Happy Halloween, or as I like to call it, All Soul’s Day. Calling it All Soul’s Days by no means makes this day any less scary; in fact it makes it more so, by calling to mind that death is no candy-coated fantasy. Catholic Online describes the concept like this:
“All Souls’ Day commemorates the faithful departed. In Western Christianity, this day is observed principally in the Catholic Church, although some churches of the Anglican Communion and the Old Catholic Churches also celebrate it. The Eastern Orthodox churches observe several All Souls’ Days during the year. The Roman Catholic celebration is associated with the doctrine that the souls of the faithful who at death have not been cleansed from the temporal punishment due to venial sins and from attachment to mortal sins cannot immediately attain the beatific vision in heaven, and that they may be helped to do so by prayer and by the sacrifice of the Mass (see Purgatory). In other words, when they died, they had not yet attained full sanctification and moral perfection, a requirement for entrance into Heaven. This sanctification is carried out posthumously in Purgatory.”
So I might as well take this opportunity to tell you about the scariest book I have ever read: Hungry Souls: Supernatural Visits, Messages, and Warnings from Purgatory by Gerard J.M. van den Aardweg. As you might guess it features accounts of visits from people who currently reside in Purgatory. It includes pictures of artifacts and evidence left by some of these visitors, artifacts such as the burnt-in impression on cloth of a hand. This book is scarier than 1984, scarier than any haunted house, so scary that even though I began reading it almost a year ago I have not been able to bring myself to finish it. I think would be afraid to spend enough time going back to this book long enough to review it, but I do intend to gin up enough courage read it all the way to the end. I only have a couple of chapters to go and I understand from reviews that it is supposed to get to the comforting part, that a happy ending awaits all residents of Purgatory. Eventually.
Apparently there is a tiny century-old museum in Rome called The Museum of the Holy Souls in Purgatory where you can view cloths, books, and other items bearing singe marks left by such visitors from Purgatory. This book is scary because I cannot quite bring myself to write it off as supernatural nonsense. Go ahead and scoff if you like but it would take a braver soul than mine to scoff off such warnings as those brought by these earnest visitors. There is no aura of cheap thrills or money-making schemery about this book. It is simply written with two direct purposes: to convey the need to pray for the dead (what the souls are hungry for is prayer) and to warn those of us will join them soon enough. I told you it’s scary, real scary not fake scary. It’s also a bit creepy.
Hungry Souls brings to mind the ghost of Marley in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, except old Marley is visiting from Hell, not Purgatory. Purgatory is literally infinitely better than Hell, as you will understand if you have read both Dante’s Inferno and Purgatorio. After the journey through Hell, Purgatory, even with its sufferings, is a joyful place, homely, full of hope, and permeated with utter relief that the sufferings are not eternal. If you can’t bring yourself to delve into Hungry Souls, The Divine Comedy would also be appropriate reading for All Soul’s Day.
How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn’t care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears—
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity—
“I got a rock.” Charlie Brown, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
* * * * * * * *
I am not rich, never have been, never imagined I would be, but every day I thank God for the time and place I was born and being spared the worst of the horrors and sufferings that beset millions of souls on this planet. As a young child I had a certain vision for my life, but it was not of living in a castle even if I did imagine myself a princess in a red fluffy dress. In real life I had seen gravel parking lots and for some reason the gravel made an impact on my mind. In my vision I was given a task by someone – the giver of the task was vague, sometimes an angel, sometimes a witch – that I must pick up the gravel stones from a huge lot. One by one. Around the ages of five and six I remember imagining this scene frequently: starting in one corner and working my way through the lot, always in the red princess dress, and the strange thing is I was not the least bit disturbed by the vision. I was excited and inspired, and felt a sense of mission.
Anyway, I always assumed my chances of eternal life in Heaven after death were greater than my chances of being rich in this life. So one misery I have been largely spared is the misery of disappointed expectation, actually one of the greatest dangers of my particular time and culture: that promise of heaven on earth with which advertisers entice you with images, colors, and music custom-calibrated to the desires of as many people as they can rope in.
I can’t say I have never fallen prey to advertising. At my house the tempter came by post every November disguised as the Sears Christmas Catalog, also known as TheWish Book. It would always have a picture on the cover that evoked pungent Christmas emotions, and like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, my year revolved around Christmas. The heavy white skies of December afternoons filled my heart with a kind of joy that almost hurt. In suburban Washington DC it rarely snowed before Christmas but I could smell the slightly damp smokey aroma of hope in the air.
I used to love making gifts and cards. I’d make piles of these little dolls with Styrofoam heads, pipe cleaner bodies, felt clothing, and yarn hair. One year – I guess I was ten or eleven – I sewed 20 little red felt stockings and filled each one with candy and one of my pipe cleaner dolls and then I had my Mom drive my to St. Ann’s Orphanage in Hyattsville, Maryland, where I handed a the cardboard box of filled stockings to a nun in the lobby. It seemed like kind of an institutional place and actually had a lobby, if my memory is accurate. The nun accepted my gift graciously and said how much the children would enjoy the stockings. Things were so much more simple and direct in the 1970’s – or maybe it was just me that was simple and direct.
