In the twenty-sixth century, the world is barren, having been destroyed by the “Flame Deluge,” a worldwide nuclear holocaust in the twentieth century that leaves few survivors. Those who survive decide to end the possibility of further destruction: They burn all books, all knowledge, all possessors of knowledge, and forget their past. This becomes known as the “Simplification.” But not everyone is interested in forgetting. In the midst of the Simplification, I.E. Leibowitz, one of the fathers of nuclear weapons and a recent convert to Christianity, forms a monastic order to protect knowledge from the “simpletons.” It is in the process of memorizing and booklegging (a book rescuing and smuggling operation) that Leibowitz is martyred for his faith, leaving his order to persevere without him.
All this comes out gradually through the story of A Canticle for Leibowitz. The reader is transported to this postapocalyptic world without being given a roadmap; the reader must discover the truth behind the events as the story unfolds. For example, there are passing references made to new Church encyclicals dealing with care for the mutant, documents that sound like Scripture but are really attempts by the Church to understand the events of the past (e.g., there are frequent references to the demon Fallout), and, after 600 years have passed, the reader is left to wonder what is truth and what is legend about Leibowitz (now Blessed Leibowitz, soon to be Saint Leibowitz). Luckily for the reader, Walter M. Miller is an excellent guide through this unfamiliar territory, and his writing is engaging enough to keep the reader intrigued.
Miller structures his story in three parts (Fiat Homo, Fiat Lux, and Fiat Voluntas Tua [“Let him become man,” “Let there be light,” and “Thy will be done,” respectively), each part taking place six hundred years after the prior part. The structure works well, especially considering that the parts are three sixes, representing the number of man (who is responsible—twice!—for destroying the world). The three parts are snapshots rather than a flowing narrative, but there are recurring symbols, characters, and events that give the novel a structural unity that makes the whole greater than the sum of its parts. One of the more interesting aspects of the book is that the reader sees events as they are happening but also gets to see how six hundred years bury or soften the truth through legend and midrash.
Perhaps the most interesting point of structure is who Miller chooses to set at the center of the story: the Church. One of the only institutions to survive the Flame Deluge is the Roman Catholic Church, which, Rome having been destroyed, is forced to start again at a new location in the U.S. The story is a testament to how the church has adapted through world history, dealing with problems as they arise. Reference is made to new Church edicts focusing on the treatment of mutants (no doubt a result of the radiation from the Flame Deluge) or the restoration of “ancient” documents, and new saints are canonized. At one point, a priest debates whether a woman’s second head (whom she names “Rachel”) should receive baptism. In many respects, the Church keeps doing what it has done, even in the face of such catastrophic destruction. Miller gives the story an air of authenticity by frequently interjecting Latin. (This can be frustrating at times, especially if you, like me, don’t speak Latin. I found this page a bit too late in my reading.) The story is bathed in religious imagery that may be lost to some modern readers unfamiliar with the Bible, but for the reader of faith, this infuses the story with a richer, broader meaning and application.
Within the structure of the story, the interaction between the Church and the outside world changes. The opinion of the Church changes from veneration to indifference to sycophancy (because of the Order’s holding all the documents from the past) to, ultimately, opposition. The seeds of the final feeling of opposition are sown in the second section, when a new, “scientific” theory is introduced that man after the Flame Deluge was not created in the image of God, but created by prior men in their own image. Thus, the scientific community tries to sever the connection between God and man, cutting also the ties to morality. (The effects of this are very apparent in the last section, where the Church, while present, is not seen as the authority it once was.) There is a very poignant scene in which the abbot of the Order of Saint Leibowitz forbids a woman and her child from accepting the government-sanctioned red ticket, which qualifies them for a mercy killing due to radiation overdose. A police officer sees this and “overrules” the abbot, forcing him to stand back as the woman enters the assisted suicide camp. The officer then chides the abbot for being so unmerciful. (I couldn't help but see the parallel in our own day, when holding to strict morality is seen as prudery at best and tyranny at worst.)
The story flounders at some parts, namely the beginning of each section, mostly because the reader is thrust into the narrative without any guidance as to what the world is like (but, as mentioned before, while this is confusing, it is also one of the novel’s strengths). At some points, it is difficult to understand the political climate of the time because of a hazy geography. Also, the character names are true to the sci-fi genre, that is to say, a bit cheesy at times. Still, the strengths of A Canticle for Leibowitz make it a worthwhile read, and the confusion at first and the apt commentary on modern society make it ripe material for rereading.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
So Brave, Young, and Handsome
I feel lucky to be one of the last to find out about Leif Enger's Peace Like a River . My initial thought after finishing that book was, "Wow.
That was great." My second thought was, "Has he written anything else?"
The reason I call myself lucky is because I didn't have to wait so long for Enger's second book. So Brave, Young, and Handsome was released April 22, 2008. It's not often that I'm on the cutting edge of the book world: Most of my favorite authors have been dead for some time, and I rarely buy new books. But there was something in Peace Like a River that captured me and compelled me to get Enger's new book.
The plot goes something like this: An aging train robber decides to head west before the end of his life to make amends with his estranged wife. Coming along for the journey is his unlikely friend, the one-hit-wonder writer Monte Becket, whose first book was a runaway success, but now he feels a failure, having used up all the "medicine" in his first effort. The two travel together, joined by the impetuous Hood Roberts, a would-be cowboy in a world where cowboys are fast becoming extinct, and pursued by the undaunted Charles Siringo, an ex-Pinkerton agent trying to relive his glory days (and possibly seek revenge?).
