55: The Love of the Beautiful

Image credit: This is kind of gross.

When I was done, I smiled and looked at my work. The detail was exquisite: every finely crafted wheel and cog shone brilliantly as it turned. I carefully wound the spring and held my creation aloft, and it lit gently into the air, fluttering on rice paper wings.

“Strength,” I said, “is an earthly monster.”
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FFF-55 Vol. LX. Tell a story in exactly fifty-five words. Go see G-Man. An ode to Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Artist of the Beautiful, a short story that changed my life. (Also relevent: A Life Without Beauty.)

The Brightly Coloured Crayons

Image credit: JerrySpinelli.com

“She was bendable light: she shone around every corner of my day.” 

Tonight, I had an extraordinary evening. I don't mean that generically; I mean that two specific things occurred that made it wonderful and beyond ordinary, things I hope I will remember forever.

The First thing: I read the novel Stargirl, by Jerry Spinelli. This book was loaned to me by my sister, a human being who is beyond words, who I had the rare occasion to see last week. We weren't discussing books, nor had any idea of suggested reading come up. She just handed it to me. A small part of me was annoyed, only because I haven't had (made) time to finish the other novel I'd been carrying around with me. The rest of me was elated, and I read the first page right there in the chair.

So tonight, having made plans to go out with my friends from work, and having been subsequently ditched by said friends, I decided I'd crack open Stargirl. My sister reported it as a three hour read, and though if I've ever read a novel in a single sitting I can't remember, I at least decided to get through a serious chunk of it.

Three hours, in fact, was a fair estimate, even at my slow reading rate (I don't bother to try reading quickly; I read to myself about the same speed that I read aloud). I knew in the first few chapters that Spinelli's art was sufficient to draw the same emotions experienced during The Book Thief, and midway through the tears started. Although the novel is short, and the story considerably simpler than that of Liesel Meminger, it was still written with the same passion, both tragic and elated, and by the end of the novel, I was bawling like a little child.

Tonight I made another bridge, and tapped those emotions that sit for too long beneath a pathetic veneer of mundane everydayness, a "world of gray nothings," as the novel's narrator says. And I connected with my sister, and her bridges. And I fell in love all over again with such a joyous thing. It's hard and disappointing to realize that I've become so 'mature' that I had forgotten the wondrous things a book can do, and when I came downstairs to the family, with my reddened eyes and my runny nose to don my shoes and find the dog's walking stuff, I hope they all noticed, and may yet wonder what power exists in books, so that they, too, might discover it on their own.

The Second thing: I took that walk with every intention of being immersed in a dark late summer night, devoid of anything interesting, so that Stargirl could sink in even deeper. The night failed me. Also, my daughter asked if she could come, and she is hard to refuse. Though I love this little girl more than anything, her presence is distracting with such a chore as mulling over the happenings of Mica, Arizona when Stargirl Caraway appears. So it goes. So the dog and I went out with my daughter, instead.

That wasn't the only change of plans. We hadn't yet left the driveway when we both noticed a large storm off to the west. The thunder rumbled vaguely but the lightning was definite. A flash occurred somewhere in the sky no less frequently than every second, yet the sky directly above was clear. As we walked, we watched it and wondered: it was a marvel, like a great feature film projected onto a vast screen solely for our benefit. We walked and talked, and we could see the storm moving, and I guessed maybe it would miss us. We discussed what might be happening only a handful of miles away: the terrible rain and awful racket of thunder, and how different it was from what we were experiencing. We talked about the book I'd read.

I asked my daughter if she thought it was weird that a book would make me cry. She said yes, almost with embarrassment. Then I described a box of crayons to her that was filled with only muted and dull colours: greys and browns and darks. I asked her to imagine using only that box for days and days, for so long you started to see everything in the world as one or another of only those shades. Then what would happen if one day, you were loaned those forgotten colours: reds and yellows and oranges, so you could draw a sun; and green and blue and violet, so you could draw a rainbow. And imagine what picture would emerge that day, that hour, when you finally had access to the brightly coloured crayons once more, especially if it were only for a little while, and you knew you'd have to return them.