But believe me when I say that even better than Christmas giving I liked Christmas receiving. That Sears Christmas Catalog was the object of my lustful little ritual. I would get comfortable of the sofa and slowly, deliciously, turn every single silky page, breathing in the aroma of inky anticipation as my fingers approached the grand finale of the thick toy section at the end of the catalog: the baby toys, the girl toys, the boy toys, and then the big stuff: bicycles, swings, trampolines. But my personal Red Ryder BB gun was the rock tumbler. The way I understood it, you put ordinary rocks into a cylinder, pushed the switch, and the rocks turned into shiny jewels. What kid wouldn’t want such a wonder? I never got one.
Why Santa should have refused my request for a rock tumbler I will never know. I guess I assumed it was simply too extravagant a request. I was reaching too high, even though I got Barbies, Lite-Brite, an Etch-a-Sketch, and no end of board games. Maybe I did not communicate my need for a rock tumbler emphatically enough. Perhaps I thought that thinking about it really hard and circling it in the catalog was enough. On Christmas Eve my Dad would take our letters to Santa and burn them in the fire-place, explaining that Santa would read the smoke. Decades later I bought one for my kid for Christmas but my kid was into Pokemon and Gameboy and couldn’t care less about the rock tumbler.
In high school one of my two visits to the guidance counselor was to request I be exempted from any dissection project if I signed up for Biology, because I wanted to learn Biology but there was no way in hell I was going to dissect anything. Since the counselor denied this perfectly reasonable request, I ended up taking half a year of Astronomy and half a year of Geology for my science credit. Apparently these were not the science classes the smart kids took but I loved learning about the stars and earth and was oblivious to the fact the class was full of slouchers who weren’t in any of my other classes.
At the end of the year awards ceremony I got the award for the highest grade in Geology and my sister, who ended up becoming a PhD in Microbiology, got the award for Biology. She still laughs about my Geology award and I still don’t get the joke. Apparently as a kid I liked rocks. Maybe it can be chalked up to some hereditary residue from my coal-mining grandfathers, but when Charlie Brown said he got rocks in his Halloween sack I thought he was lucky.
Lately I’ve been running into references to The Brothers Karamazov everywhere I look, usually something said by the middle brother Ivan. My favorite Karamazov brother, Dmitri, hardly ever gets a mention. So I got to thinking about reading it again, and then decided to read another Dostoevsky – Devils, also translated as Demons or The Possessed. I thought it would be appropriate as we approach Halloween and the autumn of the year. But this is no spooky fantasy and it’s certainly not innocent fun. It’s definitely a tragedy – plenty of bad things happen in this novel, some of them violent – but it’s also a comedy just because people in their foolishness can be so funny. The novel is packed full of the usual Dostoevsky buffoons, drunkards, plotters and schemers, and intellectuals tearing their hair out over existential problems. Reading a Dostoevsky novel is no minor decision. It takes some effort and a considerable investment of time, but in the end, I think it’s worth it. Maybe I will try to come up with a list of the top ten benefits of reading Dostoyevsky. In the meantime here’s a review I wrote:
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I found Devils to be puzzling in the beginning, interminable in the middle, and in the end, loved it. This reaction is in keeping with the spirit of Dostoevsky – a spirit that is paradoxical, morally ambiguous, and frequently expressing opposite extremes, often in the personality of a single character and even in one speech. People in a Dostoyevsky novel will go from declaring their undying love to hating each other in the span of a single paragraph or from being an atheist to a believer in one dialogue. His characters may be confusing at times but they are also so believable that you forget they are not real people. Not many authors can show the reality of human ambiguity and shiftiness and our minds so consistently and realistically.
Devils is the third of Dostoyevsky’s five major novels and the third that I have read. I liked this one more than Crime and Punishment and less than The Brothers Karamazov, although halfway through the book I wasn’t sure I liked it at all. But in the end all the threads pull together and the plot comes to a crescendo and denouement and suddenly the first 700 pages take on new meaning. Once I finished the book I went back and read some sections with renewed interest.
Dostoevsky can be challenging reading on several levels but the biggest part of the difficulty is that you are reading a translation. I always get the sense that I am missing something, that something is not quite coming through – some pungency, some joke, some cultural flavor. The translation I read is a newer one (1992) by Michael R. Katz, a scholar and professor of Russian who has translated several other Russian novels in addition to this one. The original Russian title of the book is “Besy” which previous editions translated as “Demons” or “The Possessed”, although “The Possessed” seems now to be widely considered incorrect.
The Katz translation includes a chapter called which other versions either exclude or include in an appendix. Dostoyevsky’s original publisher considered the content of this chapter, “Stavrogin’s Confession”, too shocking for public consumption. In this chapter the charismatic Nikolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin, a central character in the book, visits a priest named Tikhon and asks him to read a confession aloud which he has carefully written out on several sheets of paper. It describes how several years previously he had been living in a life of debauchery in Petersburg and had seduced and raped the young daughter of the landlady, a child of about 12, after which the girl committed suicide. Without this chapter Stavrogin would be mysterious and morally ambiguous but not necessarily evil. This chapter removes some doubt about the nature of his character, although he does claim his desire to repent and seek redemption.
