Hieropraxis» Literature

Summer Reading Short Reviews

Holly Ordway — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 21:04:59 +0000

One of the joys of reading is being able to bounce around and read lots of different things as the fancy takes me. Here, in no particular order, are a few thoughts on a few of the books I’ve read so far this summer.

The Lost Virtue of Happiness: J.P. Moreland and Klaus Issler. I think this is an important, even an essential book. In combination with a lecture by Dr Moreland that I heard this summer (and wrote about here), this book helped me put some pieces together in my own heart about trusting God and taking risks along the road toward true happiness: eudaimonia, a life well lived.

Searching for and Maintaining Peace: Father Jacques Philippe. I’m a very intense person, so Fr Philippe’s writing has helped me fully realize what “peace” really is. It is not being unemotional, or unreactive, or detached in a negative sense, but rather is something deeper, a real sense of trust in God, not tied to particular outward circumstances. For instance, I sometimes recognize that I am not at peace even when I am outwardly calm, solitary, and silent, because I am clinging to some fear or anxiety in my heart. In contrast, I just spent almost two weeks in residency at Biola, a spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually challenging time with a lot of outward activity and stimulating discussion… and in reflecting on the residency, I realize that I was completely at peace during that time.

At this rate, my comments on Fr Philippe’s book will be longer than the book itself, so let me just pull one quote from it to show how to-the-point and sensible he is: “If we wait until we are saints to have a regular life of prayer, we could wait a long time. On the contrary, it is in accepting to appear before the Lord in our state of sin that we will receive healing and will be transformed, little by little, into saints.”

Authentic Communication: Tim Muehlhoff and Todd V. Lewis. A must-read for anyone who wants to share their faith in a loving, respectful, and also effective way. It’s also excellent just in terms of explaining effective interpersonal communication. Our words can hurt or help others, strengthen friendships or weaken them; we should learn to use them well.

Knowing Christ Today: Why We Can Trust Spiritual Knowledge: Dallas Willard. I’ll confess that I found this book slow going at first and I almost put it down a number of times… but I kept picking it up again. In the end I think that was best, because it meant that I read it slowly, and this is a book that’s sufficiently dense that it merits slow reading. The closing chapter in particular had an impact on me, with its call for pastors to live up to their responsibility to teach that we can have real knowledge of God. Though I am not a pastor, as a teacher (both in the secular world, and now within my church as well) I feel that this challenge applies to me as well. Also, although I know you can’t judge a book by its cover, I have to admit that I find the cover art to be simply lovely.

Mercy Among the Children: David Adams Richards. Richards is a new author for me, and I am delighted to have been introduced to his books (thanks, Fr. Kraft!). I won’t spoil this book by attempting to describe it, but I will say that it is exceedingly well written, and haunting.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society: Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Oh! Absolutely delightful. It’s a “light reading” book, but one that is both very well written and very thoughtful. It’s funny, but with a serious side as well that comes out bit by bit as the book unfolds. It’s a love story and a paean to the fellowship of all who love books, and flat-out really fun to read.

Experiencing the Trinity in Poetry 3: John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 12

Holly Ordway — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 03:04:26 +0000

How do we enter into a relationship with God, or deepen that relationship once it exists? Our answers to that question become richer when we recognize that the God of whom we speak is the most holy Trinity: the name of God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. In Part 1 and Part 2 of this essay series, we have explored how the poetry of John Donne, the 17th century Anglican poet-priest, can help us to examine and reflect on our relationship with God. Now, we will finish by looking at Donne’s Holy Sonnet 12 – the poem that brings all our themes together.

Holy Sonnet 12 is deeply Trinitarian – in fact, it is the only sonnet in the sequence to reference the Trinity specifically: the “knotty Trinity.” This image is worth pondering. Donne may have been influenced by Celtic designs of the Trinity, but in any case he was certainly playing on the different meanings of “knotty.” The word “knotty” is often used to describe difficult or insoluble problems, and indeed the Trinity cannot be figured out by reason. However, as we said at the beginning of our series, the Trinity is only “knotty” in a negative sense if we see the Trinity as a problem to be solved. If we consider the Trinity as a reality to be experienced, then “knotty” can be appreciated in its other sense. The image of the knot connects the idea of infinity with that of security: things knotted are made secure, bound tightly.

