Chesterton on Art

“A man wandering about a race-course, making bets that nobody took seriously, would be merely a bore. And so the hero wandering through a novel, making vows of love that nobody took seriously, is merely a bore. The point here is not so much that morally it cannot be a creditable story, but that artistically it cannot be a story at all. Art is born when the temporary touches the eternal; the shock of beauty is when the irresistible force hits the immovable post.”  --G.K. Chesterton

Chesterton, G.K. Fancies Versus Fads. 1923. Accessed 9 April 2012 <http://www.cse.dmu.ac.uk/~mward/gkc/books/Fancies_Versis_Fads.txt>

C.S. Lewis On Praise

“I had never noticed that all enjoyment spontaneously overflows into praise unless (sometimes even if) shyness or the fear of boring others is deliberately brought in to check it. The world rings with praise—lovers praising their mistresses, readers their favorite poet, walkers praising the countryside, players praising their favorite game—praise of weather, wines, dishes, actors, motors, horses, colleges, countries, historical personages, children, flowers, mountains, rare stamps, rare beetles, even sometimes politicians or scholars. I had not noticed how the humblest, and at the same time most balanced and capacious, minds, praised most, while the cranks, misfits and malcontents praised least. The good critics found something to praise in many imperfect works; the bad ones continually narrowed the list of books we might be allowed to read. The healthy and unaffected man, even if luxuriously bought up and widely experienced in good cookery, could praise a very modest meal: the dyspeptic and the snob found fault with all. Except where intolerably adverse circumstances interfere, praise almost seems to be inner health made audible. Nor does it cease to be so when, through lack of skill, the forms of its expression are very uncouth or even ridiculous. Heaven knows, many poems of praise addressed to an earthly beloved are as bad as our bad hymns.... I had not noticed either that just as men spontaneously praise whatever they value, so they spontaneously urge us to join them in praising it: “Isn't she lovely?” Wasn't it glorious? Don't you think that magnificent?” The Psalmists in telling everyone to praise God are doing what all men do when they speak of what they care about. My whole, more general, difficulty about the praise of God depended on my absurdly denying to us, as regards the supremely Valuable, what we delight to do, what indeed we can't help doing, about everything else we value.”

C.S. Lewis. Reflections on the Psalms. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1958. Print. Pgs 94-95

The Man Behind the Monster: An Interview with Grendel.

By Kate Corrnie, special to Forbode Magazine.

Today I had the unique opportunity to interview Grendel, a well-known literary figure, and someone who was just named to Forbode Magazine's list of 10 most ruthless characters. I caught up with Grendel at one of his favorite haunts: a desolate pond in Scandinavia near where he was raised. The place is a cross between those two iconic bodies of water: Walden Pond and the planet Dagobad. When I met him, Grendel was applying a fresh bandage to a wound he had recently received, so I asked him about it.

Kate: How did you lose your arm?

Grendel: I got in a fight with a big guy who ripped it off.

Kate: I'm so sorry! That sounds terrible. Can you describe what that experience was like?

Grendel: It was the worst day of my life, believe me. I was feeling down and out that day to begin with, real angry at the world, and all that. You know the feeling—well, maybe you don't.... Anyway I decided to take it out on some of old Hrothgar's folks, same as I've done many-a-time. It always makes me feel better to knock some heads. I get there and everybody's sleeping, and all that, so I grab a guy and show him who's boss, when all of a sudden this big guy jumps me and we have a real go at it. He has this incredibly strong grip. We're wrestling together for a while and I just can't shake him off. Finally he grabs hold of my arm—and by this time I'm thinking: “this place is hell, I need to get outa here”—and he literally pulls my bloody arm off!

Kate: Horrible! What did you do then?

Grendel: Well, he was holding my arm, not me, at that point so I got outa there in a hurry.

Kate: How do you feel towards the man who disabled you?

Grendel: How do you think?! How would you feel if somebody pulled your bloody arm off! That guy should be drawn and quartered! I talked to a lawyer but he acted like there was nothing to do. It was self defense he said. Self defense to pull somebody's arm off?! How wrong is that? My livelihood is gone!

Kate: Since you bring up your livelihood, why don't you tell me a little about your business?

Grendel: Basically, I'm a pirate. I take what I need and then some. It's not a bad business to be in in this economy, actually.

Kate: Clearly not, since you were recently named to Forbode Magazine's list of 10 most ruthless businessmen. It's been said that you don't just make a living, you make a killing. Is that an accurate characterization?

Grendel [chuckling]: Yeah, you could say that.

Kate: What was the pinnacle of your pillaging career?

Grendel: Well, I've been in the business a little over 12 years, so there have been a lot of good hauls, but I would have to say the best was the time I carried off 30 of Hrothgar's men in one night. I do everything on a graveyard shift, it just makes my work so much easier.

Kate: In your dealings with others you have often been compared to Cain. Do you think the comparison is accurate?

Grendel: Well... Sure. We're both kinda loners. Kinda outcasts from society. People don't like us, and we don't like people!

Kate: You say you are a loner. Did you have any friends growing up, Grendel? Why don't you tell us about your childhood?

Grendel: My life as a kid was hard. I grow up without a father: my mother was a single parent. The only place we could afford to live was little better than a swamp. No electricity. We had running water, but, unfortunately, it was running through the roof. I would have to say my childhood wasn't typical. I was always a loner; didn't have any friends growing up. I was always jealous when I saw the other kids having fun together. I tried to steal their toys and scare them. I guess I just wanted to make their life miserable because I was miserable.

Kate: Were you—forgive me if this sounds crude—were you a bully growing up?

Grendel: Yeah, you could probably say that.

Kate: How would you characterize your relationship with your mother?

Grendel: She taught me everything I know. Always stuck up for me. Still does. In fact, as we speak she's on her way to pay back the fellow who did this to my arm. Pity the poor wretches she gets her hands on. Raising me alone like she did taught her to be every bit as tough as I am myself.

Kate: We're running out of time, and I can see that shoulder is giving you a lot of pain. One more question: who's your hero?

Grendel: That's a hard one... Frankenstein's Creature is someone I really look up to, but on the other hand, there's a lot I admire in Gollum as well...

Editor's Note: Shortly after this interview with Forbode Magazine, Grendel passed away due to complications from the injury to his arm. Correspondent Kate Corrnie was the last person to interview him before his death.