To my 21st-century American mind much of this book and most of the characters seem slightly surreal and bizarre, as if I had dropped onto another planet where the inhabitants, though recognizably human, are so different in their modes of behavior, speech patterns, culture and lifestyles, and expectations, that I am a bit disoriented for several hundred pages. It helped to do a little research on 19th century Russian culture and history. This book is in fact loosely based on a specific historical incident in which a member of a radical cell “group of five” was murdered by the other members of the group. Apparently in the 1860s there were many of these groups working in Russia to disrupt the status quo, sow doubt about religion and tradition, and spread new socialist and atheist ideas.
Devils seems to have grown out of Dostoyevsky’s concerns about the dangers of what he considered false philosophy and its effects on the fabric of civilization and cultural identity and faith of the Russian people. The book begins with the passage from Luke about the man possessed by a legion of demons. When the demons see Jesus coming they ask to be allowed to enter a herd of swine. Jesus grants their request and the swine dive off a cliff and drown. The possessed man is restored to his right mind. This is the guiding theme of the novel. The devils are the false ideas and the swine are the radicals (men who have lost their humanity and respect for God). The false ideas cause the radicals to self destruct, leaving Russia restored to her traditions and her faith.
Although this novel is Dostoyevsky’s commentary of the specific political intrigues of his time and philosophical thought behind the politics, this does not mean it is not applicable to the current affairs of our world. On the contrary, I find it fascinating to trace the direct connection from nihilism and socialist philosophy of the 1860s to the events of the early 20th century, especially the Bolshevik Revolution, and then to recognize the eerie repercussions that echo all the way to present.
The story is narrated by a resident of the town named Govorov who is sometimes an eye witness to the events, sometimes a participant, and sometimes reports things he has found out later. Govorov sounds like quite a busybody but the narration mostly comes off as natural and reportorial. The story is that a secret group of nihilist revolutionaries led by the serpent-like trickster Peter Stepanovich Verkhovensky infiltrates a small provincial town. Peter is the son of Stepan Trofimovich Verkhovensky, writer and professor in the past, now a sort of established eccentric minor celebrity in the town. The father, Stepan Trofimovich, represents the liberal ideologies of the 1840s, seemingly harmless secular utopian philosophies that spawned a new generation of radical nihilists capable of doing real harm to real people who are just trying to live their lives.
Peter insinuates himself into the upper echelons of the town’s society by charming people in power such as the governor’s wife, Yulia Mikhailovna von Lembke, a woman who just wants to be the center of a hip social circle and imagines herself to be the understanding patroness of the younger generation. Then, along with his “gang of five” and other hangers on, Peter sets out to wreak havoc on the sacred and reliable traditions of the town, beginning with pranks that some think are funny and progressing to more dangerous activities such as theft, arson, and murder. But before you get to the havoc you have to wade through some lengthy philosophical conversations, ravings of lunatics, and many events and personal interactions that don’t quite make sense until the story rolls all the way out. You begin to think these people are living on the brink of insanity, which as is turns out, is pretty much the case.
Reading Devilswas worth the effort. My method was to listen to the audio book (excellently read by George Guidall, one of my favorite narrators) and also to read sections of the text (Oxford World’s Classics edition, 769 pages). I needed to see the complicated names of the characters and wanted to read some parts more than once. As much as at one point I was anxious to just get through the interminable thing, now that I am finished I find I can’t quite let it go, and keep going back to review certain passages. Dostoevsky and his time and culture is a topic I could camp out in for the rest of my life. I think Russian studies is one of my many missed callings. If you get into Dostoevsky you will find you want to go back and read his novels more than once. In fact I plan to re-read The Brothers Karamazov in the near future.
The essay is a slippery thing, both as an art form and a writing market. It is difficult to figure out if the essay is the hot commodity or the neglected unjustly ignored stepchild of the literary world. I’ve read both claims recently. My subjective non-scientific instinct is that essays are hot and fashionable right now in the sense that small artsy boutiques are hot and fashionable. Creative non-fiction has its very enthusiastic devotees and the current market seems reasonably niche-friendly.
The form certainly appeals to me as one of those perennially novel things, like newly discovered classics or personalized customer service, ever-retro. As an art the essay goes back several centuries, with the 16th century eccentric Michel de Montaigne widely considered to be the pioneer of the form. But I would have to say essays go back long before the 16th century. What, for example, is this?
“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the water.
Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. So the evening and the morning were the first day.
Then God said, “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.” Thus God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament; and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. So the evening and the morning were the second day.
Then God said, “Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear”; and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth, and the gathering together of the waters He called Seas. And God saw that it was good.
Then God said, “Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb that yields seed, and the fruit tree that yields fruit according to its kind, whose seed is in itself, on the earth”; and it was so. And the earth brought forth grass, the herb that yields seed according to its kind, and the tree that yields fruit, whose seed is in itself according to its kind. And God saw that it was good. So the evening and the morning were the third day.” Genesis 1:1-13
Some say this is fiction, some say non-fiction, some say poetry; my best guess is creative non-fiction.