In this poem, we see the poet coming to the realization that God, fully experienced as the most holy Trinity, is a dynamic communion of love. Through Christ we are drawn into the Trinity: “Father, part of his double interest / Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me, / His jointure in the knotty Trinity / He keeps, and gives me his death’s conquest.” Donne begins to see that God is continually pouring out His “all-healing” grace and love, to which the poet can respond through the power of the Spirit.

Holy Sonnet 12:

Father, part of his double interest
Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me,
His jointure in the knotty Trinity
He keeps, and gives me his death’s conquest.
This Lamb, whose death, with life the world hath blessed,
Was from the world’s beginning slain, and he
Hath made two wills, which with the legacy
Of his and thy kingdom, do thy sons invest.
Yet such are thy laws, that men argue yet
Whether a man those statutes can fulfill;
None doth, but thy all-healing grace and Spirit
Revive again what law and letter kill.
Thy law’s abridgement, and thy last command
Is all but love; oh let that last will stand!

As we reflect on the Holy Sonnets, we can gain the insight that we do not need to have perfect understanding in order to love God and to be drawn into His love for us. Donne’s poetry, like that of the other metaphysical poets, can often be very abstract and intellectual, even when dealing with emotion. Especially in these early poems, written before his ordination as a priest, Donne seems to be striving to understand the mysteries of faith, and falling short. While faith should always go seeking understanding, and we are directed in Holy Scripture to understand the reasons for the hope we have (1 Peter 3:15), we must not fall into the error of thinking that just because we ought to use our minds to the fullest, that this full use of our minds will enable us to “understand” God completely. God is a Person, not a concept.

Donne seems to have realized this, later in life as a priest: he writes, in a sermon on John 1:8, that “We may search so far and reason so long of grace and faith, as that we may lose not only them but even our reason too, and sooner become mad than good.”

In the Holy Sonnets, Donne never quite reaches full assurance, and in many of his other poems we find the same wavering between faith and doubt. Donne helps us see that doubt and struggle need not be feared, if we offer them up to God for Him to use them to bring us closer to Him. Donne’s uncertainties about his faith, his sense of his own sinful and rebellious heart, his experiences of loss, his own frequent ill health, were things that he offered up to God – and God used him to do a mighty work of preaching and teaching.

In Holy Sonnet 1, he had exclaimed in anguish, “ Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, / Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see / That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,” giving a sense of frustration at God’s apparent distance from his need. In contrast, Holy Sonnet 12 closes with an affirmation of God’s love: “thy all-healing grace and Spirit / Revive again what law and letter kill.” When the poet cries out “oh let that last will stand!” it is in desire rather than despair, for he knows now that “Thy law’s abridgement, and thy last command / Is all but love.” We see the poet coming to the realization that God, fully experienced as the most holy Trinity, is a dynamic communion of love; Donne begins to see that God is continually pouring out His “all-healing” grace and love, to which the poet can respond through the power of the Spirit.

Donne does not present us with a neat, tidy explanation of the Trinity; instead, he sidles up to the Trinity, looks sideways at it, writes around it and gradually draws closer to it – and becomes drawn, by grace, into that eternal loving communion. And as we read and reflect on the Holy Sonnets, we can use them as a scaffold to grow in our own faith.

Experiencing the Trinity in Poetry (2): John Donne’s Holy Sonnets 10 and 11

Holly Ordway — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 19:02:25 +0000

What does it mean that God is Trinity? It is the heart of the Christian faith: that we know God the Father through God the Son in the power of God the Holy Spirit. The more that we know the living God as Trinity, the deeper and richer will be our relationship with Him. As we discussed in Part 1 of this series, poetry is an ideal route for exploring divine mysteries, allowing us to meditate on God and our relationship with Him without trying to “figure Him out” as if He were a math problem. In this essay, we’ll take a look at John Donne’s Holy Sonnets 10 and 11, as Donne moves us closer to experiencing the divine life and love of the Trinity.

In the earlier poems in the Holy Sonnet sequence, Donne explores various issues of importance in the Christian life, but it isn’t until he gets to Sonnet 10 that he explicitly calls on God as Trinity: “three-Person’d God.”