More Than a Monster: The Symbolic Meaning of Grendel

“In off the moors, down through the mist-bands
God-cursed Grendel came greedily loping” (Beowulf Lines 710-11).

In this way the anonymous author of the epic Beowulf poem offers us a glimpse of the blood-chilling monster Grendel just before he attacks the mead-hall of Heorot. Leaving terror in his wake, Grendel ranges out from the wild swamps of Scandinavia with the express intention of seeking out men and doing them harm. But who is Grendel? On one level, Grendel is a Gothic forerunner of Frankenstein's Creature, worthy to take his place among the terrifying monsters who inhabit the world of fiction. Yet, like Frankenstein's Creature, Grendel is more than just an inhuman monster. He is a symbol of the jealousy and hate that seeks to destroy others' happiness and can ultimately cripple a civilization.

The physical description of Grendel is vague, an indication that his fictional existence in time and space is less important than the idea that he represents. The author of the poem has fleshed out Grendel just enough to show us that while misshapen and abhorrent, Grendel is not really alien to the race of men. The text indicates that he is essentially human in form. Huge and misshapen, but having “hands,” “arms” (Lines 833, 835), and a mother who is familiar enough with tools to use a dagger (L 1545-6). What places him solidly in the role of a human—albeit, disfigured—is his relation to Cain. It is this relationship to Cain that needs to be explored to fully understand Grendel.

Like Cain who killed his brother, Grendel is a “restless wanderer on the earth” alienated from the rest of mankind (Genesis 4:12). Unable to join the community of men, Grendel becomes envious and “nursed a hard grievance. It harrowed him/ to hear the din of the loud banquet/ everyday in the hall, the harp being struck/ and the clear song of a skilled poet” (L 88-90). Grendel's jealousy and hate finds outlet in destroying the good things he envies. In this way, Grendel personifies the destructive nature of jealousy.

The object of his envy is the mead-hall of Heorot. This is the center of the Danish community's civilization, and—giving the story universal application—this mead-hall is, “the greatest house in the world” (L 145-46). No civilization is free from the attacks of envy and strife which Grendel represents, since even “the greatest house in the world” is thrown into confusion. Clearly, Grendel is no backwater freak-show scaring some villagers, he is a cunning force that even the greatest civilizations must wrestle with. It is telling that Grendel only cares about terrorizing the main hall of Heorot, the center of civilization. To escape him, a man could leave the mead-hall, “shifting himself to a safer distance/ to bed in the bothies [outlying buildings]” (L 139-40). Since any building would be within the range of Grendel, it is clear that he represents a community problem more than just an individual problem. He purposefully strikes at the social and political heart of Danish civilization: the mead-hall.

This disruption at the heart of the community has serious implications. The feasting and fellowship that are synonymous with the traditional mead-hall are interrupted, crippling the harmony of society. It is a bad sign when men no longer feel safe in the place where traditionally safety and trust are paramount. And this breakdown of the community is long lasting. The text tells us that for “twelve winters” the mead-hall of king Hrothgar is terrorized by Grendel (L 147).

During this entire time, the coming of Grendel is unpredictable. He always attacks at night when the warriors are sleeping. Even on the night Beowulf hopes to encounter Grendel, “the hall guards were slack, asleep at their posts” (L 704). From the standpoint of realism it is unbelievable that a roomful of warriors—fearful of their lives and with a knowledge of Grendel's habits—would all fall asleep. When seen in the context of Grendel's personification of lurking envy in society, however, their sleep mirrors the vulnerability of society to those who hate what is good in it.

When the warriors do wake up to their danger they find that Grendel can not be hurt by traditional weapons of war, illustrating yet again that he is not just a physical enemy but a moral one as well that must be “wrestled” with. “There was something they could not have known at the time,/ that no blade on earth, no blacksmith's art/ could ever damage their demon opponent” (L 800-802). Swords cannot cut through the feelings of jealousy and hate that disturb the harmony of the mead-hall.

Grendel is not the only illustration of this. Reinforcing the point that this is an inner human problem, the text gives lengthy space to the envy of Unferth. Whereas all the other Danes welcome Beowulf, Unferth is left feeling, “sick with envy:/ he could not brook or abide the fact/ that anyone else alive under heaven/ might enjoy greater regard than he did” (L 502-505). Unferth is the fully human counterpart of Grendel in the text, mirroring in real life what Grendel represents symbolically. Unferth is envious of Beowulf''s glory in the mead-hall, just as Grendel is envious of the glory and happiness of all men in the mead-hall. Unferth is a murderer of his “own kith and kin” as Beowulf points out (L 587), just as Grendel is a bloody killer. Unferth seeks to humiliate Beowulf, just as Grendel seeks to humiliate all men. We are surprised to learn that Unferth is an unpunished killer, but this is precisely because he does on a small scale what Grendel does for a living: Grendel we are told—but it applies equally well on a personal level to Unferth—“knows he can trample down you Danes/ to his hearts content, humiliate and murder/ without fear of reprisal” (L 599-601). Happily, after Beowulf conquers the monster, Unferth is reconciled to Beowulf and they exchange presents, representing once again that when the monster of envy and hate is destroyed, peace and harmony are possible.

We end with the question we began with: Who is Grendel? Grendel is the rapacious envy of man given living shape. He cannot stand the happiness or glory of others in the mead-hall. If he cannot share it, he must destroy it. Grendel may or may not have lived in the forgotten past of Northern Europe but it doesn't matter. What matters is that Grendel still lives—lives and lurks outside our own mead-hall. But he may do more than lurk on the outside—on a personal level, we must beware of becoming Grendel. What God told Cain (the first ancestor of Grendel) before his envy caused him to kill his brother, is a good warning: “If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must master it” (Genesis 4:7).

Works Cited

Beowulf. Seamus Heaney, Trans. M.H. Abrams, Editor. The Norton Anthology of English Literature: the Major Authors Edition. 7^th ed. W.W. Norton and Co. 2001

Envy

In off the moors, down through the mist-bands
God-cursed Grendel came greedily loping. (Beowulf 710-11)

This has got to be one of the best lines from Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf. One can almost see a huge misshapen form lurching across the cold moor; the wafting mist now concealing, now half revealing the monstrous descendant of banished Cain.