And she understood where my emotions came from: she suddenly knew that all the happiness and sadness that might have caused my tears over the novel weren't a bad thing, but something wonderful, something necessary. And we both grew in that explanation and realization. And with the backdrop of lightning flashes above us, we both made it home before the rain came (I was wrong about it missing us), but as human beings more whole and more strongly bonded than before.

So tonight was extraordinary, and when my buddies and I do finally get together, I owe them every round of drinks, every appetizer, and more, because what has happened to me in the last handful of hours is something I never want to forget. I want to remember these sensations and emotions and sensitivities the rest of my life.

And I hope my daughter does too. I never want to lose what I shared with her tonight.

No Love For Narnia

(alternate title: I Am A Very Bad Man)

I'm ashamed to admit it, but...

I just can't find love for the Chronicles of Narnia.

I know--just stone me. As literature goes, this series is supposed to be universal, loved by young and old, generation after generation. As authors go, C.S. Lewis is supposed to be captivating, inspiring wonder and excitement in the deepest recesses of the reader's mind. As epic stories go, the Narnia series is arguably a modern Aeneid, missing only a visit to the Underworld (and possibly a tragic father/son power struggle). And I'm sorry. But I just can't get there. Believe me, I've tried.

I made it through The Magician's Nephew just fine. I started The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe only to get shut down by the kids with Lucy crying, "Mr. Tumnus! Mr. Tumnus!" I remember the very moment I read that line, feeling very goofy, completely unable to imitate what I'm sure Lewis meant to portray as a frightening and terrible moment. But the kids weren't having it. They'd given me twenty minutes of their bedtime ritual, and they were done. They politely requested I read something else.

I was genuinely aghast. Really, I knew *I* wasn't getting into it, but these little darlings were supposed to have been enchanted. Wasn't everybody when they first broke into this novel? I thought by that point they were supposed to be hanging on every word, knowing in their hearts that Mr. Tumnus, the tragic pawn of the White Witch's trap, had been caught and surely punished, but hoping with their last breath that he would somehow escape his inevitable fate. But they weren't. We opted for Brave Potatoes instead.

Eventually I finished the book out of principle, but it took me several weeks. I even started the Horse one after, but when the evil guy bargaining for the kid turned out to be everything he'd been presented as originally, with nothing either sincere or sinister beneath the surface waiting to be revealed at the last minute, I just gave up hope. I finished the chapter and re-shelved the book.

Now I'm trying again, this time working in the order in which the novels were written in an attempt to revive interest. Having Read Wardrobe, I'm now digging into Prince Caspian. I wasn't worried about missing anything in the long years between, because I made absolutely no emotional investment in the former. What I've found so far is what I remember experiencing before: a really good story told in a flat, linear, single-layered monotone. And every time Peter says, "By Jove!" I almost want to puke. The greatest value I can find overall are the colorful and wonderful passing descriptions Lewis makes of characters and landscapes, but he never stops telling the facts of the story long enough to let me, as a reader, enjoy the mental image he's just flashed before me before it's snatched away.

I don't know what my problem is. I am sure I'm missing something. I do, of course, realize that the story as a whole, in particular Wardrobe, is a Christian allegory. I also know that Lewis was a dear and respected friend of my very most favorite, J.R.R. Tolkien. And the people in my life who love books and stories and fantasy and literature love The Chronicles of Narnia. I've also read one of Lewis's earlier books, The Screwtape Letters, and I couldn't put it down. Not understanding the passion for this series is like stepping out of the theater for Snowcaps just as the key moment in the movie is about to occur. Everybody else is in awe by the time you get back, but it's simply too late for you.

Please, somebody help me. I want to find beauty and wonder in this series. I want to find what others say they love. I want these books to change me the way other classics have, but I guess I keep missing the mark. If anyone can offer some pointers, I'd really appreciate it. Don't worry though, I'm not giving up this time. I intend to finish Prince Caspian and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. And then I'll watch the movies. But after that, all bets are off.

I'm so sorry, Clive. You know, it could be worse: I absolutely hated Voltaire, and I didn't even feel bad about it.