In Holy Sonnet 1, Donne suggests that God has been passive; in contrast, here the poet admits that God has indeed acted, to “knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend” the poet’s soul. God, who seemed distant in the previous sonnets, is recognized as a presence who has been active all along – and not just an active presence, but a loving one. Here, Donne is moving toward the understanding that God’s service is perfect freedom. The poet sees that while Satan’s hold on him is out of hate, God’s “enthralling” is from love; while Satan’s hold on him is slavery, God’s “imprisonment” will make him free.

However, the narrator here is still confused about his relationship with God. He says, “dearly’I love you, and would be loved fain” — he loves God and wants God to love him – not realizing that human love is a response to divine love, not the other way around. Likewise, in the image of the “usurped town,” Donne fails to recognize that Christ has already overcome Satan; Donne is already free, if he would turn to God—which is indeed what he is doing in this poem, even if he is not quite sure of himself.

Holy Sonnet 10

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for, you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’er throw me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town to another due,
Labour to admit you, but oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly’I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy,
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthral me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Donne does not leave us in that state of confusion, however. He moves – with a deepening awareness of the Trinity – toward the experience of communion with God, as we see in Holy Sonnet 11, which opens with a question for the reader: “Wilt thou love God, as he thee?”

We now see the poet grasping the truth: God loved him first. The poet includes the reader in his address, offering a challenge, or perhaps an invitation: Do you want to love God, the way that He loves you? If so, consider this… Holy Sonnet 11 then moves toward an appreciation of the communion of the blessed Trinity, referencing the eternal relationship of the Son to the Father: “The Father having begot a Son most blessed, / And still begetting, (for he ne’er begun).” Here we glimpse the eternal nature of God as a loving communion. It isn’t that one day God decided to have a Son, or that the Incarnation was just an event in history, now past. Rather, Our Lord Jesus Christ is one Person in the Trinity, from before creation: begotten, not made, as the Creed reminds us. Here we have a living God who is eternally Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

What’s more, the activity of the Trinity expands outward to draw the poet into the life and love of God. The Holy Spirit, “doth make his temple in thy breast,” the Father “Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,” and the Son “came down, and was slain, / Us whom he had made, and Satan stol’n, to unbind.”

Holy Sonnet 11 closes with a profound reflection on the Incarnation, “‘Twas much, that man was made like God before, / But, that God should be made like man, much more.” The harshness of language in the previous sonnets has eased. Rather than straining for an explanation of why God hasn’t acted in his life, the poet recognizes that indeed He has acted decisively in human history through the Incarnation, not just for the poet himself but for all humankind.

Holy Sonnet 11

Wilt thou love God, as he thee? then digest,
My soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on,
In heaven, doth make his temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blessed,
And still begetting, (for he ne’er begun)
Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,
Coheir to’ his glory, ‘and Sabbath’s endless rest;
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find
His stol’n stuff, must lose or buy it again:
The Son of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom he had made, and Satan stol’n, to unbind.
‘Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more.

Experiencing the Trinity in Poetry (1): John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 1

Holly Ordway — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 03:24:32 +0000

The Trinity is not just a difficult doctrine that’s interesting only for pastors and philosophers – rather, it is the heart of the Christian faith, for God has revealed Himself to us as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The most holy Trinity is not a puzzle to be solved, but a reality to be experienced. Though we cannot fully comprehend the Trinity through the use of human reason, God has revealed Himself as Trinity and invites us to participate in His divine life: “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10)

Poetry is ideal for exploring this tremendous mystery of faith, as a poem can hold ideas in tension without resolving them. Nothing can explain the most holy Trinity, but poetry can help us experience God more fully and more deeply.

Introducing John Donne – Our Poet Guide

John Donne, the 17th century Anglican poet and priest, is a complex figure: after a dissolute early life, he married for love, and was ordained as a priest. His personal struggles and constant self-examination, paired with his brilliant intellect and unflagging zeal, helped him to serve the Lord faithfully and passionately – he went on to become the Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral in London, and one of the era’s most inspiring preachers, powerfully teaching and preaching the Gospel.

What Does Poetry Have to Do with This?

Donne uses his poetry to explore all aspects of faith and life, including his own fears, doubts, and weakness. In the 12-sonnet sequence called the Holy Sonnets, Donne dramatizes and thus brings into focus his own struggle with his relationship with God. In the process, he helps us to move from trying to “figure out” the Trinity (Three…one…hm…?) to a relational approach to the Trinity.