Who is Grendel? Grendel is the rapacious envy of man given living shape. He cannot stand the happiness of others in the mead-hall. If he cannot share it, he must destroy it.

Lord and Thane

The relationship of the Christian to Christ is often portrayed as that of a servant to a master. The parallel is good and true, but for those who find the metaphor of slaves either stale or repellent, consider this description of old Germanic kings and their followers taken from The Norton Anthology of English Literature:

When a warrior vowed loyalty to his lord, he became not so much his servant as his voluntary companion, one who would take pride in defending him and fighting in his wars. In return, the lord was expected to take care of his thanes and to reward them richly for their valor; a good king, one like Hrothgar or Beowulf, is referred to by such poetic epithets as “ring-giver” and as the “helmet” and “shield” of his people (25).

Abrams, M.H. The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Major Authors 7th. ed. W.W.Norton and Co. 2001

What To Do With Your Life

Recalling the pessimism of Ecclesiastes, Samuel Johnson's History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia is the fictional journey of 3 young travelers on a quest to find happiness. Growing up in the sheltered “Happy Valley,” prince Rasselas, his sister Nekayah, and a maid, tunnel out of the idle luxury of the valley to look for meaning and happiness in the world outside. Everywhere they question those they meet if their profession and “choice of life” have made them happy. Invariably, the answer is no. Those with power are hated and deposed, those without power are abused; those with money have enemies, those without money are without; those with learning have wasted their time, “in the attainment of sciences which can, for the most part, be but remotely useful to mankind” (113), those without learning are rude and discontent.

It would seem upon first sight that Johnson is saying: “vanity, vanity, all is vanity.” Even the great pyramids that Rasselas and the princess visit are a testament to the futility of earthly achievement. According to the siblings' guide:

“I consider this mighty structure as a monument to the insufficiency of human enjoyments.... Whoever thou art, that, not content with a moderate condition, imaginest happiness in royal magnificence, and dreamest that command or riches can feed the appetite of novelty with perpetual gratification, survey the pyramids, and confess thy folly!” (78).

This echoes Ecclesiastes where Solomon says: “I undertook great projects: I built houses for myself and planted vineyards.... Yet... everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind” (Eccl. 2:4,11).

Yet Johnson's narrative, like Ecclesiastes, is not without hope. Both enjoin us to enjoy each moment as much as possible and in the end both peer forward toward a dimly seen future significance. Near the end of the book, princess Nekayah puts it this way: “'To me,' said the princess, 'the choice of life is become less important; I hope hereafter to think only on the choice of eternity'” (122). Ecclesiastes comes to a similar conclusion: “remember your Creator... Remember him—before the silver cord is severed, or the golden bowl is broken” (Eccl. 12:6).

Samuel Johnson, The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia. The World's Classics-Oxford University Press. 1988

Deception As a Means of Control

Woven into the tapestry of Shakespeare's Hamlet are threads of deception and lying. From the opening revelation of the ghost of Hamlet's father to the fatal dual that brings death in the final scene, deception and subterfuge are what make the play so intriguing. Almost all the characters are involved in some act of deception. Their motives are different but in each case deception is used in order to gain control of people or situations.

The villain Claudius is a prime illustration of a character using deception to gain control over people and situations in the play. His is the most far reaching deception. By secretly assassinating his brother the king, Claudius hoodwinks the entire nation of Denmark. By lying to the nation about the cause of his brother's death, he is able to installs himself as king, thereby effectively controlling the entire nation. This massive act of deception puts him in control of the people and situations around him.

But Claudius's deceptions don't stop there. In attempts to control his nephew and stepson Hamlet, he employs spies and dissimulation. Enlisting the service of Hamlet's old school fellows Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as spies, the king at first wants to secretly find out what is bothering Hamlet and, presumably, what will restore him to sanity. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's subterfuge is quickly sniffed out by the canny Hamlet who says to them:

“You were sent for, and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to color” (Act 2. ii. 294-296).

Failing with this method, Claudius hatches a more sinister plan to once and for all eliminate Hamlet. Pretending to send Hamlet on a diplomatic voyage to England but really intending to have him executed upon arrival is Claudius's way of reasserting his power in the face of a threatening Hamlet. When this plan doesn't work due to some counter spying on Hamlet's part, Claudius resorts to deception yet again in contriving a sword match between Laertes and Hamlet. To remain in control of the situation he instructs Laertes to use an envenomed sword against Hamlet and poisons a cup of wine. The goal of all these deceptive and villainous measures is the same as all Claudius's actions: to remain in control.

Claudius is far from the only one practicing deception in the play. Working hand in glove with the king is Polonius, the royal adviser. In on the most intimate details of Hamlet's life, Polonius is not only privy to all the king's schemes but has a few tricks up his own sleeve as well. Using his daughter as a spy he fakes “accidental” encounters between Hamlet and Ophelia, all the while eavesdropping on their conversations. Directly, this allows him to remain in control of his daughter's future; indirectly, this helps strengthen his position as advisor to the king.

Another episode sheds light not only on Polonius's desire for control but also the use of deception throughout the play. Wishing to know if his absent son is behaving himself, Polonius tells a servant to make up imagined faults for his son Laertes and, by dropping them in conversation, see if anyone agrees that he indulges in these sins. In this way:

“Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; and... With windlasses and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out” (Act 2. i 69-72).

To put it in different words, the suggestive lies will draw the truth out of Laertes's unsuspecting acquaintances.

This type of deception, whose sole existence is to discover the truth, is another thread in the tapestry of deception whereby characters attempt to gain a superior edge of knowledge in order to feel in control of their situations. The title character of the play, prince Hamlet, is famous for using this type of deception. Hamlet fakes his own madness in order to get at the truth of his father's murder. As he tells his friend Horatio: “I perchance hereafter shall think meet to put an antic disposition on” (Act 2. v. 196-197). The disguise of madness will allow him to uncover his uncle's secret—or so Hamlet hopes. Just how the semblance of madness will help him is not clear.

Suspicious that the ghost may also be a deceiver sent to snare him with a lie (in fact the ghost is one of the few who are honest) Hamlet thinks up a further deception to get at the truth.

“...I'll have grounds More relative than this. The plays the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King” (Act 2. ii. 611-613).

