Because everyone loves a good story
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 2: The Purpose
Consider this: “It may be better for [children] to read some things, especially fairy-stories, that are beyond their measure rather than short of it. Their books like their clothes should allow for growth, and their books at any rate should encourage it” (138).
At our age, it’s generally not a good idea to buy clothes that allow for too much growth (I’m looking at you, stretchy pants), but when is the last time you and I read a book that encouraged our growth? I’ll admit that for me it’s not as often as I’d like. But this essay certainly counts as one that encourages growth, as I hope you’ll see in today’s post. Let’s tackle this next section as we examine the value and function of fairy-stories!
The Value of Fairy-Stories
Last week we defined our terms, and this week we begin by asking, “So what’s the value of a fairy-story, anyway?” Sure, it may be entertaining or amusing, but does it have any real benefit? Tolkien makes a helpful observation on this point: “If written with art, the prime value of fairy-stories will simply be that value which, as literature, they share with other literary forms” (138). The qualifying statement here is that the story must be “written with art.” If it adheres to that standard, then you can gain as much from reading that fairy-story as from any other well-written literature.
As I’m sure you’ve noticed, not all literature is “written with art” or attention to skill, beauty, and the achievement of what the writer imagined. In fact, a lot of books are just plain awful in style and content. A fairy-story that seems slapped together probably was, and the same goes for romance novels, historical fiction, teen fiction, etc., regardless of its cult following. But don’t get me started on this. Today, we’ll just leave it at the fact that an artfully-written fairy-story is worth reading for its own sake.
The Function of Fairy-Stories
Now that we’ve seen the value of these stories, what about their function, or purpose? I think this is where Tolkien hits his stride in the essay, getting down to the meat of what he really intended to say all along. He asserts that the purpose of fairy-stories is fourfold: fantasy, recovery, escape, and consolation. Because it’s so chock-full of goodness, we’ll only be tackling the first one today.
The Difficulty of Fantasy
Again, Tolkien is dissatisfied with modern connotations of English words. He chooses “Fantasy” to mean the sub-creative Art that depicts the Imaginary in words. …Wait, what? Ok, so basically Tolkien wants to make clear that Imagination is something that happens in the mind. We can imagine things from the primary world—that is, the world that exists around us. We can also imagine things outside of the primary world—things that we sub-create using a combination of things from the world around us. Now, Art takes these Imaginations and puts them into words so that everyone can “see” them. This, Tolkien says, is Fantasy.
His definition seems pretty complex at first, but I think that’s part of his point. One of the essential drawbacks of Fantasy, he says, is that “it is difficult to achieve” (139). Because it’s hard to give an imaginary world the “inner consistency of reality,” many fantasy writers tend to leave their stories and their worlds undeveloped. That’s because writing this kind of a story “will probably require labour and thought, and will certainly demand a special skill, a kind of elvish craft. Few attempt such difficult tasks” (140).
An Expert in His Field
I can’t help but smile at those last two sentences. Can’t you see him coyly tooting his own authorial horn? “It isn’t just anyone who possesses the skill and discipline to create worlds as I have done, you know,” he would say as he smugly puffs his pipe. But in reality, he wrote this essay two years after the publication of The Hobbit but long before The Lord of the Rings was written. I doubt that he had even decided to tackle a trilogy of that caliber yet.
But even if he had, there is one thing we can say in defense of Tolkien: he practiced what he preached. By the time The Hobbit was published, he’d already been writing his elvish languages and Middle Earth mythologies for 20 years! Please excuse me while I go rethink my desire to write and publish a fantasy novel of my own.
Hung, Drawn, and Quartered
Now here comes one of the most controversial aspects of his essay: Tolkien believes that Fantasy should remain a verbal art, not a visual one. “But wait,” you say. “Peter Jackson directed six movies based off of Tolkien’s fantasy books!” Yes, you are correct. “But wouldn’t that have made Tolkien mad?” Yes, I believe it would. But why was Tolkien so loath to display a work of Fantasy visually? He gives two main reasons.
First, when Tolkien wrote this essay, movies were still in their infancy. There were no special effects or CGI like we see today. Most visual art of this sort took place on the stage of a theater, which meant that every part had to be acted out by people in costumes. Regarding this, Tolkien observes that “men dressed up as talking animals may achieve buffoonery or mimicry, but they do not achieve Fantasy” (140). In fact, in reference to a play where an ogre turned into a mouse, he says, “Though [it was] done with some ingenuity of lighting, disbelief had not so much to be suspended as hung, drawn, and quartered” (141). Our minds do a much better job of envisioning a story if left unhindered by clunky costumes and quoted lines.