We’ll start with looking at Holy Sonnet 1. Look for how Donne opens the sequence with an unsettled tone. He is trying to relate to God… and failing. Feeling isolated from a God he perceives as distant, the narrator cries out almost in anger, “thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me.” Indeed, God does not seem to be handling things the way the poet thinks is best, and the poet even accuses God of passivity: “Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, / Oh I shall soon despair.” Notice how often the pronoun “I” appears – the narrator is focused almost entirely on himself; could it be that he is projecting his own self-absorption outward onto God?

Holy Sonnet 1

As due by many titles I resign
Myself to thee, O God, first I was made
By thee, and for thee, and when I was decayed
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine,
I am thy son, made with thy self to shine,
Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betrayed
My self, a temple of thy Spirit divine;
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?
Why doth he steal, nay ravish that’s thy right?
Except thou rise and for thine own work fight,
Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see
That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.

The Trinity is referenced only obliquely: a hint of the Father (“I was made by thee”), the Son (“Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine”), and the Holy Spirit (“My self, a temple of thy Spirit divine”). These three Persons, only vaguely referred to, do not seem to recall to the poet anything of Trinity’s divine communion of love, with implications for the poet’s relationship with God. The poet starts to recognize himself as a temple of the Holy Spirit, but only in the past tense: he is a temple “till I betrayed / My self.” There is no appreciation of what the indwelling of the Holy Spirit means for his relationship with God the Father.

The poem ends on a depressed note; the poet accuses God of being passive: “Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, / Oh I shall soon despair.” Feeling isolated from a God he perceives as distant, he cries out almost in anger, “thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me.”

Our Relationship with God the Trinity

Holy Sonnet 1 shows us that a faulty understanding of who God is can hinder the development of our relationship with Him. The narrator in Holy Sonnet 1 sees God as a distant Other, complete and sufficient in Himself, and utterly distant from His creation. Not surprisingly, he feels unable to have a relationship with this Being whose attentions seem almost arbitrary: “Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see / That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me.”

However, God has revealed Himself to be not just one, but Three: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, one being, and three Persons. God is love, and in His being there is an eternal loving communion among the three Persons.

As Donne shows us in the later sonnets in the sequence, the recognition of God as Trinity opens the door for a far richer and deeper relationship with God, who has revealed Himself to us in Scripture and in the Incarnation of His Son. In Holy Sonnet 1, the narrator ends in a sense of frustration at God’s apparent indifference to his need… but when we get to Holy Sonnet 12 we will find a profound affirmation of God’s love, His “all-healing grace and Spirit.”

God does not just want to give us “things” to make us happy; He wants to give us Himself, to draw us into His eternal life. Most importantly for us, through the Incarnation, death, and Resurrection of the Son, we can be drawn up into the eternal life of God the Trinity, sharing in that communion of love that is God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Summer Reading Discussion!

Holly Ordway — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 20:26:49 +0000

Hello, dear readers! What’s on your to-read list this summer? I’ve jotted down a list of some of the books on my personal “to-read” list for the summer (a list that will undoubtedly change many times as my whim takes me to other books) to get us started. Light reading, heavy reading, beach reading, afternoon-coffee-with-cookies reading… let’s share our suggestions!

In no particular order, some of my ideas for the summer:

Peter Leithart – Ascent to Love

This is a guide to Dante’s Divine Comedy. I’ve been re-reading the Divine Comedy this past year. To be more accurate, I read Inferno and Purgatorio last summer, but then stalled out in Paradiso. (What does that say about me? Hm.)

I have enjoyed both John Ciardi’s translation and Allen Mandelbaum’s translation, and have benefited greatly from Dorothy Sayers’ wonderful notes and commentary (I don’t like her translation as much as that of Ciardi or Mandelbaum, but her notes are worth the purchase price of the book all by themselves.) I know the Divine Comedy is a treasure chest, but I feel that I have only partial access; I’m hoping that Leithart’s book will help me delve more deeply.

David Adams Richards – Mercy Among the Children

I haven’t read any of Richards’ books yet, but a good friend whose literary taste is extremely reliable said “You MUST read this book this summer!” and went on to sing the praises of this author. I pass that suggestion on to you.

Jasper Fforde -Shades of Gray

The newest book by an author I love. Fforde writes hilarious, silly, creative, witty, and extremely literate novels that are very difficult to describe.