Utilizing the make-believe fictions of a group of traveling players, Hamlet hopes to trick the King into betraying his part in the murder of his father. This is a clever twist on the motif of deception depicted throughout Hamlet. Not nearly as sinister as the deadly lies of Claudius, still, the actors spend their careers pretending for a living. All actors, it must be admitted, want to manipulate and control the audience they perform for. It is a part of the art and the way they make their plays successful. Actors try to deceive to bring pleasure, enjoyment, or catharsis; Hamlet wants to use the actors to bring his uncle misery, guilt, and a different sort of catharsis: a purgation in the form of a confession. He does this through the pretend--and therefore deceitful--script that the actors follow.

The supporting role that Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Ophelia, Laertes, and the players have in the circle of deception has been touched on already. All of these, either for their own ends or at the command of another, are caught up in the lies and deception at Elsinore Castle. One last character who deepens the darkness of deception at Elsinore is Hamlet's mother Gertrude. What role she may have had in the death of her first husband is left unclear. Certainly if she were complicit in his death, hers would be one of the most horrendous acts of deceit in the play. What is clear is that she is no stranger to the intrigues of court life. Acting in unison with Claudius and Polonius in the spying upon her son, she shows herself an expert in deception.

It is no wonder that “Elsinore” has become a slang term for deception and intrigue. Each of the characters at Elsinore Castle desire to control events or learn something through deceiving others. They wish to be in charge of their own destiny by this control. But in the end, all their plotting and scheming not only cannot save them, it strangles them with the very cords they have intended for others. Hamlet is right to deny Rosencrantz's flippant remark that, “the world's grown honest” (Act 2. ii. 254). As everyone learns in Shakespeare's masterpiece of deception, it hasn't.

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet: Prince of Denmark. The Folger Shakespeare Library, Washington Square Press-Simon and Schuster, New York. 1970.

A Christmas Carol for Christmas

Last year on this date I posted about four Christmas reads. In that post I admitted I had never read Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. This post is to let you know that that problem has been rectified. Rather than reread last years selections (delightful as they are) I decided to take my canoe down an unexplored river. Along with A Christmas Carol I also sampled Dickens' similarly ghoulish new-years tale The Chimes. And if all goes well, I hope to read A Cricket on the Hearth before the year gets much older.

So, is all the fuss about A Christmas Carol justified? Probably, although some of its popularity might stem from it being authentic Dickens in a nutshell. At only an hundred pages long it is a great way to claim you have "read Dickens" without reading one of his novels of five times the length. Luckily, some of us are immune to such a way of thinking. Since I'm probably the last person to read A Christmas Carol I won't bore anyone with the details.

Instead, I'll just quote one passage that swooped from the ceiling and struck me. When Scrooge tries to comfort Marley by saying he was a good man of business in life, Marley retorts with an interesting description of vocation:

'Business!' cried the ghost, wringing its hands again. 'Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!' (24).

Merry CHRISTmas!

Charles Dickens, Christmas Books of Dickens. New York, Black's Readers Service Co.

The Search for a Soul

“Were I asked, what is a fairytale? I should reply, read Undine: that is a fairytale.... and of all fairytales I know, I think Undine the most beautiful.” --George MacDonald (23)

Naturally, when I read this in George MacDonald's essay "The Fantastic Imagination," I knew that I would have to read this “most beautiful” of fairytales. "The Fantastic Imagination" is MacDonald's attempt to say a little bit about what a fairytale ought to be. Not what a fairytale is, for that task is too difficult; as MacDonald says: “I should as soon think of describing the abstract human face, or stating what must go to constitute a human being. A fairytale is just a fairytale, as a face is just a face” (23).

Since a fairytale is so hard to describe, MacDonald directs his readers to the lengthy tale of Undine by Friedrich de la Motte Fouquee. I googled it and read its entire 55 pages at Project Gutenberg. If you plan to read it there you need not read any further here since what follows is just a short summary of some of the important highlights of the tale.

A wandering knight, bewildered by a fierce storm, stumbles upon a fisherman's cottage where he meets the young and beautiful Undine. The fisherman explains that his foster-daughter mysteriously appeared at his cottage years before when she was a toddler. The truth of the matter is that Undine is a water-nymph in human form seeking a soul. She learns that only by loving a mortal can she gain the soul that no water-spirit has. Needless to say, she comes to love the knight and they are soon married. “Through love Undine had won a soul, which is indeed the gift of God to every mortal” (25).

But this is not the end of the story. Undine's powerful uncle Kuhleborn does all he can to destroy her love and make her return to her watery home. In an eerie parallel to the Prince of the Power of the Air, Kuhleborn says of himself: “I am free as the wild birds of the air to go hither and thither as I will” (30). He laughs mockingly when Undine cries out that, “I no longer wish to have aught to do with you!” (30) Rather than going away, he plagues Undine and the knight Huldbrand more fiercely. On top of all their other trials the lady Bertalda begins to drive Undine and the knight apart. Finally, at the instigation of Kuhleborn, the knight breaks his promise to his wife and speaks harshly to Undine. At this, Undine must leave him and return to her ocean home. “There will I live, loving, sorrowing, for into the depths of the blue sea will I carry my new-won soul” (28).

The knight sees too late his error and only at his own death, when Undine's tears fall so heavily on his heart that it breaks, does he realizes that "he had never loved any one in all the wide world as he loved Undine" (53). The wild water-nymph who found a soul when she found love and who always tried to protect her knight in life, melted into a stream at his grave while it was said by the villagers that, “the little crystal stream, was none other than Undine, poor forsaken Undine, who thus surrounds and protects Huldbrand, her beloved” (55).

Friedrich de la Motte Fouquee. Undine. Project Gutenberg. http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=240839&pageno=1

George MacDonald. "The Fantastic Imagination." The Gifts of the Child Christ: Fairytales and Stories for the Childlike. ed. Glenn Edward Sadler. William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, Grand Rapids, Michigan. 1973.

Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim

I finally found another one! What am I talking about? I'm talking about the Malcolm Muggeridge book that I found at the public library bookstore. I only buy used books, which is a good way of cultivating patience since the delay could be a few years (assuming I don't use Amazon, in which case the delay is only a few days). But the delayed gratification this time was worth it. I had never even heard of Muggeridge's Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim before pulling it down in trembling excitement, my gasp of pleasure sounding loud among the silent shelves.