One World Too Many
Second, he believes that a visual drama already presents a secondary world that it asks you to believe in. In order to enjoy a play or even a movie, you have to believe in the characters and lose yourself in that secondary world. But by introducing elements of the fantastic into this secondary world, you are asking the audience to enter into a tertiary world! You are now watching people pretend to pretend that they’re in a Fantasy world. In Tolkien’s mind, this strains credulity beyond its breaking point.
Besides, trying to wrangle a true Fantasy book into stage or movie form is sure to compromise the quality of the book itself. We can all think of several examples here, I’m sure. But writing a Fantasy book with a stage or movie adaptation in mind would be equally harmful. They are separate arts, Tolkien asserts, and should not be confused. If you judge books by dramatic standards, “you are…likely to prefer characters, even the basest and dullest, to things. Very little about trees as trees can be got into a play” (142). And we all know how Tolkien feels about trees.
In Conclusion
Well, that’s all the time we have for today, folks! Tune in next time to learn about Recover and the cryptic term “Mooreeffoc.”
Today’s Question: If Tolkien were alive today and could see the realism of our movies, do you think he would change his mind and support the visual display of Fantasy on the screen?
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
“On Fairy Stories,” Part 1: The Basics
Ah, Tolkien. Perhaps one of the most brilliantly-creative minds of the last century. Certainly one of the most influential fantasy writers in the English language. And yet he’s a bit of an acquired taste, isn’t he? Read on to discover why some people have a hard time digesting Tolkien’s works and how this blog series proposes to help (at least for one of his essays.)
The Perils of Tolkien’s Works
Many people have read The Hobbit. Fewer have read The Lord of the Rings trilogy all the way through. Even fewer souls have dared plow through “the rest of Tolkien’s stuff,” whatever oddments that may entail. And why? Personally, I think it’s because of Tolkien’s proclivity to wax eloquent. Or, if you prefer, he uses lots of words. To me, this is generally delightful, but to others, it’s understandably tedious.
So when it comes to reading Tolkien’s essay “On Fairy-Stories,” I can think of two reasons that Joe Schmoe might not settle in with a cup of Earl Grey in anticipation of an enjoyable evening’s perusal of the essay. Reason Numero Uno: Who cares about fairy stories at our ripe old age? Reason Deux: Who wants to sift through Tolkien’s verbose and seemingly-scatterbrained train of thought in this essay?
Well, to answer both questions at the same time, I do! And over the course of the next several weeks, I hope to present you with a solid, practical, enjoyable distillation of this most excellent essay. Will you promise to stick with me? If you do, I promise you’ll be glad you did, especially by the last week. You’ll see that you actually do care about fairy stories, and you’ll be glad you tracked along with me to the end. There is some fantastic stuff ahead, folks!
Definition of Fairy-Stories
As any good logician should do, Tolkien begins the essay by defining his terms. What, he asks, is a fairy-story? You and I may think we have a pretty good idea, right? It’s Cinderella. It’s Gulliver’s Travels. It’s Alice in Wonderland and “The Tortoise and the Hare.” In other words, you and I would define a fairy-story, or fairy-tale, as pretty much any imaginative story. To this confident assertion, Tolkien would proclaim, “Wrong, sir!”
But don’t feel bad. He said the same thing to the Oxford English Dictionary when they defined it as “a tale about fairies, or generally a fairy legend” (110). He also rejected their definition of fairies as “supernatural beings of diminutive size” (110). He’s a pretty picky guy, but I guess that’s why he was a professor and a philologist.
In fact, of the four story examples I gave above, only the first would (probably) qualify as a fairy-tale in Tolkien’s opinion. The reason is that he rules out traveler’s tales (Gulliver’s Travels), dreams (Alice in Wonderland), and beast fables (“The Tortoise and the Hare”). To Tolkien, fairy-stories are “stories about Fairy, that is Faërie, the realm or state in which fairies have their being” (113). Basically, it’s an adventure set in that magical realm in which anything could happen. Its purpose could be nearly anything, including “satire, adventure, morality, [or] fantasy,” so long as it doesn’t try to explain away or ridicule the magic itself (114).