The Review and Experience of The Book Thief

The Experience
Today I finished The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak. In all my years of reading, my only memory of being moved to sobbing like this from a book or story way was caused by James Hurst's The Scarlet Ibis in 8th or 9th grade.

My wife was worried about me. My little daughter walked in and saw me in the aftermath of Himmel Street's destruction, and was concerned, but said nothing. They wonder why, and I have an answer. But how can I express it?

I imagine the questions. Or rather, I've heard the questions, and imagine the answers, if any askers ever had enough patience to hear them. The Question: Why read such things if they affect you in these ways?

Why indeed?

Because, my child, my wife, my neighbor, my friend... I am but a human, and being human, by definition, means being alone. We are all islands of Body cursed with the ability to see beyond ourselves, but never be beyond ourselves. This causes feelings of desire, want, hunger, jealously, ambition. We are plagued by our emotions, and they drive what we become. This happens to us all. But it happens to each of us alone.

If we were all as self-contained as our Bodies and Emotions would have us believe, we would never be able to share or express what we want, what we feel. We would instead go day to day doing what the powers that be make us think is the "right" thing to do. Enlist. Educate. Graduate. Employ. Marry. Procreate. Provide. Rinse. Repeat. Most of us are stuck in such a state, and I imagine most such folks are locked in some self-perpetuating cycle of confusion about why they might have landed in their particular life. More often than not, they bemoan it. Enter the existentialists.

It is for this reason that I believe there could never be such a thing as a true atheist. Who could imagine, let alone accept, that this is all there is to our lives? But I digress.

Maybe I'm alone in my answer to the Question, but I suspect not. The Answer: the reason I subject myself to such artisticly inspired depths and heights of emotion is because I refuse to be an island. I may not ever be able to be anything other than what sits in the chair as I write, but I can certainly reach and try to experience what else is here, what else has happened. Because I am certain to feel love, and desire, and loss, and when I do, I want to know what it looks like from the outside. I want to be able to recognize the smell of an experience when it comes my way. I want validation that those events that hurt and excite me are worth the trouble. I want to see someone else suffer, and love, and fail. I want to see how others deal with the tragedy and confusion of enduring the unendurable. I want to see it all because it will happen to me, and when it does, I want to be ready.

To refuse to acknowledge the experiences of others, shared through art, is to limit one's own human experience, and condemn oneself to being truly alone in an already lonesome existence.

So when I lay in bed sobbing over Liesel Meminger's loss, do not have pity for me; do not worry for me. Celebrate and recognize the bridge I've made, or rather, that I've found from my lonesome island to someone else's, in this case Zusak's. See that when I discover and cross such a bridge, I do so with every other person this novel has touched, and in this way, we all rise above the ocean that separates us. And know that for a moment, when the words on the page become more than dried ink on processed wood pulp, the story before me is transformed into real emotion handed directly from author to reader, and all I had to to was reach out and accept it.

Why, oh why, would anyone deny themselves such a gift?

The Review
The Book Thief is a beautiful novel, and true to its cover review, it will be life changing. It isn't an easy read, and though I know it's being assigned as middle school reading, it isn't for the unseasoned soul. Being narrated by Death, it becomes two stories, each intertwined with and dependent on the other. Though set in a familiar place for stories of love and tragedy, this is entirely new, and told in an entirely different way. It's not really possible to describe the novel beyond the characters and plot, because such a description doesn't even begin to say what the story is about.

If every other decent and common story you've ever read was a hamburger, you'd have a wide variety available. Most would equate themselves to McDonald's hamburgers, which are hardly hamburgers to begin with. The Book Thief, by comparison, is akin to the juiciest bar burger you've ever had the pleasure of biting into. It's thick and messy. It has lots of everything else you've ever had on all your other burgers, but something new too. There's a flavor you've never tasted, and it's almost too spicy to endure, but its addition to the whole makes this meal greater than any stack of meat and bread you've ever seen. This book demands to be read, and demands to be finished. In truth, you don't actually read this novel, you experience it. You let it in and offer it your chair. And though much of it is ugly and unpleasant, every page contributes to one of the most satisfying book experiences I can ever remember having.