Muggeridge's autobiographical Confessions was at times merely a collection of quotes, at times a strangely impersonal narrative of his life, at other times a heartfelt cry of prayer. But at all times it was fascinating to read. Opening on the scene of his induction into the Catholic church at an advanced age, the author then turns a backwards glance on the stages of his life that had brought him to that moment. The boy, the teacher, the journalist, the soldier are some of the parts that the Englishman Muggeridge played on a variety of continents and in a variety of countries. While some could fault the almost desultory quotes from Augustine, Solzhenitsen, Simone Weil, among many, and Muggeridge's own philosophical reflections for breaking up the flow of the biography, they were my favorite part. I can't resist copying some of these reflections.

"the pursuit of knowledge without reference to truth which alone gives knowledge its validity" (51).

"The other true purpose of school studies--education--is to inculcate humility--not just a virtue, but the condition of virtue. From this point of view, it is perhaps even more useful to contemplate our stupidity than our sin." --Simone Weil (52).

"In great wealth, great poverty; in health sickness; in numbers, deception. Gorging, left hungry; sedated, left restless... So we press on through the valley of abundance that leads to the wasteland of satiety, passing through the gardens of fantasy; seeking happiness ever more ardently, and finding despair ever more surely" (64).

"Darwinian evolution, a very rickety hypothesis based on some old bones or a tooth discovered in Kenya or Nanking, and infiltrating all the different disciplines of learning, and making an ultimate nonsense of them all" (76).

"Of course, she enjoys the inestimable advantage of never looking at TV, listening to radio or reading the newspapers, and so has a clear notion of what is really going on in the world; the siren-voice of the consensus does not reach her" (136).

Why did Muggeridge become a Catholic? In part at least, "it was the Catholic Church's firm stand against contraception and abortion which finally made me decide to become a Catholic" (140).

Throughout his book there is one recurrent theme, somewhat contradictory to the idea of an autobiography: the theme of humility.

"He set a window in the tiny dark dungeon of the ego in which we all languish, letting in a light, providing a vista, and offering a way of release from the servitude of the flesh and the fury of the will into what St Paul called 'the glorious liberty of the children of God'" (131).

"God, humble my pride, extinguish the last stirrings of my Ego, obliterate whatever remains of worldly ambition and carnality, and help me to serve only Thy purposes, to speak and write only Thy words, to think only Thy thoughts, to have no other prayer than 'Thy will be done'" (75).

And that's a pretty good thought to end with.

Malcolm Muggeridge, Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim. San Francisco, Harper and Row Publishers. 1988. Originally: Conversion, A Spiritual Journey

Mere Christianity, Part 3: The Great Sin.

Normal pride.

“If I am a proud man, then, as long as there is one man in the whole world more powerful, or richer, or cleverer than I, he is my rival and my enemy” (123).

“Pride gets no pleasure out of having something, only out of having more of it than the next man. We say that people are proud of being rich, or clever, or good looking, but they are not. They are proud of being richer, or cleverer, or better looking than others. If everyone became equally rich, or clever, or good-looking there would be nothing to be proud about. It is the comparison that makes you proud: the pleasure of being above the rest” (122).

“Real thorough-going pride may act as a check on vanity; for, as I said a moment ago, the devil loves curing a small fault by giving you a great one. We must try not to be vain, but we must never call in our pride to cure our vanity” (126-27).

Spiritual pride.

“It is purely spiritual: consequently it is far more subtle and deadly” (125).

“Whenever we find that our religious life is making us feel that we are good—above all, that we are better than someone else—I think we may be sure that we are being acted on, not by God, but by the devil” (124-5).

“An individual Christian may see fit to give up all sorts of things for special reasons— marriage, or meat, or beer, or the cinema; but the moment he starts saying the things are bad in themselves, or looking down his nose at other people who do use them, he has taken the wrong turning” (78-79).

The real cure for both vanity and pride; normal and spiritual:

“To love and admire anything outside yourself is to take one step away from utter spiritual ruin; though we shall not be well so long as we love and admire anything more than we love and admire God” (127).

Lewis, C.S. Mere Christianity. HarperSanFrancisco, HarperCollins Publishers, 2001

Mere Christianity I: The Moral Law

I've been reading with interest, lately, the arguments for the existence of right and wrong. Actually some of what I have read could not technically be called arguments. For instance, I was interested that Plato in his Gorgias assumes without question that right and wrong exist and that doing the good is the most important thing possible. Just because Plato and Socrates said it does not mean it is true; however, it casts serious doubt on the occasional letter-to-the-editor-writer and average skeptic who say everyone can just do what they want and make up their own morality myths. Usually these types are terribly inconsistent by throwing in a clause like: “so long as they don't hurt anybody else,” thus showing that, aaah-ha, there really is some general guideline to be followed. But while I get a good chuckle (really I shouldn't) out of this illogical position, there are also the scary few who actually appear to believe what they say.

C.S.Lewis also addresses this issue of right and wrong or “The Rule of Decent Behavior” in Mere Christianity. The book opens with the chapter heading: “Right and Wrong as a Clue to the Meaning of the Universe.” His general premise is that “the human idea of decent behavior [is] obvious to everyone” (5). And the funny thing is that what Lewis and all the ancient philosophers and your parents and grandparents all the way back to Adam have been saying is much more believable than a sprinkling of university professors in Europe and the United States who claim it is not so. I mean, come on, if I slapped them in the face would they really not consider that unjust? Lewis very cogently makes his conclusion about the human race: “they know the Law of Nature [Moral Law] ;they break it. These two facts are the foundation of all clear thinking about ourselves and the universe we live in” (8).

Lewis goes on and ruthlessly slays the further objections of some about multiple moralities and so on. A few quotes to sum up should finish this post very well but stay tuned for some more excerpts from Mere Christianity coming up.

“We are forced to believe in a real Right and Wrong. People may be sometimes mistaken about them, just as people sometimes get their sums wrong; but they are not a matter of taste and opinion any more than the multiplication table” (7).

“If no set of moral ideas were truer or better than any other, there would be no sense in preferring civilized morality to savage morality, or Christian morality to Nazi morality. In fact, of course, we all do believe that some moralities are better than others” (13).

“In the same way, if the Rule of Decent Behavior meant simply 'whatever each nation happens to approve,' there would be no sense in saying that any one nation had ever been more correct in its approval than any other” (14).