Origins of Fairy Stories
And now that he’s settled, more or less, on a definition, he believes that we want to know where fairy-stories come from. Honestly, that is a question that has never kept me up at night, and I suspect you may feel the same way. That being the case, I’ll really whittle down his ideas for you.
He begins by noticing that many fairy-stories contain similar elements such as enchanted fruit or magic rings. How, he asks, did different cultures in different times end up using the same theme or device? After examining several possible theories, he rejects them all and says that “the incarnate mind, the tongue, and the tale are in our world coeval” (122). In other words, stories and their themes have been around as long as people and language have existed. This is because we have what I’ll call the Power of the Adjective. Grammar lovers, rejoice!
He explains how we can take any descriptive word and stick it where it doesn’t naturally occur, such as hot fire in the cold belly of a snake. Viola! The dragon is born. By doing this with language, we are exercising our power to sub-create creatures and places using the basic ingredients we see around us. In this way, all of our ingredients—both real and sub-created—are constantly simmering in the “pot of soup” that is Story itself. Each story teller dips in his or her ladle and pulls out a different combination of the ingredients, but you will certainly see repeated elements from time to time. To Tolkien, that is evidence of the value of that ingredient.
Fairy Stories Are for Children…Right?
In Tolkien’s time as well as in ours, fairly-tales are considered children’s literature. But Tolkien protests, asking, “Is there any essential connection between children and fairy-stories? Is there any call for comment, if an adult reads them for himself? Reads them as tales, that is, not studies them as curios. Adults are allowed to collect and study anything, even old theatre-programmes or paper bags” (130). Here Tolkien rather sassily enquires why fairy-stories should be considered fit only for children. Why should it be abnormal for an adult to read a fairy-story for recreational rather than academic purposes?
He asserts that most good fairy-tales should be just as interesting to an adult as they are to a child. Otherwise, the story has probably been watered down or “adapted” for children, thereby robbing it of any real charm or power. In a well-crafted story, he says, you don’t need a “willing suspension of disbelief;” rather, you really do believe that in this world the author has pains-takingly crafted, the events of the story do happen. They are consistent with the laws of that sub-created world, and so long as the story is told well, anyone can enter into it with delight. So, in a word, no—fairy-stories are not primarily for children.
You Made It!
If you made it through this post, I heartily congratulate you! This was the densest, least-easily-applicable section of his essay, and it was still enjoyable, wasn’t it? (Right, guys? …Guys?) Anyway, it’s only going to get better from here, so be sure to tune in next week when we look at the purpose of fairy-stories. See you then!
Today’s Question: Can you think of a “fairy-story” that you’ve enjoyed as an adult?
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
J.R.R. Tolkien: A Brief Biography
It’s no surprise that I have kind of a thing for J.R.R. Tolkien. To say I am a fan is a bit of an understatement, although I know he has inspired a cult-like following of which I am unworthy to count myself. I have, however, enjoyed multiple readings of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion as well as various essays, short stories, letters, translations, and biographies. That’s all. Just a casual fan.
And while I’d love to spend many moons extrapolating and discussing all of his works, I think I’ll begin with an unlikely essay entitled “On Fairy-Stories.” It really is foundational and explanational (I’m allowed to do that, right?) to most of his later fiction, and it isn’t even about the Elvish languages! But before we dive in, I want to make sure I’ve given you an ultra-brief introduction to my good friend, John Ronald Ruel Tolkien. So here we go.
A Man of Singular Mind
One word I would use to describe Tolkien’s character is “committed.” He was committed to everything he put his mind to, including his first love, the Catholic church, his studies, and his craft. This trait enabled him to accomplish the wonderful things that make his legacy one-of-a-kind, despite various setbacks.
Committed to His First Love
Tolkien was born in 1892, and just four years later his father passed away. Tolkien (or “Ronald,” as he was called) was raised by his mother until her death when he was twelve years old. After that, Tolkien and his brother were cared for by Father Francis Morgan, the family’s Catholic priest. They eventually came to live in a boarding house where Tolkien met Edith Bratt, a lovely young pianist who was three years his senior. They became friends and, within two years, became interested in more than friendship. But, as with any good story, their love was about to be put to the test.