As with trendy intellectual pursuits and other things that sound attractive in theory but take effort to actually do, when it comes to reading essays I suspect there may be more talking of the talk than walking of the walk. Essays, when I get around to reading them, are fun and interesting, but maybe I don’t get around to reading them as often as I’d like. So in the interest of walking the walk I recently decided to take a couple of steps:
a) I subscribed to three literary journals: Rattle, New Letters, and The Sun. These subscriptions can be a bit pricey but as my budget allows I plan to increase my collection of literary periodicals and actually read them. I also plan, carefully and in the course of time, to submit my own work. I like the online versions too but I find the tactile object encourages me read them with more pleasure and attention.
b) I purchased The Best American Essays 2013 for Kindle and am in the process of reading every essay in it. So far I have read the first six and have found the writing stunning, even if the stories are often scary, even chilling. The editor, Cheryl Strayed, seems to have favored harrowing personal memoirs for this collection.
Personal memoir can make great reading but I also enjoy other kinds of essays. For example I have liked the spiritual explorations of Philip Yancey and Anne Lamott as well as the works of Philip Lopate, Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Albert Jay Nock, G.K. Chesterton, Henry David Thoreau, George Orwell, and James Thurber. I haven’t even started on David Sedaris yet; in fact, there are essayists lined up patiently holding their books as far down the road as I can see.
A good essay, even when the writer is relating a personal story, needs to go beyond the facts that happened and point you to a place of new perspective and the best essays will point you to a new perspective on a universal theme. So far the essays of Best American Essays 2013 do this masterfully. I look forward to reviewing this collection once I finish all of them in a way that will encourage others to read these and other essays for the maximum benefit. What are the benefits of reading a good literary essay? For me there are several including these:
1. The soul pleasure of reading truly excellent writing.
2. Seeing something true for the first time in a new way. This ploughs the fields of my mind and keeps the seeds of thoughts from falling into ruts.
3. Inspiration and encouragement for my own writing.
4. The satisfaction and community of knowing there are still living people in the world able to write this well.
I am sure there are many other benefits to reading essays. If you think of any I did not list feel free to add them in a comment!
Today I indulged in one of my favorite small pleasures. I visited Jerry’s Artarama, walked through every single aisle, touched paper for the textural pleasure, picked up colored pencils, sampled ink pens, and priced the easels. The sales girl asked me more than once if she could help me find anything and if I was finding everything okay. Doesn’t anyone else just wonder around the store for the sheer pleasure of it? I don’t need a lot of art supplies at the moment but I selected a few things anyway – some Fabriano art journals because the paper is luxuriously smooth, soft, and white, some gummy erasers, and several nice technical pens. As soon as I got back in the car I sat there and drew some pictures in one of the journals with the pens to try them out.
When I was a child and people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always answered, “An artist.” Unfortunately I had no idea how long it would take me to grow up. I suppose I had the idea that when I was 20 or so I would be a grown-up and an artist, whatever that was. I think I thought it meant I wouldn’t have to go to school anymore and could spend all day drawing pictures. I did not know that all kinds of ideas, insecurities, discouragements, and economic realities would stand between me and this simple vision.
Well here I am, just recently having completed the raising of two sons all the way to adulthood – at least in the strictly legal sense. My youngest son is now 18 so if he ended up in the newspaper they would refer to him as a “man”. What a thought. Anyway now I do have this little dividend of mental real estate that I did not have until recently and my intention has always been that when that real estate became available I would use it for my creative activities. Back in January, I made a New Year’s resolution to take my art skills to a higher level in 2014 – I would really pay attention to technique, spend dedicated time in art study and art practice.
I tried to do this. I read art books, signed up for online art classes, and spent time just practicing even though it meant I didn’t produce as many finished pieces. I have perhaps even marginally improved my art skills. But as my art improvement year progressed into October I began to feel overwhelmed and discouraged. I am trying to improve in both traditional and digital art skills and I cannot concentrate on just one or the other. If I ever want to do art commercially on any level I have to be able to produce illustrations digitally and I do sort of want to do art commercially. Also I really do enjoy working with drawing and painting software. But oh how I also love the smooth texture of Bristol board, the flow of ink, and the scratch of graphite! Besides, the natural way for me to work is to combine traditional and digital techniques.
A few months back I began collecting graphic art tutorials on Pinterest and am continually astounded by the sheer magnitude of art technology and the unlimited possibilities it opens up: layers, custom brushes with jitters and spacing settings, degrees of transparency, textures, lighting effects – the list goes on and on. I have been using Gimp, a free application comparable to Photoshop, for several years, but looking at a these tutorials made me realize that I have been using only a small portion of Gimp’s capability.