The Thursday Next series features an alternate-reality England and a protagonist who discovers that she can literally “enter” a book – and becomes a Literary Detective, charged with tracking down malefactors who would change the plots of classic works from inside.

Anyone who loves great literature will find Fforde’s books a cracking good read (both the Thursday Next series and the Nursery Crime series). I can’t wait to read his newest!

OK – that’s one light, one medium, and one heavy summer reading idea from me.

What’s on your list? What should be on mine?

CS Lewis: Narnia and Beyond – Mere Christianity

Holly Ordway — Mon, 31 May 2010 22:39:46 +0000

C.S. Lewis is best known for his wonderful fantasy series, The Chronicles of Narnia, but he was a prolific writer in a variety of genres. Always thought-provoking and insightful, his books are also beautifully written. Lewis’s genius lies in giving readers a fresh perspective on important truths, helping us to see clearly what has perhaps always been in front of our eyes.

Many of Lewis’s nonfiction books are works of Christian apologetics. The word “apologetics” comes from the Latin “apologia,” which means an argument for the defense – so, apologetics has nothing to do with apologizing for anything, but rather with presenting rational arguments for the truth – in this case, the truth of theism and Christianity.

Mere Christianity stands at the forefront of Lewis’s apologetics works, and for good reason. It is a masterful explanation of what orthodox Christians believe, and why it makes sense. For me, it was a profoundly influential book as I struggled with questions of whether God existed and what that would mean if He did. As a Christian, I now return to Mere Christianity for insights into how to live as a Christian.

The book is based on radio broadcasts that Lewis made in 1942-1944. Lewis was no stranger to war, having served in the trenches in World War I. During World War II, he served as an air warden, and gave talks to men serving in the Royal Air Force – men who knew that with the grim odds of air warfare against Germany’s forces, they were almost certain to die in defense of England. A little later, he began giving talks on the radio to a broader audience in England: people who, faced with uncertainty, deprivation, and danger were willing to consider the most serious questions of all. What is true? Why do we have a sense of morality, of right and wrong – why do we know intuitively that the Nazi regime is evil, and that the right thing to do is to resist it?

When he assembled the talks into a book, Lewis retained the conversational style of the radio broadcasts, making Mere Christianity eminently accessible. It is like having a serious conversation with a wise mentor, who explains things in straightforward language but who doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to presenting serious, difficult ideas.

The title of “Mere” Christianity reflects the fact that Lewis focuses on the core elements of Christian belief, those that are shared by all orthodox Christians. As a result of this wise choice, Mere Christianity is an inspiring and nourishing book for Christians of all denominations and traditions.

Let me give one extended quote from Mere Christianity, to show how Lewis can illuminate a topic. Consider the question: What is faith? Many skeptics (among them myself, years ago) ask how it can be possible to just “have faith” in something that doesn’t seem to make sense. That is, in fact, an excellent question, and Lewis has an answer that may surprise you… as it surprised me, when I read it as a skeptic about Christianity:

Roughly speaking, the word Faith seems to be used by Christians on two senses or on two levels, and I will take them in turn. In the first sense it means simply Belief – accepting or regarding as true the doctrines of Christianity. That is fairly simple. But what does puzzle people – at least it used to puzzle me – is the fact that Christians regard faith in this sense as a virtue. I used to ask how on earth it can be a virtue – what is there moral or immoral about believing or not believing a set of statements? Obviously, I used to say, a sane man accepts or rejects any statement, not because he wants to or does not want to, but because the evidence seems to him good or bad. If he were mistaken about the goodness or badness of the evidence that would not mean he was a bad man, but only that he was not very clever. And if he thought the evidence bad but tried to force himself to believe in spite of it, that would be merely stupid.

Well, I think I still take that view. But what I did not see then – and a good many people do not see still – was this. I was assuming that if the human mind once accepts a thing as true it will automatically go on regarding it as true, until some real reason for reconsidering it turns up. In fact, I was assuming that the human mind is completely ruled by reason. But that is not so. For example, my reason is perfectly convinced by good evidence that anaesthetics do not smother me and that properly trained surgeons do not start operating until I am unconscious. But that does not alter the fact that when they have me down on the table and clap their horrible mask over my face, a mere childish panic begins inside me. I start thinking I am going to choke, and I am afraid they will start cutting me up before I am properly under. In other words, I lose my faith in anaesthetics. It is not reason that is taking away my faith: on the contrary, my faith is based on reason. It is my imagination and emotions. The battle is between faith and reason on one side and emotion and imagination on the other.