The problem was that Tolkien and Edith, then almost 18 and 21 respectively, would meet up in little towns and tea shops without a chaperone, which was frowned upon at that time. And since Tolkien was deeply committed to Edith, his grades and even his chances at a scholarship began to suffer. When Father Francis found out about Tolkien’s secret distraction, he asked Tolkien to stop seeing her socially so he could focus on his academics. When the young couple was spotted in town together again, Father Francis was forced to give Tolkien a strict command: he was not allowed to see or even communicate with Edith until his twenty-first birthday. And, shockingly, Tolkien obeyed. Both Edith and Tolkien moved away from the boarding house, and the three-year silence began.
Committed to His Church
At precisely midnight on his twenty-first birthday, Tolkien began crafting a letter to Edith, telling her of his unchanged affections toward her. Unfortunately, she replied that she was engaged to a farmer. Bummer. But in the end, he raced out to see Edith and convinced her to marry him instead. The catch, however, was that she would have to convert from Anglican to Catholic. He would not abandon the faith of his mother and of Father Francis.
She feared her family’s disapproval, but Tolkien was insistent. She must convert, or they could not marry. Convert she did, even though the uncle with whom she lived told her she would have to find somewhere else to stay until the wedding. She obliged, and in 1916 Edith and Ronald were married, just before Tolkien was sent to France in World War I. By then, Tolkien was twenty-four years old. He remained Catholic throughout his life.
Committed to His Studies
Sure, Tolkien’s studies took a back burner to his affections for Edith when they were younger, but once he took Father Francis’ injunction seriously, Tolkien became a dedicated scholar. He studied English Language and Literature at Oxford, continuing to pursue his education in the face of World War I. After he got the degree he was after, he enlisted in the Lancashire Fusiliers and fought in the French trenches for four months. When he contracted trench fever, he was sent back to England to recover and to serve at various stations on the home front.
When the war was over, he was accepted as Associate Professor of English Language at the University of Leeds. Later, he returned to Oxford as a Professor of Anglo-Saxon and later of English Language and Literature. These were pretty weighty appointments, but Tolkien tackled them head on, studying and tutoring to the best of his ability.
Committed to His Craft
While he was teaching at Oxford, Tolkien met C.S. Lewis. Cue the angelic chorus, please. These two literary geniuses took part in The Inklings, a literary club that helped spur them on to write more and better literature. While Tolkien didn’t exactly need encouragement to write—he had continued writing elvish languages and middle-earth backstories throughout the war and afterward—he did need encouragement to relinquish his manuscripts to the publisher. He was an eternal reviser, so his friends and publisher found it necessary to (nearly literally) wrench manuscripts out of his hands when they were “done enough.”
His book, “The Hobbit,” began as a story for his children, but after it was published, its popularity took everyone by surprise, including Tolkien. Soon there was a demand for “a new Hobbit.” Not surprisingly, The Silmarillion didn’t fit the bill, so it was back to the drawing board for Tolkien. Eventually, The Lord of the Rings was published as a trilogy, and the crowd went wild. This was also a surprise to everyone, but it has continued to be one of the most popular and influential fictional works of the century. In fact, it was so popular that Tolkien and Edith had to change their phone number and address to avoid the mob of fans. They lived out the rest of their lives together in moderate wealth and peace.
How He Done It
So how did a (rather obsessive) Oxford professor end up writing several works that have inspired generations of readers? Well, I could say that it’s just the mystery of the man or the magic of his poetry, but I believe there’s more to it than that. In fact, Tolkien himself basically describes the requisite ingredients to a successful, satisfying story of this sort. That’s right: he discusses it in the essay “On Fairy-Stories.”
And that, my friends, is why we’re going to begin looking at that masterpiece next week. Be sure to tune in!
Today’s Question: What is your favorite work by Tolkien, and why?
Check out the next post here!
Sources:
Doughan, David. “J.R.R. Tolkien: A Biographical Sketch.” The Tolkien Society, https://www.tolkiensociety.org/author/biography/.
Duriez, Colin. J.R.R. Tolkien: The Making of a Legend. Oxford, Lion Hudson, 2012.
Hiking Is my Happy Place
We all have a happy place. For some, it’s the family cabin on the lake, surrounded by trees and years of memories. For some, it’s a small gathering of close friends for no specific reason other than the joy of being together. For others, it’s binge watching 12 seasons of a show while surrounding themselves with piles of Doritos bags and Taco Bell wrappers. Hey, to each his own.
