not abrogated [or nullified] legends; it has hallowed them, especially the ‘happy ending’” (156). When we write stories that reflect the hope and joy that we’ve found in the Gospel, we point our readers to the Greatest Author. Our stories aren’t cheapened by not stating the Gospel verbatim; rather, they are enriched by their resemblance to the story of Jesus.
This style of storytelling has very little in common with the “modernism” that Tolkien so dislikes. That’s why a well-written, modern story with true hope will certainly catch the attention of today’s readers. So is it worthwhile to pursue the life of a Christian author? Absolutely. “The Christian has still to work, with mind as well as body, to suffer, hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his bents and faculties have a purpose, which can be redeemed” (156). Writing well is hard work, but it is well worth it.
A Takeaway for Everyone
And, finally, what does this mean for all of us, even those who aren’t interested in being authors? What’s our takeaway? Simply this: choose entertainment that reflects the evangelium. We saw in earlier weeks that there are many kinds of entertainment available—depressing, agnostic, nihilistic, sordid, and crazy. There are movies that scramble your brain and crush your hopes. There are books that drag your mind through the mud. There are songs that glorify the trite, temporary, and sensual.
But there are other options, too.
Rather than jumping like lemmings into the sea of pop culture, decide to be different. Choose movies that, while admitting the world isn’t always a happy place, provide the possibility of hope and redemption. Choose books that display a higher standard of style and content. Choose music that actually means something. We aren’t just mindless creatures; we are educated consumers. Consume that which is beautiful, and watch your thirsty soul drink it in. Show today’s entertainment industry that we don’t always want something edgy or dismal. Sometimes we want a good fairy-story. There is art out there that does a lovely job of this, so celebrate it, and then use it as a way to celebrate the Greatest Story.
Today’s Question: What movies, books, and music have you enjoyed that display hope rather than modernism?
Source:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 5: Consolation
Hurray! We’re getting down to the real goods today, folks! This post and the next one are why I set about to discuss Tolkien’s “On Fairy-Stories” in the first place. Think it’s crazy that I slogged through four previous posts before getting around to what I really wanted to write about? Well, it probably is, but what can I say? I’m a girl after Tolkien’s own heart.
Recently we’ve looked at the first three purposes of fairy-stories (or imaginative literature): Fantasy, Recovery, and Escape. In today’s post, we’ll talk about the final purpose: Consolation. I’m so excited about it, because this is where he really starts to apply fairy-stories to the Gospel.
Wait, what?
I know! Unexpected, but very awesome. We’ll get just a glimmer of it this week, but it will explode into fireworks next week. Read on to find out more!
Escape from Society and Suffering
Last week we looked at how fairy-stories provide a kind of Escape from the drudgery of modern life, such as ugly, mass-produced electric street lamps. But he also acknowledges that “there are other things more grim and terrible to fly from than the noise, stench, ruthlessness, and extravagance of the internal-combustion engine. There are hunger, thirst, poverty, pain, sorrow, injustice, death” (151). Even though reading a fairy-story won’t solve these problems outright, a good story will provide a healthy way of escaping from these sad realities for a while. An even better story will give you a fresh perspective through which to view and deal with these realities.
But fairy-stories can do even more! In addition to providing a mental escape, it can also give consolation for our desires. “Even when men are not facing hard things such as these, there are ancient limitations from which fairy-stories offer a sort of…satisfaction and consolation” (151). But what does he mean by “consolation,” and what sorts of limitations is he referring to?
Consolation of Desires
To me, the word “consolation” can be a little confusing in this context. The term conjures up a “consolation prize,” or a little trinket that you receive for trying but losing. It also suggests a crying baby being consoled by a parent. But both of these do hint at the way in which Tolkien uses the word. You may not have won the game, but your desire to get a prize is consoled. The baby may still feel grumpy, but his desire to be cared for is consoled. To Tolkien in this context, the word “consolation” means a satisfaction of deep desires.