“We do not merely observe men, we are men. In this case we have, so to speak, inside information; we are in the know. And because of that, we know that men find themselves under a moral law, which they did not make, and cannot quite forget even when they try, and which they know they ought to obey” (23).

Lewis, C.S. Mere Christianity. HarperSanFrancisco, HarperCollins Publishers, 2001

Finally...

Yes, I finally read the latest Tolkien craze: The Children of Hurin. And, yes, it fully met my expectations. I absolutely love that heroic style. If you're a Lord of the Rings fan and have read the Silmarillion you know what I mean; if you're not you need to start at the beginning and read them all (Come to think of it, you should start at the ending with the Lord of the Rings and work back to the beginning via the Hobbit and the Silmarillion). Again, if you have read the Silmarillion you know the story of the Children of Hurin, the only difference between the two versions is that this one runs about 259 pages.

According to Christopher Tolkien, this new book published in 2007 is a compilation of Tolkien's many different drafts of the story into one complete whole with only the barest editorial additions. A word here or a word there. Most authors today probably don't get it that good from their editors.

I also have The Lays of Beleriand which includes the unfinished Lay of the Children of Hurin, but before now I had not been motivated to read past the first few lines of this alliterative poem. Last night, though, I read about 40 pages. It is a lot harder to read and not nearly as enjoyable for me but it's kinda fun in it's way. I have found that it is absolutely necessary to read alliterative poetry out loud. Probably my brother thought me insane as I chanted that,

War was waked in the woods once more
For the foes of faerie, and it fame widely,
And the fear of that fellowship, now fared abroad;
When the horn was heard of the hunting Elves
That shook the shaws and the sheer valleys...
Even in Angband the Orcs trembled
[when] the word wandered down the ways of the forest
That Turin Thalion was returned to war (36).

Just a few thousand more lines to go.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Lays of Beleriand: The History of Middle-earth III. A Del Rey Book, Ballantine Books. Yew York, 1994.

My Four Christmas Reads

I've finished up my annual Christmas reading. No, not A Christmas Carol, believe it or not I haven't even read that once. There are a few short Christmas pieces, though, that I like well enough to read every year.

Not surprisingly, C.S.Lewis makes it to this list. I find Lewis's “Xmas and Christmas: A Lost Chapter From Herodotus” to be hilarious. It's a parody that makes fun of the “Niatirbians” (Niatirb spelled backwards is Britain). The imaginary historian gravely describes what “in their barbarian speech is called the Exmas Rush.” The descriptions of sending cards and buying gifts are exquisite fun.

Second on my list is also an essay by Lewis: “What Christmas Means To Me.” He must have had a bone to pick with the “commercial racket” that has become Christmas because he takes no pains to soften his condemnation of it.

Next is the Second Shepherds' Play. It's a little more obscure than C.S.Lewis but only slightly less funny than Lewis's ridiculous Niatirbians. The shepherds are those that the angels appeared to at the birth of Christ; however, this only happens at the very end of the play. Most of the action centres around the thieving Mak and three shepherds who are sure he stole one of their lambs in the night. Adding to the humor, I think, are all the references the shepherds make to saints that haven't lived yet. Maybe no one else would think it funny that a Jewish shepherd in 1 B.C. would refer to English locales and exclaim: “by the Rood these nights are long!” Showing that not much has changed over the years, the 15th century playwright has one shepherd mutter in the dark:

But my mood is ill-sent;
As I walk on this bent,
I may lightly repent,
If I stub my toe.

Lastly is the passage on the birth of Christ in Luke 2. This is what Christmas is all about; let's not forget it.

Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy that shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a SAVIOUR, which is Christ the Lord. (Luke 2:10,11).
He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5).

Merry CHRISTmas!

The Hunt For the Souls of Men

In the winter of 1887, Wilfred Meynell, editor of the Catholic Magazine Merry England, received a mysterious parcel containing an essay and some poems written on dirty scraps of paper. In the cover letter, pardon was asked, “for the soiled state of the manuscript,” claiming it was not through slovenliness, but the unavoidable circumstances under which they were written. Meynell published one of these poems, hoping by this means to gain further correspondence. His bait worked and one day an unkempt, ragged man, suffering from an opium hangover, entered his office, introducing himself as Francis Thompson.

Born in 1859 to Catholic parents, Thompson was sent to Ushaw College to study for the priest-hood. But at 18 he returned home with a letter from the headmaster which said: “It is quite time that he should begin to prepare for some other career.” So accordingly, for the next six years he lazily studied to become a doctor like his father. But he failed the medical exam three times. About this time he took up opium which was not only available for medical use, but was, as a liquid called laudanum, cheaper and just as available as beer. After his threefold failure he took to the streets of London; a bum, poor and homeless.

It was during these years on the streets writing poetry that Wilfred Meynell found him. Meynell and his wife Alice (also an accomplished poet) took Thompson under their wing, placing him in a drug clinic and then a monastery to recover. For some years he seemed cured of his opium addiction and during this time he wrote nearly all of his poetry and a number of literary essays. But in 1898, Thompson relapsed into his opium addiction from which in part he died in 1907 at the age of 48, due to a mixture of tuberculosis and laudanum poisoning.

From out of this shaky life, in 1893, Thompson wrote "The Hound of Heaven," a poem that is considered his masterpiece. Coventry Patmore called it, “one of the very few ‘great’ odes of which the language can boast.” After gaining fame in England, Thompson’s popularity quickly spread to America and beyond, due in part to critics like G. K. Chesterton who called him “a great poet.” His patron Wilfred Meynell hoped to promote Thompson as "the Poet of Catholic orthodoxy" and even claimed: “One greater than Milton is among us.”

The verse form is irregular and somewhat confusing even after an initial reading. There are rhyming couplets and quatrains spaced throughout that give it just enough regularity to throw off the novice reader (like myself). Even ignoring all rules of order and blindly rushing after the pageant of florid words, however, is often excitement enough. For as nearly everyone who has read it has remarked, the pace is frenzied, running and rushing headlong, as if the Hound of Heaven were indeed close behind.

Thompson was called a mystic poet, that is, he used allegorical and symbolic figures to represent God and other spiritual things. In "The Hound of Heaven," which is autobiographical, the allegorical image is that of Thompson being pursued by a hound, the Hound of Heaven. From which he flees,

Down the nights and down the days...