For me, hiking is my happy place. Specifically, I am in love with taking backpacking trips across miles of trails. Don’t be too jealous; I haven’t gotten to do nearly as much as I’d like to yet, but the hiking I’ve done has yielded some of my best memories over the years. I’ve backpacked with several friends, close family, and my faithful hubby. I’ve managed short hikes and attempted extensive ones. I’ve hiked in a small but varied handful of states in the U.S.
And with an impressive resume like that, I feel it’s my right—nay, my duty—to present you with a few observations I’ve collected throughout my travels. Please enjoy this selection of obvious facts that I purchased with blood, sweat, toil, and tears.
You can’t prepare too much
Normally, I am an over-preparer. But a few years ago on our backpacking trip to Yosemite, I discovered that I was not nearly prepared enough. See, we had saved our two hardest hikes for the end of the trip…on back-to-back days…days when we had to carry extra water because there was no fresh source of hydration. My sister and brother-in-law were much more prepared because
they had been doing CrossFit for months leading up to the trip. My husband and I had not. In fact, watching the four of us ascend Half Dome would have been a great commercial for their CrossFit gym.
As Mark and I struggled on, our breaks became longer and more frequent. We would collapse in any patch of shade that came along. We would have crawled through the gravel if we weren’t worried about bleeding out. We made it to the peak of each hike, but we were sagging and dragging, to say the least. My wimpy workouts had let me down. I wasn’t prepared.
Lesson learned: When it comes to getting in shape for crazy hikes, you’re not really fit unless you’re CrossFit.
Less is DEFINITELY more
Along the same lines as my obsession with overpreparation, I can tend to be an over-packer. I run through the “what if” scenarios until I’ve packed virtually everything I could ever find myself in moderate need of. And then some. In a purse or suitcase, I guess that’s ok. But in a backpack (or even a day pack) that I’ll be carrying over hill and dale for extended periods of time? That’s not ok. I’ve packed a stack of clothes for a backpacking trip before, only to wear the same thing every day anyway. I should have jettisoned the surplus on day one. After all, it’s hiking, not the opera.
Overpacking heavy food is another of my faux pas. On my first trip to Yosemite, I wanted apples and almond butter. So I packed them—a bunch of fresh apples and a glass jar of almond butter. A glass jar of almond butter. And then I scrambled up the mountainside with these strapped to my back, reminding me of gravity’s cruelty with every step. Know what I would have done if I hadn’t been a complete idiot? I would have packed dehydrated apples and almond butter packets. And on later trips, that’s just what I’ve done. Live and learn, right?
Lesson Learned: If you can’t pack just what you need to survive, you may not.
The right shoes are vital
I really hate shoe shopping, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gottado. By putting off this dreaded task, I ruined a perfectly good hiking trip through the Sam Houston National Forest. Another rookie move by Emily! We had planned to hike 45 miles within 3 days, which didn’t sound too crazy at first. The terrain was flat, we needed only a few days’ worth of supplies, and I thought my old hiking boots would still work for me.
I was mistaken. I think elves had shrunk my shoes.
I went through a whole fiasco of ordering, trying out, and returning shoes right up until the day before the trip itself. Needless to say, I regretted my life before the first day was even done. My new shoes were stiff, inflexible, and miserable. Again, crawling for the duration of the trail began to seem like a viable option. Instead, I finished it out within the allotted time, but never before had my feet caused me so much grief.
Lesson Learned: When wedged into constricting shoes, blisters don’t count as comfortable foot cushioning.
Misery is temporary, but memories are forever
The aforementioned blunders don’t even begin to scratch the surface of all the dumb hiking mistakes I’ve made. I’ve caused my group to donate pints of
blood to ravenous mountain mosquitoes because I assured them there weren’t any mosquitoes last time. I’ve lugged around a bulky, ancient, canvas tent because I didn’t want to buy a new one. I’ve robbed my husband of many quality photos because I was afraid the camera battery would die when, in fact, it still had hours of life at the end of the trip. I’ve had to borrow my brother-in-law’s sleeping mat because my cheap one sustained a puncture wound the first day on the trail. And the list goes on.
I’ve been at the end of my strength and far beyond the end of my comfort. I’ve spent sleepless nights and rainy days. I’ve felt sick and tired. I’ve gotten fed up with freeze-dried food. I’ve longed for the comfort of a hot bath. And when you consider all these things together, it drives one to ask, “Why on earth go hiking??”