A few weeks ago I downloaded Adobe Illustrator onto my trusty Toshiba laptop for the 30-day free trial, intending to bite the bullet and start paying the $19.99 monthly fee for the use of this mega-program once the trial period ended. Then one of those disasters occurred that turn out to be a good thing. Usually when these kinds of blessing-in-disguise disasters occur my eldest son is somehow involved. This time the disaster was that my trusty four-year-old Toshiba crashed and died, and this time instead of being the cause of the disaster my eldest son turned out to be the hero. First he produced, from the chaos of his bedroom/laboratory, a used laptop onto which I was able to transfer the contents of the old hard drive. Then he built me a “Hackintosh” – a home-built computer that runs IOS operating software. This wonderful machine enabled me to avoid having to pay Adobe $19.99 a month for Illustrator because I was now able to download a Mac-only alternative vector program called IDraw for $24.99 that I only have to pay once. IDraw seems to do most of what I need to do with vector graphics for the time being.
Anyway, this morning I was looking at tutorials and feeling futile and overwhelmed, like an explorer who has climbed to the top of a mountain only to see a range of more mountains that stretches as far as she can see. After some Starbucks and a long walk I decided I am destined to be forever a student and just accept the sorts of joys the life of a perpetual student offers. I move too slowly, am too easily distracted, have too many interests, am spread too thin ever to achieve mastery in any one thing. There are worse fates.
Let’s say I spend another year brushing up my skills and building an illustration portfolio. Is it possible for someone at my stage of life to break into a new career in illustration? The rational side of me says no. The competition is robust and the talent of hoards of young people coming out of art school is tremendous. Also I have a style that might have been marketable around say, 1904, but perhaps not so much in this century.
However, the non-rational side me does not care beans about being marketable or even pecuniary success. Most of what I have done most of my life has been dictated by either economic necessity or the needs of the children or somebody else’s expectations, and the non-rational side of me has lost patience with all that. It tells me that when it comes to pursuing creative paths, I am going to do exactly what I want to do. My non-rational to rational ratio is about 60/40, so non-rational wins, at least when it comes to doing art.
Besides, other than writing, there isn’t much I’d rather do. What else would I do? Spend the rest of my life on the sofa obsessing over the lives of my kids or a TV series? Go around attending the concerts of aging performers from my generation? Exercise? Well I do that but only because I want my body to continue to be functional for its entire span of life. Travel? Yes, I do hope to do some of that. But even travelling wouldn’t have much appeal if I were not writing or drawing while doing it. Perhaps I could volunteer to help people in need – soup kitchen, free tutoring, painting porches, etc. Maybe I will but something tells me if I am going to help people it will have to involve doing what I like to do. I have a couple ideas brewing about how I might do that but so far they don’t involve ladling soup.
The book even has its very own historic landmark, a 17th century house in Salem, Massachusetts that Hawthorne is supposed to have used as the model for his titular house. Although I cannot say I fell in love with this book the way I did with say, Les Miserables or any of Dickens’ novels, I was awed by the elegant beauty of the richly symbolic writing.
The novel, or rather, as Hawthorne calls it in the Preface, the Romance, is most fascinating to me because of the way everything in it is multi-layered. There is the surface layer: the creaky old house, the clink and clank of coin in the Hepzibah’s shop, the wooden chair in which the Puritan ancestor died — but this layer is transparent, like a tissue paper topper. There is always something deeper running beneath, spiritual, psychological, and symbolic. A Romance, according to Hawthorne, while it must maintain a strict sense of integrity in portraying the truth of human heart, has greater latitude in how that truth is presented than does an ordinary novel, which must stick not only to a possible course of events, but to a probable one. (Obviously Hawthorne never read A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.) Now please indulge me as I interrupt this review for an English 101 moment.
English 101 Moment
A Romance in 1851 was a work written in the spirit of the Romantic Movement, a sweeping reaction to the rationalism of the 18th-century Enlightenment thought. Romanticism encompassed the philosophy, the arts, and literature of the western world and eventually made its way into politics and government. Romanticism sought to reaffirm and express such non-rational values as appreciation of natural beauty, emotion, and spirit. It was not a girl meets boy love story written for today’s popularly marketable genre.
A sub-genre of Romantic literature called Dark Romanticism seems to have been invented especially for Hawthorne, along with Edgar Allen Poe and Herman Melville. Dark Romanticism was all about the spirit of things, but the spirit was not necessarily a good thing. Dark Romantic literature acknowledged and dealt with personal sin and inherited evil and could include such supernatural elements as ghosts and curses. This sub-genre is so closely aligned with Gothic literature that sometimes the two are indistinguishable, but Dark Romanticism seems to have been specifically American while Gothic originated in Europe and dealt more often with actual monsters and other weird creatures. Dracula and Frankenstein are two prominent examples.
Okay, back to The House of the Seven Gables….. The story begins with some history of Colonel Pyncheon, the original Puritan ancestor, and the way he acquired the property
on which the old house stands. Between fact, legend, and rumor, there is enough information to figure out that the hard-hearted old Puritan desired the property owned by a farmer named Matthew Maule, and after being unable to force the stubborn settler off of it, had him arrested for witchcraft and hanged. With the noose around his neck, Maule curses the Colonel and all his progeny. Whether the curse is real or self-fulfilling prophecy, it becomes the warped foundation on which both house and the story is built.