[...] Faith, in these sense in which I am here using the word, is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted, in spite of your changing moods.

(from Mere Christianity, Chapter 11)

What Is a Good Book?

Holly Ordway — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 00:23:15 +0000

In an earlier essay I reflected on whether it was better to read or to watch television, concluding that the question is more complicated than we bibliophiles often admit. Now I would like to consider the question of “what is a good book”?

First we have to clarify what “good” and “bad” mean in this context. For example, we recognize that “good” applied to food might mean either “healthy”or “tasty” in another—and the best food would be both healthy and delicious. (On the other end of the spectrum would be Qwiky Mart food bought in desperation while on a road trip: generally both unhealthy and barely edible).

With books, we can consider the artistic merit of the book (how well it is written) and how nourishing it is for healthy intellectual and spiritual growth (how good it is for the reader).

Thus, by “good books” I am being fairly specific: books that are both artistically good (well written) and good for you (morally sound as well as spiritually or intellectually nourishing).

By “bad books” I mean books that are harmful to you (or to other people because of what they lead you to believe or do), whether or not they are artistically good.

We end up with a large middle category as well: books that are artistically good, but innocuous, having neither good nor ill effect; books that are artistically bad, but are either good for you, or innocuous (I am willing to cut some slack for books that are good in their content, but badly written); and lastly, the vast deserts of bland, forgettable books that are neither particularly good nor memorably bad, and which have nothing particular to say. Volume 12 in some fantasy rip-off of a third-generation copy of Lord of the Rings, with a quest for the One Widget instead of the One Ring, would fall into this category – and I say that as a lifelong reader of fantasy. (The landscape of fantasy literature is that of a vast, dreary plain with occasional unscaleable mountains of striking beauty and originality appearing on the horizon: Mount Tolkien, Mount Narnia, the Dunsanian Alps, and so on. There are reasons for this, but I won’t go into them now.)

A common misconception about “good writing” is that it is “literary” – the sort of thing professors put on their literature syllabi but no one ever reads for fun. No! In fact, the real test of good writing is that it is pleasure to read: it gives more to the reader than lesser writing. (However, this demands a skilled reader; if you don’t know the vocabulary or don’t have the attention span to follow a complex sentence, you won’t enjoy Great Expectations, and it won’t be Dickens’ fault. It will be your fault, dear reader.)

That said, there has been a certain trend in literary and academic circles to praise inaccessibility as though it were a virtue: if it’s hard to read, and impossible to figure out, and probably depressing, it must be Great Art. Well, no. One of the reasons the Western canon of literature is so valuable is that it shows us what generations of readers have found to be valuable: the books that are part of the canon are thoroughly battle-tested for readabilty (with skill and persistence on the part of the reader!), quality of writing, and value of content.

I will go on the record as saying that I believe James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake is a gigantic blot on the credibility of the literary establishment in this regard. It may be an interesting look into Joyce’s psyche, but great literature it is not. Literature, even, it is not, because it is not readable. Sorry, but no.

So: our argument thus far is that not all content is equally good. That there are bad TV shows is hardly to be denied. Television has some high points, but for the most part it ranges from insipid to toxic (as in, morally corrupting). That said, there are good television programs and there are ones that are inoffensive, if not actually bad. For example, Stargate SG-1 is not going to enter the annals of Great Art, but it was an entertaining, reasonably intelligent, and morally sound program. Seinfeld is a work of absolute comic genius, but it really had no substantial content other than to reflect the hidden peculiarities of modern culture back at us, distorted into recognizability.

Not all books are the same – and we have a limited lifespan in which to read them. Thus, every book read has an opportunity cost: we could be reading some other book, one that perhaps is better in some way.

There are an awful lot of books in the world – good, bad, and indifferent. In fact, there are enough books in each category for someone to read either great stuff or trash exclusively.

So it’s worth looking for the best books – the ones that are both enjoyable and nourishing – and it’s worth learning how to read those books (because learning to appreciate richness and subtlety takes time and practice). A whole world – a whole universe! – of great books awaits.