I see where you’re coming from. I’ve asked myself the same question while in the midst of misery. But the answer remains that misery is temporary, whereas memories are forever. Sure, I may get a better night’s sleep at home, but I won’t wake up to a dazzling sunrise over a mountain range. I may eat a tastier meal in a restaurant, but it won’t be as satisfying as a dehydrated meal I’ve earned after a day of hiking. And I may be able to enjoy a scenic view on my TV from the comfort of my couch, but I won’t appreciate its depth, majesty, or vastness until I’ve spent a day clambering to the top of a precipice to see it.
See, after the sleeping bag is aired out and the filth is washed out of clothes, skin, and hair, after the soreness wears off and the blisters fade away, the memories of your trip remain. Your photos will never do it justice, but you remember. Your descriptions can’t capture the experience, but your heart knows. And after everything you went through, you know the lesson learned: it wasn’t easy, but you would do it again.
And again.
And again.
Masterful Poems: “Carrion Comfort”
“Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee.” So begins a poem that may not be, at first glance, a very cheerful one. After all, the first half of the poem is addressed to Despair itself, describing it as dead, putrefying flesh—a feast suitable for vultures, not men.
However, when you read through to the end, you’ll find yourself surprised—as the poet himself did—at the change in perspective. Despite its dismal start, the poem is full of hope! Today I present you with one of my all-time favorite poems by my all-time favorite poet: “Carrion Comfort,” by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
Now, writing about Hopkins himself would take several posts, and I hope to do that one of these days (I say that a lot, don’t I?), but it is not this day. Today I want to leap right past the fact that he was a Jesuit priest from late-19th-century England and was one of the most sincere, creative poets of his time. Nope, I won’t even tell you about him at all. Instead, let’s get right down to the nitty gritty of “Carrion Comfort.”
This, my friends, is a portrait of a man at the end of his rope. See how his tone starts off so defiant in the first three lines? He refuses to loosen his hold on the limp, fraying cord that tethers him to life and humanity. He is determined to persevere. But by line 4, the most fight he can muster up is the refusal to slip away into death.
He then, like Job, starts to question Despair, accusing it of mistreating him. After all, what had the poet ever done to deserve Its wrath? All he had wanted was to avoid Despair and run away! But instead, the poet is wrung out, slashed up, bruised, and abandoned.
The second stanza begins with one of the deepest questions in our vocabulary: “Why?”
It’s the question of Job and of every sufferer since. But while Job received his answer (graciously and frighteningly) from God Himself, the poet’s answer seems to dawn on him gradually as he looks up from his circumstances.
The reason he had felt beaten, shaken, and blown apart is because he was being tested. Satan 
asked permission to sift him like wheat, and the answer was yes. But when he turned again like Peter, his heart “lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.” How is this possible? Because although his circumstances didn’t change, his perspective did.
Looking up from the threshing floor to thank the rod that had scoured away his useless chaff, he found that it was not in Satan’s hand after all. Instead, he saw the “hero whose heaven-handling” had flung and trampled him. But rather than feeling resentful, the poet feels joy. His suffering has not been in vain. As this realization sinks in, both he and his “hero” are cheered by his renewed strength to persevere.
See, the poet had mistaken his foe; in the dark night of his soul, he had not been wrestling with Satan or Despair. He had been wrestling with God Himself. He seems as shocked as Jacob did, and yet he, too, received a blessing: the joy that comes from an accurate perspective about suffering. “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44392/carrion-comfort
Awesome Children’s Books, Part 3: Little Bear
This week we’ll look at one of my favorite book series from when I was younger. Grab some tea and cookies, and settle in for a good read!
A Little-Known Author
Currently on my bookshelf, I have four of the five original Little Bear books, written by Else Holmelund Minarik. Never heard of her before? Neither had I! During her lifetime, she was a journalist, a children’s book writer, and a first-grade teacher in New York, having moved to America from Denmark with her family when she was four years old. While she wrote many children’s books in her lifetime, the Little Bear books are what she’s best known for.
A Celebrated Illustrator
And, much to the books’ benefit, they were illustrated by none other than Maurice 
Sendak, the author and illustrator of Where the Wild Things Are and many other classics. I will most certainly write a separate post about that book someday, but not today. Suffice it to say, his classic style lends a memorable, comfortable feel to these quaint stories. What the pictures lack in color, they make up for in expression.