For example, Tolkien lists a few “pardonable weaknesses or curiosities” such as the desire to explore the depths of the ocean with as much freedom as a fish or to sail effortlessly through the air with the noiseless grace of a bird (151). He even mentions the desire to talk with and understand animals. These may be things that we think about more often as children than as adults, but if we’re honest with ourselves, desires like these never truly leave us. Fairy-stories offer consolation or satisfaction not by giving us skills to perform these feats but by letting us imagine ourselves in the place of those who can.
The Great Escape
He then goes on to list “the oldest and deepest desire, the Great Escape: the Escape from Death” (153). Stories about this desire can be written from numerous perspectives: scientific, medical, historical, science fiction, and fantasy, to name a few. Given the chance in many of these stories, the characters would choose physical immortality over a life of death and decay. And if we were given the choice, wouldn’t we be tempted to do the same? But Tolkien points out that this kind of “endless serial living” would not satisfy us like we think it would (153).
In fact, he imagines that when Elves write human-stories (much like we write fairy-stories), they probably fill their tales with the theme of the “Escape from Deathlessness” (153). Even worse than the curse of a mortal life is the curse of physical immortality in an ever-changing world.
Consider a scene from Peter Jackson’s movie version of “The Two Towers.” In speaking to his daughter Arwen, the elf Elrond paints a bleak picture of an immortal life in a mortal world. If Arwen chooses to stay in Middle Earth and marry the human, Aragorn, she will experience temporary happiness followed by eternal sorrow. See, Tolkien believes that it is not prolonged physical life that our hearts truly desire. Rather, he says, “far more important is the Consolation of the Happy Ending” (153).
A Happy Ending
Tolkien believes that one of the chief characteristics of a fairy-story is its happy ending. He states that “tragedy is the true form of Drama, its highest function; but the opposite is true of Fairy-story. Since we do not appear to possess a word that expresses this opposite—I will call it Eucatastrophe. The eucatastrophic tale is the true form of fairy-tale, and its highest function” (153). I love this! The opposite of tragedy is Eucatastrophe. Leave it to Tolkien to scour the English lexicon and reject all of its antonyms for “tragedy” in favor of his own Greek-derived concoction. But what on earth does he mean?
He defines eucatastrophe as a “good catastrophe, the sudden joyous ‘turn’” just when you think the story is at its lowest point (153). In Greek, the word “catastrophe” means an overturning. The prefix “eu” means good. So think of a story’s eucatastrophe as the point at which the plot is overturned by something good. It’s the unlikely maneuver that changes the outcome of the battle. It’s the unexpected but much-desired change of fortune for the underdog hero. It’s Luke Skywalker’s using the Force to destroy the Death Star just moments before it’s too late.
But isn’t that just the wishful thinking of an escapist? Not necessarily. Tolkien argues that eucatastrophe “does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief” (153).
I hope you got butterflies from thinking about those last few lines. This idea of eucatastrophe being a glimpse of the Gospel, or evangelium, is what we will focus on next week, so be sure to tune in. It’s the grand finale, and I know you won’t want to miss it!
Today’s Question: What is your favorite example of eucatastrophe in a book, movie, or other story?
Check out the final post here!
Sources:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
Video clip from Peter Jackson’s “The Two Towers”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_i3Ax4YJySg
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 4: Escape
What do you do when you need a break from the grind of everyday life? Binge on Seinfeld reruns? Take a bubble bath? Enjoy some comfort food? Read my blog? Tolkien’s remedy was even better, although it wouldn’t be the default for most of us: he suggested escaping into the world of fairy-stories.
As a quick review, we’ve already mentioned the four purposes of fairy-stories: Fantasy, Recovery, Escape, and Consolation. By “Fantasy,” Tolkien means that fairy-stories can be a form of verbal art when the author sub-creates something with his or her imagination. When he talks about “Recovery,” he means that fairy stories can cure us of a snobbish dislike of what’s beautiful simply because it’s old. And this week we’ll take a quick peek at the idea of “Escape.” While Tolkien does point out that Escape and Consolation are closely related, I’d rather look at them one at a time. Then I won’t get too carried away, thereby sending one or both of us into mental conniptions.
What Do You Mean, Escape?