A Trio of Interesting Books of the Murderous and Gothic Sort

Holly Ordway — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 03:25:15 +0000

In recent months I’ve enjoyed several excellent mystery and Gothic novels, which I hereby bring to your attention, dear reader.

Devices and Desires – P.D. James

P.D. James has become one of my favorite mystery novelists. Her prose is finely crafted, yielding pleasure in the reading as well as in the narrative. Her detective character, the policeman-poet Adam Dalgliesh, is both interesting and three-dimensional, and, what’s more, over the course of the various Dalgliesh novels, she manages to show him growing and changing without any extreme twists or manipulative moments. Her plots are intriguing and intelligent, often based on rich psychological insight into the characters. Lastly, James’ work has a deep moral character to it. She explores the darker side of human nature, unflinching as she looks at what people are capable of doing, yet always revealing (subtly, but surely) that the decisions we make are morally weighted, that we are responsible for our actions, that life has meaning even in suffering and death. Her books are sometimes deeply disturbing – I can’t read them immediately before going to bed – but at the same time, they show a sense of the fundamental moral order. Dalgliesh is fairly non-judgmental as a protagonist, but he is no relativist.

The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins

I love a good Victorian novel, and The Woman in White pulls out all the Gothic stops. Mysteries, dark secrets, love, hatred, and a sinister yet jovial Italian count who keeps white mice as pets. It’s a page-turner and a lot of fun. However, I beg my readers to avoid reading the introduction to any classic edition of this book, for fear of spoiling the unabashed fun of the book with musings from an academic trained to find sexual themes everywhere, preferably transgressive ones (look! there’s some sublimated post-colonial homoeroticism hiding under the sofa! no, wait, that’s just a dust bunny.) It’s true that Collins himself was apparently a rather unsavory character in his personal life and in his ideas about sexual morality, but in The Woman in White, the artist was better than the man; it is an honest book and can be honestly read. Hony soit qui mal y pense. Just read the mystery, and enjoy. Just read the mystery, and enjoy.

Northanger Abbey – Jane Austen

If you overdose on Victorian (or modern) melodrama (as I did), Jane Austen provides the perfect antidote. The clever and highly amusing Northanger Abbey pokes fun at the entire Gothic genre, and does so in a story that has characters for whom you’ll soon develop quite an affection. Note, though, that if you haven’t overdosed on Gothic fiction, you won’t appreciate the zing of Northanger Abbey, so I suggest reading Woman in White first, followed by Austen as a palate-cleanser, as it were. Note: my edition came packaged a short story (“Lady Susan”) and also several unfinished stories by Austen. I recommend skipping the unfinished stories unless you are a true Austenophile (Austenoholic?). They’re good enough to be deeply frustrating when they come to an unceremonious end.

Read and enjoy!

Developing a Taste for Good Books

Holly Ordway — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 04:13:46 +0000

Here’s a question: why do people read the classics? It’s not because they’re “important” in some abstract way; it’s not that they’re “good for you,” like literary vegetables. In truth the real classics, the works that truly have earned a place in the canon, are read because they’re the most satisfying and enjoyable books to read. They are, in the most concise way of putting it, good books.

Yet for many readers, the classics are books that seem dull and difficult, only to be read under duress, for a class or a particularly unfortunate book group. Why is this? There are a lot of reasons (some of which stem from cultural and educational problems that run deeper than anything I can address here), but one reason is a simple one: if you haven’t developed a taste for good books, you won’t enjoy them. Conversely, once you do develop that taste, you’ll find the best books, the classics, to be the very best of literary friends.

How does one acquire such a taste, and why don’t more of us have it?

Let me take a roundabout approach to the answer.

To begin with, there are some books that are not great, but still very good. These are books that are good in moral content, well written enough to be good for the mind, and fun as well – Harry Potter springs to mind. I like Harry Potter and I think they’re good books to read – but it would be a rather bland mental and emotional diet to read nothing but Harry Potter.

Further down in the middle range are books that are well written but void of significant content (entertaining and harmless fluff); books that are morally sound and/or intellectually nourishing, but badly written (many non-fiction books fall into this category); books that are morally sound, intellectually vapid, and badly written (alas, most of what appears in the Christian Fiction section at B&N); and books that are both badly written and void of significant content (the majority of what you find in airport newsstands).