Adventures at Home
So what are the Little Bear books about? Not surprisingly, they’re about a little bear and his adventures. But his adventures are of the homey sort—the kinds of things any young child can relate to. He plays in the snow, visits his grandparents, makes new friends, has a birthday party, and imagines flying to the moon. Obviously, Minarik didn’t feel obligated to cook up a brand-new plot idea, and I’m glad she didn’t. These are the kinds of stories I remember as being “cozy” when I was growing up.
A Practical Mother
After Little Bear himself, the second-biggest star of the show is Mother Bear. Since the stories are homey, Mother Bear is the biggest influence in her little cub’s life. In fact, in the first book, simply entitled Little Bear, she is almost the only other character! I think this is another way Minarik keeps her books relatable rather than innovative. Reading the stories now, I find Mother Bear’s attitude pretty funny, although I don’t think she was meant to be comical. But she’s just so literal! She reminds me of Mary Poppins, as a matter of fact; she’s generally practical with an occasional dash of silliness. For example, one day Little Bear announces that, since he has a new space helmet (a box with curly wires sticking out the top), he will be flying to the moon.
“Fly!” said Mother Bear. “You can’t fly.”
“Birds fly,” said Little Bear.
“Oh, yes,” said Mother Bear. “Birds fly, but they don’t fly to the moon. And you are not a bird.”
“Maybe some birds fly to the moon, I don’t know. And maybe I can fly like a bird,” said Little Bear.
“And maybe,” said Mother Bear, “you are a little fat bear cub with no wings and no feathers. Maybe if you jump up you will come down very fast with a big plop.”
A Gentle Mother
Wow, Mother Bear! Way to crush his dreams. Lest we judge her too harshly, I’m sure she was just making sure he didn’t break his legs by jumping off of the roof or anything. Plus, it was the fifties; kids didn’t need to be coddled quite as much back then. But Mother Bear does prove more flexible when she plays along with Little Bear’s make-believe toward the end of the story. He has jumped out of a tree and pretended to land on the moon. He discovers a house “just like his” and ventures inside.
Mother Bear came in and said, “But who is this? Are you a bear from Earth?”
“Oh, yes, I am,” said Little Bear. “I climbed a little hill, and jumped from a little tree, and flew here, just like the birds.”
“Well,” said Mother Bear. “My little bear did the same thing. He put on his space helmet and flew to Earth. So I guess you can have his lunch.”
Happily Ever After
The story ends happily with lunch, a nap, and lots of love, as many good stories should. The rest of the books include even more adventures, comical illustrations, funny scenarios, and relatable situations that I know you would enjoy. Do yourself a favor, and find some of these old classics. Read them, enjoy them, and remember when life was as simple and rich as your imagination could make it.
Source: Minarik, Else Holmelund. Little Bear. New York: Harper & Roe, 1957.
Suggested Reading: A Short Star Wars Article
I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been a Star Wars fan. In fact, my first experience with the saga came when I was still an infant. I was born the year that Return of the Jedi was released, and my parents thought it would be a good idea to take me to the theater to enjoy it with them. Well, they learned their lesson about bringing babies to theaters, but at least I got the chance to take part in the classic trilogy from my earliest days. As I grew up, I continued to immerse myself in the Star Wars movies until their dialogue was common parlance within my family and friends. #nerdlife
Now, I hope to write a longer series about Star Wars one of these days, but not today. I’ve had an unexpectedly busy week, but I didn’t want to leave you high and dry without anything interesting to browse through this weekend. Ergo, I shall provide you with a link to an article that I think you’ll find interesting, Star Wars fan or not.
The link is to a website I’ve mentioned before: Transpositions. They’re the ones who posted my article on Anne Lamott’s book, Bird by Bird. (By the way, if you haven’t read that one yet, you should! It includes some lovely stuff about Tolkien and Lewis.) But that’s not what I’m leaving you with today.
No, today I wanted to point you toward an article written by a guy named Andrew Barber. The article is called “Star Wars: The (Not) Chosen One.” It takes a look at one of the newer Star Wars offerings, The Last Jedi. Again, I hope to submit my full opinions about this and other Star Wars films to you at some point, but for today I hope you’ll enjoy Barber’s take on the role of a messiah in Star Wars—specifically in The Last Jedi.
Without further ado, enjoy the article!
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