In typical Tolkien fashion, he wants to redefine the popular connotation of the word before he goes on to tell you what he intends to say about it. In the case of the word “Escape,” he takes offense at the negative tone that literary critics (or those who parrot the critics) use when talking about his beloved fairy-stories. They dismiss them as stories either for children or for adults who want to keep thinking like children. The critics refuse to acknowledge any real value or benefit from a story that ends “happily ever after.” In his use of the word Escape, Tolkien rejects this negative tone and redefines the word in its original sense of breaking free from confinement.
Far from denying that fairy-stories offer a kind of Escape to modern readers, Tolkien heartily affirms it. “Though fairy-stories are of course by no means the only means of Escape,” he says, “they are today one of the most obvious and (to some) outrageous forms of ‘escapist’ literature” (147). But to those of us who, like Tolkien, feel that the modern world is lacking in moral goodness, creative freshness, and artistic beauty, the fairy-story’s promise of Escape is not a child’s trinket but a jailer’s key.
What’s Wrong with Escape?
As I said, Tolkien doesn’t deny that fairy-stories offer a form of Escape. Instead, he denies that there is any problem with wanting to escape. “In what the misusers of Escape are fond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently as a rule very practical, and may even be heroic. In real life it is difficult to blame it, unless it fails; in criticism it would seem to be the worse the better it succeeds” (148).
If you were to wake up and find yourself in a prison cell when you hadn’t done anything wrong, wouldn’t you be justified in wanting to escape? Could anyone blame you for thinking and talking about things other than the cell, the bars, and the cot? This is the analogy that Tolkien gives for the imaginative mind imprisoned in the modern world. When critics accuse authors and readers of fairy-stories with being escapist, “they are confusing…the Escape of the Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter” (148). We aren’t betraying the United States of Reality; we are breaking out of Modernism Penitentiary.
Escape from What?
Although I’ve hinted at several things from which the writer or reader of fairy-stories would like to escape, Tolkien gets even more specific: he cites modern, electric street lamps. If you’ve read much by Tolkien, you know that he despises recent inventions that favor speed, uniformity, and efficiency over quality, beauty, and craftsmanship. For proof of this, just contrast the fiery forges of Isengard with the tranquil paths of Rivendell.
But why street lamps? Because, to Tolkien, they are just one more example of how ugly, modern conveniences are replacing lovely, traditional ones. Refusing to include such inventions in a fairy-story often proceeds “from a considered disgust for so typical a product of the Robot Age, that combines elaboration and ingenuity of means with ugliness, and (often) with inferiority of result” (148). He sees nothing wrong with crafting a story that doesn’t parade all the modern aspects of reality. Since we’re surrounded with these things in our everyday lives, Tolkien prefers to read and write literature that provides some variety in the form of beauty.
Escape to What?
So he proposes escaping from the drudgery of ugly technological conveniences by means of literature. I think we could all benefit from this kind of Escape once in a while. But does this mean that we all have to read fairy-stories, or fantasy tales, in order to escape? Definitely not!
Tolkien points out that your preference doesn’t always have to be for dragons and witches and fairies. You can enjoy escaping to ancient times when you read historical fiction. You can escape to the imagined future when you read science fiction. In Tolkien’s mind, the destination doesn’t matter, so long as it takes you out of our age of ever-increasing technology and the grim tide of progress.
“It is indeed an age of ‘improved means to deteriorated ends.’ It is part of the essential malady of such days—producing the desire to escape not indeed from life but from our present time and self-made misery—that we are acutely conscious both of the ugliness of our works, and of their evil” (151). Notice one distinction that he makes here: it’s not good to desire escape from all reality or from life itself. To live perpetually in a fantasy realm, to dream your life away like Miniver Cheevy, and to despise this world to the point of trying to leave it are all unhealthy reactions. Tolkien’s alternative is to make the best of the world we’re in while enjoying the Escape that well-written literature provides.
Today’s Question: What is your favorite kind of “escapist” literature?
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Robinson, Edward Arlington. “Miniver Cheevy.” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44978/miniver-cheevy
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
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