Down the arches of the years...
Down the labyrinthine ways

of his own mind. But no matter where he goes or what he does, he cannot escape,

From those strong Feet that followed,
Followed after. But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbed pace.

Soon, the reason he flees is made clear; he does not wish to give up his dreams or his sins. "Lest having him, I must have not besides."

He then says that during the pursuit he leaves even the fellowship and abode of men. Hoping that by living under the open sky and eating in the “wind walled palace” (i.e. outside) he might partake of Nature’s delicate fellowship.

But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart...
And past those noised feet
A voice comes yet more fleet--
'Lo! Naught contents thee, who content’st not me.'

At last the Hound draws near and asks him why he delays. What is so precious on earth? Doth he not know that,

Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me!
Strange, piteous, futile thing!

"The Hound of Heaven" is very forceful in presenting humanity fleeing from God even though the gloom is after all only, “Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly.” The poem reaches a raw, emotional pitch rarely attained in written words. As G. K. Chesterton said: “It was an event of History, as much as an event of literature, when personal religion returned suddenly with something of the power of Dante or the 'Dies Irae,' after a century in which such religion had seemed to grow weak and provincial, and more and more impersonal religions appeared to posses the future.”

Many people from all walks of the Christian life, not just Catholics, have appreciated "The Hound of Heaven" because of its overarching theme: the love of God. That no matter where we are or what we’ve done God is always pursuing, not in wrath, but in love. Perhaps Chesterton expresses best what this poem means: “The awakening of the Domini Canes, the Dogs of God, meant that the hunt was up once more; the hunt for the souls of men…. and…the hunt will continue until the world turns to bay.”

The Man Born To Be King

“You are right in saying I am a king. In fact, for this reason I was born.” –John 18:37

Dorothy L. Sayers has an impressive variety of books under her name. Detective stories, translations of medieval writings, essays and commentaries on literature, and last, but not least, plays. I have had the opportunity to get a brief sampling of each of these with the exception of her dramas. That is, until I recently read her series of plays under the title: The Man Born To Be King. These plays chronicle the life of Christ with sometimes free, but never irreverent or improbable, additions of suppositional history and dialogue.

Call it coincidence if you will, but I just happened to start reading in Matthew the week I began this book and, due to slow reading and many distractions, was still reading it all the way through Mark, Luke, and John. This turned out to be a good thing because, like most things that get stale and boring after much familiarity, the story of Jesus as contained in the four gospels was starting to get old. Perhaps it’s just me, but it seems that sometimes we start reading and immediately disconnect our brain (or, equally fatal, our heart) and merely process empty words. At the end of a chapter we vaguely remember a string of platitudes and parables heard a hundred times before but don’t really care to recall them to mind or ponder who they were spoken to and why. The narrative of Jesus life hardly stirs our interest or emotions anymore. Even that piercing and heartrending cry uttered from the cross of suffering: “my God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” can eventually be read with indifferent and sleepy eyes. The Man Born To Be King, however, lets us experience the life of Christ anew. Like Ben Hur and other historical novels that introduce the sights, sound, and “feel” of a scene, so Sayers adds little details that make the bare facts more lifelike.

Knowing the end of a story can also make us less attentive readers. Sayers combats this by developing Judas’s character so that we don’t know if he will really betray Jesus for some time. He starts off as a good guy like all the other disciples but is slowly gnawed by mistrust of Jesus’ pure motives in the corrupt political landscape of Judea that Sayers envisions. Pilate’s role is also realistically done I thought. Why all the vacillating between having Jesus flogged and evading condemning him on the technicality that he was under Herod’s jurisdiction? Or between allowing Jesus to be crucified but immediately washing his hands of the whole affair? Sayers presents it as a sort of political chess game that Pilate was forced to play with the High Priest. Although Pilate was able to put the Jews in check with the admission that, “we have not king but Caesar,” he was checkmated by his own move when the Jews countered by charging: “if you let this man go you are no friend of Caesar. Anyone who claims to be a king opposes Caesar.”

To sum things up, The Man Born to be King retells the gospel story with a little suppositional history and plot development that make the real history more interesting for those that both have or have not heard it before. Originally, the goal of these plays on the life of Christ were to introduce people to Jesus apart from “religion” and the language of the King James Bible. The mid 20th century British language and employment of the hardly popular drama form will probably turn most people today off just like the King James Language often still does, but we can hope it was useful to B.B.C. radio audiences in the 1940’s. And, even now, for a few like me to once again follow in the dusty footsteps of the Carpenter from Nazareth who is the Man born to be King.

The Greeks Seek After Wisdom; Americans Seek After...What?

Although I was generally unfavorable impressed with the novel Lucky Jim, something did catch my attention because it addresses education and choosing a profession, two things that I (and hopefully some other college students) have given passing thought to. Kingsley Amis, a British novelist and acquaintance of C.S.Lewis, has his protagonist, Dixon, receive a question from a colleague about why he got a job teaching medieval history. Dixon candidly answers:

the reason I'm a medievalist, as you call it, is that the medieval papers were a soft option in the Leicester course so I specialized in them. Then when I applied for the job here I naturally made a big point of that because it looked better to seem interested in something specific. It's why I got the job instead of that clever boy from Oxford... Haven't you noticed how we all specialize in what we hate most? (35).

I wonder how many students today major in psychology or cultural studies and so on, for the same reason. Of course, for them the chance of getting a job in such a field is slim, even if they wanted one. If it is not for the disinterested love of learning and it is not for a job in the particular major they choose, what is it people go to college for? The Greeks sought after knowledge for the sake of knowledge alone or to make themselves better, more virtuous citizens. In later times, more pragmatic people have wanted knowledge of certain skills and information to better them in their career. Many in the halls of learning today do not seem to fall into either class, in fact, they just seem to have fallen into class out of the sky. I wonder how many people with regard to learning say in unison with Dixon: "you don't think I take all that stuff seriously, do you?" (34).

Confession: To be honest, I don't really know why I'm in class either. Isn't it easy to condemn in others the very faults we ourselves have?