I was especially drawn in by the uniquely American historical aspect of the story, which is really a spiritual history rather than the factual variety, dealing with how the darker side of Puritanism haunts succeeding generations like a ghostly stain passed down soul to soul. The author’s great-great-great-grandfather, William Hathorne, was a stern judge in the Salem witch trials, and unlike many of his fellow judges, never repented of his part in the infamous madness. I can see clearly how this book came from a place of generational haunting in Hawthorne’s mind, how the act of writing it might have been a purging of ghosts. It is known that Hawthorne added the “W” to his surname in an attempt to distance himself from what he considered a shameful part of his family history.
Of the cast of characters I suppose I enjoyed Hepzibah Pyncheon the most. She is quite an unusual protagonist – an older woman and not attractive, a fixed scowl being her most marked physical characteristic. She is both strong and timid, showing both backbone and kindness. Her brother Clifford is a complex character as Hawthorne shows what he should have been had he been allowed to take his natural course to maturity and the damaged creature he has become as a result of 30 years of imprisonment on false charges. Holgrave, the young lodger and daguerreotypist, lends stability and perspective to the story. The teenaged cousin Phoebe Pyncheon is delightful if a little over-perfect, almost like Dickens’ Little Nell, but not quite so saccharine, even though she constantly brings fresh air and sunshine to the disturbed inhabitants of the moldy house, even singing as she works. I suppose she with all her musical cheerfulness is needed to balance out the heavy gloom. You can almost believe a person like Phoebe could exist, and after all this is a Romance. You have to allow a little latitude when it comes to its portrayal of reality in a Romance.
Major Characters in The House of the Seven Gables
The named characters are relatively few although there is a multitude of extras: mostly townsfolk walking by, patronizing the shop, and gossiping about the crazy Pyncheons.
Current (that is current around 1850 or so)
- Hepzibah Pyncheon: Reclusive old maid about 60 years of age; good-hearted; stalwart but timid.
- Clifford Pyncheon: Hepzibah’s brother; tragically condemned as a young man to spend most of his life in prison. A lover of beauty and pleasure, Clifford is not the type who becomes stronger and better by suffering. He emerges from his prison tomb a seriously damaged old man, both in mind and character.
- Judge Jaffrey Pyncheon: The antagonist and personification of the evil that has followed the family through the generations. Judge Pyncheon is a hypocrite whose bad character keeps showing through his well-practiced false joviality. He does not have the best interests of his cousins Hepzibah and Clifford at heart.
- Mr. Holgrave: A young deguerreotypist who is lodging in one of the gables of the house. He seems a kind decent fellow but seems to have some mysterious interest in the members of the Pyncheon family and their history.
- Phoebe Pyncheon: A young relative who arrives from the country for a visit and ends up staying to help Hepzibah tend the shop and tend to the recently released Clifford. Phoebe is cheerful, practical, and physically lovely. She becomes a badly needed breath of fresh air and ray of sunshine to the gloomy household.
- Uncle Venner: Very old handyman who wanders around the town preaching his homespun philosophy to anyone who will listen. Friend to all the residents of the house.
- Colonel Pyncheon: Mean heartless old Puritan who build the house and whose evil actions originated the family curse. A painting of the man hangs prominently on the wall, disturbing the residents and haunting the house.
- Matthew Maule: The 17th century farmer who originally owned the land on which the house is built. Curses the Pyncheon family just before being hanged for witchcraft.
- Gervayse Pyncheon: Grandson of Colonel Pyncheon who, as a small child, found the old man dead in a chair.
- Alice Pyncheon: Daughter of Gervayse Pyncheon, said to have been beautiful and talented, and whose flowers still grow around the house. Died tragically after being hypnotized by the grandson of Matthew Maule. Her ghost haunts the house.
Today I would like to share this poem by Emily Dickinson:
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A family I know has a three-year-old child with cerebral palsy. She must be carried or wheeled everywhere and needs special equipment to eat and just to live. With the help of her teenaged sister, parents, and therapist, this little girl battles every day of her life for mastery of every tiny movement of her body. Her parents have devoted their lives to her life and welfare, loving her, pulling for her, never losing faith even when, as a premature infant with serious health issues, the doctors doubted she would live. There are thousands and millions of people with similar or other struggles: addictions, mental illness, poverty, imprisonment – false or otherwise, cancer, war injuries, the list goes on and on and on, all fighting their battles to the utmost to the best of their abilities.
We glorify a pantheon of celebrities and a few war heroes, giving little conscious thought to the hundreds of people we pass every day on the streets, bravely confronting, fighting, and often losing their own battles. We recognize that some people deserve honor and credit for their notable efforts in the arts, sciences, or industries, for doing extraordinary work in the helping professions, or for showing courage in war, but our minds can only process so much information and there are just so many of us, each person containing endless potential for story and struggle. So we select some individuals as symbols for the many: some real leaders and heroes, some actors who can play leaders and heroes in the movies, some musicians or other artists who can make us feel loving or heroic, some for their athletic ability, and some simply for their beauty or charisma. The guy standing by his overheated heap on the side of highway may have more character, courage, and fortitude than anyone in People Magazine or on talk shows. Who we select for admiration or fascination has more to do what we want to be, what we desire, and what we feel guilty about than it does with the relative value of the selected one.