Inoffensive fluff has the problem that it can deaden one’s capacity for appreciating truly great literature. It’s not the content that’s the problem. The problem is that fluff is sticky. You get used to it. Bad writing is easy to read; you don’t have to wrestle with it, because whatever’s there, is right there on the surface. Bad writing doesn’t make you think; it numbs the mind rather than develops it, even when the way that it numbs is through over-stimulation of the senses. (Incidentally, I recommend C.S. Lewis’ book An Experiment in Criticism for those who are interested in exploring the idea of good, and bad, ways of reading. Absolutely worthwhile.)

The deadening effect is real. When I was in junior high and high school, I read volume after volume of science fiction and fantasy novels. I approve of science fiction and fantasy, done right, and I would say that it helped develop certain aspects of my imagination in ways that would be important to me later on… especially since I eventually found myself reading the very best fantasy, such as Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. The problem was (as with any genre) there is a lot of trash alongside the good stuff, and I got in the habit of reading vast quantities of insipid writing, at a very rapid pace. I had no one with whom to discuss what I read, so there was no check on my reading speed, and no way to find out, in dialogue, that some of the books I was reading were richer and deeper than others.

Then, when I first encountered Jane Austen, in college, I found her books incomprehensible. Nothing really happened, or when it did, I didn’t see the connections between what had gone before and what was happening now. I was so used to the action and drama of science fiction and fantasy, the epic sweep of sagas that involved mythic heroes and titanic struggles for ultimate power, that I failed to notice the nuances of conversation, the shades of characterization expressed in fine detail.

Fortunately, I was always a venturesome reader, and a stubborn one, so I kept venturing out into the literary world beyond my fluffy ghetto, and I started finding books and poems that resonated more deeply with me. I recognized that some books gave me something more, something deeper than my usual reading fare, and over time I gained a taste for these books. This was a good thing, in fact a life-changing thing, for it opened up to me a world of ideas that challenged me and nourished me at the same time. I discovered that the best authors spoke to me about what was real, what was true – and even when I found the path to be difficult, I knew this was the territory I wanted to explore.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, John Donne, C.S. Lewis had things to say to me that I needed to hear, but it took time and the development of a more sensitive readerly response to be able to hear them.

Recently I realized that as my literary sense has matured, my preferences have grown narrower, and deeper.

I no longer enjoy reading fluff. Having developed a taste for the really good stuff, I no longer find less well-crafted books to be engaging. In a sense, I have lost something – I cannot return to that readerly state in which I could pick up any science fiction tale and find in it something to entertain me. That is gone.

Yet I have gained infinitely more. While I had the immature palate, or the deadened one, many of the best authors were closed to me, or I could only get a bare hint of their power. Now, the entire canon of great literature is open to me in a way that it never was before. Even my light reading has become richer. When I want to relax, I still enjoy reading fantasy or a mystery novel… but instead of reading just any old thing, I read Dorothy Sayers or P.D. James.

I re-discovered Austen this year, at age 35. She’s an amazing writer! How could I have thought her books were dull? The books were the same… but the reader was very, very different.

So I would say that there is a reason to avoid reading fluff. Read good books, instead. The more you read good books, the more you will develop a taste for them, and the more you will enjoy them.

But how do you find the books that are truly worth reading, if there are so few compared to the pulsating ebb and flow of new books put out every year?

I would suggest two ways:

1. Read the classics.

2. Find an intelligent, well-read, thoughtful person whom you respect, someone whose guidance on moral matters is trustworthy. Read what he or she suggests to you.

Option 1. is easier because you can find lists of the Great Books, and buy copies easily in any bookstore or borrow them in any library. But Option 2. is better if you can manage it, because a trustworthy friend’s recommendations for reading are worth their weight in gold. The friend knows you, after all, as well as the book. The friend doesn’t have to be someone you actually know in person, because you might find a writer whose advice is consistently trustworthy; for instance, I have done very well in reading books mentioned by C.S. Lewis in his own writing.

I am truly fortunate, though, in having real friends who recommend books to me, and not only that, friends with whom I can discuss books and ideas. If you have such a friendship, cherish it as the blessing that it is.

Let me open up the conversation – what have been your experiences with reading good books? For my fellow readers of classic books, how did you develop a taste for them?