Amis, Kingsley. Lucky Jim. The Viking Press, 28th. printing 1973

An Experiment in Criticism

The title may not sound very interesting, but C. S. Lewis’s Experiment in Criticism is more engaging than the title suggests. The experiment is to alter the traditional practice of pronouncing a book “good” or “bad” and instead examine if the reader is a “good” or “bad” reader. Basically Lewis contends that nearly all books have some value, it is the two ways different people respond to books that is most telling. He labels people in two categories: the literary and the unliterary.

By unliterary Lewis does not mean those who do not read books at all, although he says:

the most unliterary reader of all sticks to ‘the news.’ He reads daily with unwearied relish, how, in some place he has never seen, under circumstances which never quite become clear, someone he doesn’t know has married, rescued, robbed, rapped, or murdered someone else he doesn’t know (28).

Lewis clarifies by saying that only reading newspapers and so on “makes no essential difference between him and the class next above—those who read the lowest kinds of fiction” (29). He gives five points that identify the unliterary. They, among other things, are “unconscious of style,” “Demand swift moving narrative,” prefer description and dialogue cut to a minimum, and

they read exclusively by eye. The most horrible cacophonies and the most perfect specimens of rhythm and vocalic melody are to them exactly equal. It is by this that we discover some highly educated people to be unliterary (29).

For me, this last characteristic raises an almost unthought of element in good reading and writing. To the slight wounding of my pride I realize I am not as cognizant as I imagined.

But Lewis is quick to preface his work by saying that knowledge alone is not enough to make someone literary. For some professors and reviewers “reading often becomes mere work” (7). Appreciation is killed. The literary, however, “will read the same work 10, 20, or 30 times during the course of their life” (2). They are always looking for a quiet corner to read in. Afterward “what they have read is constantly and prominently present to [their] mind” (3).

Lewis was writing against a very elitist literary establishment that had “debunked” many, if not most, of the great classics of the previous centuries. It seems that his purpose was to save books from being condemned at the ever changing whim of the elites by saying something like: look, here are literary or “good” readers (not part of the establishment) who still think that (for instance) Elizabethan poetry or science-fiction is good. Are we to ignore them and believe it all bad without even listening to the reasons why they think it has merit?

Lewis is not against objectively valuing literature; in fact, his whole goal is to find a solid foundation by which to judge books.

For the accepted valuation of literary works varies with every change of fashion, but the distinction between attentive and inattentive, obedient and willful, disinterested and egotistic, modes of reading is permanent (106).

In a nutshell, to find a good book, first find a good reader and watch to see which books he or she reads over and over again, all the while relishing each sentence and word. According to Lewis: “Whatever has been found good by those who really and truly read probably is good” (112).

It is good to keep in mind that books alone are useless. Any value they have exists only if someone reads them. Lewis asserts that,

whatever the value of literature may be, it is actual only when and where good readers read. Books on a shelf are only potential literature. Literary taste is only a potentiality when we are not reading (104).

Lewis, C.S. An Experiment in Criticism. Cambridge U.K. Cambridge University Press, eleventh Canto edition. 2006

A Narrative Poem

The wonderful thing about knowing very little about literature is that one can, every now and then, have a totally new reading experience. This happened to me last week as I made the very drastic change from Dostoevsky to an early 19^th century novel in verse. I have not in the past taken to poetry very much so it was with hesitation that I opened Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake; however, curiosity about other works by the author of Ivanhoe overcame my hesitation. Surprisingly, not only was it readable (unlike most poetry) it was enjoyable.

The story is set among the lochs of the Scottish highlands. A lost hunter is entertained at Loch Katrine by Ellen, daughter of the exiled James of Douglas. This stranger, who calls himself James Fitz-James, pursues his way after being refreshed but is so impressed with his hostess that a short time later he returns and proposes to Ellen. She refuses because she is having trouble enough with two other suitors: Roderick Dhu, the haughty chief of Clan-Alpine and Malcolm Graeme. These two become estranged as Roderick forces Clan-Alpine toward war against the lowland King James.

The disappointed Fitz-James, thought to be a spy of King James, is waylaid on his return from Ellen and fights Roderick Dhu in single combat. The fight goes well for Fitz-James who wounds Roderick and takes him prisoner. They proceed to Stirling Castle where King James is about to hold a festival. At the games of strength and skill held that day is Ellen’s father, the Douglas, come to surrender himself to King James and so somehow (I am a bit unclear how exactly) avert war for Clan-Alpine. Now suddenly, with both rebel leaders in captivity, King James can quell the rebellion of Clan-Alpine.

Hearing of her father’s capture and having the king’s signet ring in gift from the noble Fitz-James, Ellen goes to ask leniency for her father, Roderick Dhu, and Malcolm, (also a captive). Upon arriving at Stirling, Fitz-James leads her to the audience chamber of the King. Here:

On many a splendid garb she gazed,
Then turned bewildered and amazed,
For all stood bare; and in the room
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady’s look was lent,
On him each courier’s eye was bent;
Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen,
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The center of the glittering ring… (Canto VI. 731-39).

Yes, fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.
To him thy woes, thy wishes bring;
He will redeem his signet ring.
Ask nought for Douglas; yester even
His prince and he have much forgiven (Canto VI. 753-58).

To Ellen’s plea for Roderick Dhu comes the news that he died from his battle wounds. Lastly, for Malcolm Graeme the King declares that justice must have its course:

Fetters and warder for the Graeme!
His chain of gold the king unstrung,
The links o’er Malcolm’s neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen’s hand (Canto VI. 837-41).

The Lady of the Lake was a record-breaking bestseller in 1810. In the 8 months after its first publication it sold 25,000 copies, no small number by the standards of two hundred years ago (Pearson 89). According to a Walter Scott biography I perused in search of information (it unfortunately only had two pages on The Lady of the Lake), when one of Scott’s daughters was asked if she liked the poem she replied: “Oh, I have not read it! Papa says there’s nothing so bad for young people as reading bad poetry” (Pearson 88). If bad means not filled with obscure allusions to classical antiquity, not employing a succession of unknown and archaic words in every line, or not having a rhyme scheme so complicated the mind could not possibly remember its arrangement, then The Lady of the Lake is bad poetry. But these for me are the very things that make it readable. It may not be overly profound, but it is a good tale and who could ask for better than that? I replace it on my shelf knowing it won’t collect too much dust before it is taken down again.

Pearson, Hesketh. Walter Scott: His Life and Personality. The Quality Book Club, London.