Sometimes you just stumble onto a book that is not on any of your lists, not on any agenda. That I have the time to give time and attention to such books that come my way is one of the reasons I am thankful my time right now is not all scheduled up. No school, no classes, no lesson planning – just learning in the direction the Spirit leads. This may be my best September ever.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage by Paul Elie was not on my reading list. In fact until I stumbled upon a review of the audio book last week, I had never heard of it. Yet the summary compelled me enough that five minutes later I was listening and kept on listening, sometimes re-listening, until I listened to all 22 hours of the audio text. The book, its title taken from a short story by Flannery O’Connor, tells the story of four 20th-century writers: O’Connor, Walker Percy, Dorothy Day, and Thomas Merton, each of who followed a unique path to truth through reading classic literature as well as through their own writing, all under the big umbrella of Catholicism. None of these authors were on my reading list when I started the book, but you can bet I added several books before I finished. All but O’Connor were converts to the faith, and Dorothy Day is currently going through the process leading to canonization at the Vatican.
The Life You Save is quite an unusual book, a skillful interweaving of cultural history, biography, literary criticism, and an examination of the role of faith in all of these areas. The attraction to Catholicism is the force that unifies these four very different writers and is the unifying force of the book. None of their lives followed anything like a stereotypical or conventional pattern, so one thing I took away is that, far from being a rigid straightjacket kind of religion, Catholicism is able to accommodate a wide range of ideas and life choices.
O’Connor was a “cradle Catholic”, apparently somewhat unusual in early 20th-century Georgia, who remained solidly faithful to church doctrine throughout her life, but she filtered this doctrine in highly creative ways through stories uniquely adapted to the culture of the Bible Belt American south. Thomas Merton was a convert who became a Trappist monk and also quite the celebrity. Walker Percy, scion of an old southern family, became a doctor but had to quit practicing early after contracting tuberculosis. He then converted to Catholicism and spent the rest of his years, which turned out to be many, writing philosophic existential catholic essays and novels.
An avid reader from childhood, Dorothy Day started her adult life as a free-spirit Bohemian but felt attracted to Catholicism which she learned about entirely through books. In fact several years after converting she did not really know any actual Catholic people. Her faith was all a matter of mind and imagination and she longed for a way to act it out in the real world among real people. In 1932, at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington DC, she prayed fervently for God to show her a way to serve Him. Upon her return she found the fervent social activist Peter Maurin waiting for her at her home. Together they founded The Catholic Worker, a newspaper and organization dedicated to helping the poor, and an anarchist group in the sense that it had no formal government structure of its own and avoided any connection with U.S. or state government, refusing even tax-exempt status.
Elie does an admirable job of showing the connections between the four writers including their letters to each other, and how their work came to recognized as sort of loose literary movement, a something that Caroline Gordon , a mutual writer/editor friend envisioned as “The School of the Holy Ghost.” But there was never any formal meeting or club or organization. It was all a spontaneous mutual pilgrimage starting from different places but converging at the same destination.
I found the whole story fascinating – their lives and struggles, the changing culture of the mid-20th century, the colorful history – but what really attracted me to this book and kept me enthralled all the way through is the way these people used literature as their guideposts through life, repeatedly citing Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Dickens, Hawthorne, and many others as the messengers who lit their souls on fire with desire for truth and meaning. I have always found books to be my guideposts through life and there is nothing like getting that warm feeling of validation, 22 hours worth, finding out that rather than just being weird, you are in the best company.
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The edition I listened to: Elie, Paul. The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage. Narrated by Lloyd James. Published 2006 by Blackstone Audio.
For the rest of September I will be featuring my favorite poet, or at least, somehow working one of her poems into my posts. This is not difficult to do because this poet seems to have covered pretty much everything of importance in her 1700 plus poems. My excuse is that The Classics Club is hosting an event called Romantic Literature in September, but I hardly need an excuse to share the poetry of Emily Dickinson and love to do so whenever I get the opportunity. Once upon a time in a little colonial town called Williamsburg, Virginia, I was a student in the Masters program in Literature at The College of William and Mary. I completed all the classwork with a 3.8 GPA but then life started moving fast and I never did complete my thesis on Emily Dickinson. But who knows? Maybe, post by post, one of these days I will still finish that thesis.
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Back in my grad school days, before Age of the Internet (BI), I used to gracefully accept my ignorance. If I came across something I did not understand, I accepted in faith that in the fullness of time the mystery would come clear and would proceed peacefully to take in what I could understand. Later I would go to the card catalog and spend hours searching voluminous volumes of journals for enlightenment. But now in the Internet Era (IE) I read or hear and see on social media and immediately go rushing to Wikipedia as fast as my fingers can click. If the internet is down when I want to look something up I feel edgy and impatient. Gone is the humble patient faith that all will become clear in the natural course of things. I want that background knowledge and I want it now! Such is one sad example of how the internet can rewire a person’s character.
Sometimes the trail of clicks from one article to another leads me to a place I almost wish I had not gone. While reading Penguin Island by Anatole France I discovered the maddening details of the Dreyfuss Affair, and in reading a book about World War I followed a Wikipedia trail until I learned about the genocides in Greece and Armenia in the early years of the 20th century. This sort of thing leave me in a no man’s land where I am stuck between embarrassment that I did not know about the murder of millions so recently in history and regret that now I do know about it. I can’t absorb the reality of it and am not sure how productive it would be to do so. The earth is soaked in the blood of past horrors and perhaps the only way new generations can live reasonably happy lives is to mulch over the dirt, grow flowers, and not look back. I get the idea this was pretty much the working philosophy of many of the World War II veterans who returned from the horrors of war, got married, and never talked to their children about what they experienced during the war, and while I can completely understand that approach, I am not at all sure it is the right way to go. I think it would more painful but more healthy in the long run to go to some of these places of horror, meditate on the worst of human evil, and then think long and hard about how to personally avoid participating in any more of it.
A couple of days ago I saw on the Humans of New York (HONY) blog a picture of a young Tibetan monk living in exile in Dharamshala, India. Off I went to Wikipedia to brush up on what exactly happened in Tibet. I knew Tibet used to be this beautiful mountain place where they practiced Buddhism and lived in peace under the wisdom of the Dali Llama and that at some point the Chinese invaded the country, killed people, and destroyed thousands of monasteries, although I don’t even remember where I acquired even that much information.
So I Googled “Tibet” and read up about it on Wikipedia. The article has this picture of a woman bent over between two soldiers with a heavy sign around her neck. I had to click. The link led to a an article about struggle sessions, a practice straight out of Orwell’s 1984, and among the most horrible things I have ever heard of. I don’t want to post the pictures. You can click the link and look if you like. I don’t want to write about it either. I’ll just say it is about subjecting people to public humiliation in the worst possible way to get them to publicly renounce their lifestyles, thoughts, beliefs – basically their individuality and dignity – and say they are whatever the State says they are. Then some of them are executed. It was done as a spectacle that attracts thousands, sometimes tens of thousands of spectators, who get to participate in the procedure. Supposedly it was done a lot during the reign of Mao Zedong and is not done anymore. I hope not.
Anyway, in choosing an Emily Dickinson poem to share today, I came across this one and immediately thought of struggle sessions and the woman in that picture. How a sheltered 19th-century lady living in Amherst Massachusetts could have known about struggle sessions I don’t know, but such is the power of a poet who can tap into the universal truth of things.
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MUCH madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
’T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,—you ’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
What a strange September. The only September stranger than this was the September of 2001, that surreal September when my youngest son started kindergarten. This one is the first in 16 years that has not involved back-to-school rituals since the youngest son graduated in June from high school and has chosen not to start college this semester, preferring to work on his various enterprises and the older son found his dream job this summer and has sort of forgotten all about college.
This time last year I was embarking on a strenuous year of senior year homeschooling and now by contrast I find myself with stretches of time that seem to be all mine,– though like a blind person who doesn’t quite believe he sees and continues to tap his cane as he walks, I hesitate to believe it. I can do all the writing and artwork I used to lament I had no time to do. So what did I do this weekend? Some observers I know would say “nothing”, but I would disagree with that assessment.
Here’s what I did with that 48 hours:
1) Did some quality writing though what I will do with this writing I don’t know.
2) Thought about what to do with the kind of writing I am doing, how it might fit various forms.
3) Thought about this while shopping. A quick trip to the mall to see my son’s new store turned into an intense five-hour shopping excursion. I sort of got involved, something I don’t do often.
4) Listened to several hours of The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage by Paul Elie. It’s a bit of cultural history about a group of mid-century Catholic writers – Flannery O’Connor, Walker Percy, Dorothy Day, and Thomas Merton. I don’t know if everybody would love this book but I feel like it is speaking specifically to me, because I have been thinking about going back to Catholicism for a couple of years now and have been through a lot of the same thought processes and read many of the same books that influenced the subjects of this book.
5) Made a decision about my church and choir involvement. I decided that after Christmas I will give notice that I will leave Baptist Church where I am currently a member. I am giving them three months notice because I am one of two sopranos in the choir and they depend on me. But I have felt Catholicism pulling me back for a long time and the pull is not going way.
6) Went to church where I sang “Make Me a Channel of Your Peace”, the hymn that sets to music “The Prayer of St. Francis.”
7) Did yoga. Took a two-mile walk.
8) Cleaned house. Pulled some weeds.
9) Cooked a reasonably edible meal for myself and my sons. Gluten-free spaghetti and sauce with sautéed zucchini.
So I made no progress of writing a great book per se and no progress on my artwork, not even per se. But I did not do nothing. Between the Book of Psalms and Emily Dickinson I can pretty much find the perfect expression for every mood, circumstance, and world event. Sure enough, I ran across this gem by Emily D. today. It supports my idea that heaping achievements into your resume is not what really is important:
IF I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Over at The Classics Club they have designated September as Romantic Literature month, and since they list Emily Dickinson as one of the romantic poets, I will take that excuse to feature some of her poems here for the rest of this very unusual September. I have read a lot of Emily Dickinson because had I finished my Masters thesis it was going to be about her work.
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