At first, I thought the characters had cheesy names: Monte Becket. Glendon Hale. Redstart. Hood Roberts. Royal Davies. Blue. But each person's name, like many biblical names, says something about them. Most of the characters also have aliases that are employed at different times throughout the story, and at that point, the names become very important (especially in a beautiful scene at the end that depicts the importance of names before God). And, as Redstart, Becket's son, says, you have power over a person if you know that person's name. (A side note: I also found out that Charles Siringo is a real real person, and his memoirs are also real.)
The path to reconciliation is a hard one. At first, Becket is ignorant of Hale's train-robbing past. When he finds out, he wonders that he continues along the trail and avoids the temptations to return to his wife. In fact, it's somewhat unclear why Becket does continue with Hale. The first image we have of Glendon Hale is his rowing upriver—going against the current—standing up as he rows. Monte Becket is his
opposite: You'd find him sitting in the boat without a paddle—wherever the current goes, he follows.
This leads Becket into the company of Siringo. Glendon enjoins Becket to return to his wife, which he agrees to do, but is instead "captured" by Charles Siringo, who forces him to travel with him in order to find Glendon. It is an unlikely team-up, but their varying personalities—Siringo the take-charge and Becket the go-with-the-flow type—and similar avocations (both being writers on the side) makes their travels together interesting, to say the least. I especially enjoyed their conversations about writing.
The story has many twists and turns, but it ultimately reaches an uneasy climax with Glendon face to face with his former wife, who has moved on with her life and remarried. I call it an "uneasy climax" because their reunion is not a one-moment event. It isn't that Glendon receives what he seeks (or is rejected) in an instant and the story ends. Glendon instead stays, with the permission of Blue's abundantly gracious husband, on Blue's property, waiting for the grace and forgiveness he so desperately needs, or waiting to be turned away with finality. It is ultimately an act that would seem to turn Glendon away from Blue that results in their reconciliation (which is a paradox of grace, that we find it when it seems we would be least likely to).
The story is told from Monte Becket's perspective, and thus it is full of literary allusions and lofty vocabulary (which I found different from the narrator in Peace Like a River). Glendon Hale is implicitly and explicitly compared to both Peter Pan and Don Quixote, both apt comparisons. Glendon Hale is in many ways quixotic: He is living in a world in which the glory of the old west is coming to a close under the rise of technological innovation, and his quest is a "quest of honor," of seemingly little value to what is going on around him. But he is like Peter Pan in that, even in this changing world, he is the unaging spirit of youth, sprightly even in his advanced years. This is contrasted to Charles Siringo, who, driven by resentment and reputation, seems nothing more than old bones and leathery skin. Having nothing to live for but immortality, he shows his age through every wrinkle of his face. He is like Javert, inexorably tracking Glendon even when his reason for doing so is unclear to himself. There is no room in him for grace.
The book is fairly fast-paced, though not in a traditional sense (i.e., the plot is not convoluted and mysterious to keep the reader engrossed). What keeps the reader reading is attachment to the vivid characters. The chapters are all very short (attributed to the galloping, page-turner nature of old westerns [an alternate theory is that each chapter is around 1,000 words, the number Becket vows to write each day until his book is finished]). Most chapters end on a cliffhanger, but the suspense at the end of the chapter is not of the kind manufactured by withholding necessary information. Instead, the chapter endings generate a natural curiosity about the characters and the events that will befall them next. Enger writes the story in such a way that it is hard to put down.
So Brave, Young, and Handsome is not about the unbelievable, at times fantastic, miracles of life, but is more about the subtle miracles that happen in our everyday lives—the miracles of love, fidelity, friendship, forgiveness, and grace. None of the characters seem deserving of any of these, but it is the divine nature of the Giver that allows them to be recipients of the gifts. Because of the subtlety, the book does not seem as grand in scale as Enger's last book—and it isn't. There aren't as many powerful images that stick with the reader upon finishing. But rather than this being a step backward, So Brave, Young, and Handsome seems more a step to the side: It is a beautiful book in its own right, and it shows that there is beauty even in the seemingly mundane. Grace is within everyone's reach, if only they would respond.
That was great." My second thought was, "Has he written anything else?"
The reason I call myself lucky is because I didn't have to wait so long for Enger's second book. So Brave, Young, and Handsome was released April 22, 2008. It's not often that I'm on the cutting edge of the book world: Most of my favorite authors have been dead for some time, and I rarely buy new books. But there was something in Peace Like a River that captured me and compelled me to get Enger's new book.
The plot goes something like this: An aging train robber decides to head west before the end of his life to make amends with his estranged wife. Coming along for the journey is his unlikely friend, the one-hit-wonder writer Monte Becket, whose first book was a runaway success, but now he feels a failure, having used up all the "medicine" in his first effort. The two travel together, joined by the impetuous Hood Roberts, a would-be cowboy in a world where cowboys are fast becoming extinct, and pursued by the undaunted Charles Siringo, an ex-Pinkerton agent trying to relive his glory days (and possibly seek revenge?).
At first, I thought the characters had cheesy names: Monte Becket. Glendon Hale. Redstart. Hood Roberts. Royal Davies. Blue. But each person's name, like many biblical names, says something about them. Most of the characters also have aliases that are employed at different times throughout the story, and at that point, the names become very important (especially in a beautiful scene at the end that depicts the importance of names before God). And, as Redstart, Becket's son, says, you have power over a person if you know that person's name. (A side note: I also found out that Charles Siringo is a real real person, and his memoirs are also real.)
The path to reconciliation is a hard one. At first, Becket is ignorant of Hale's train-robbing past. When he finds out, he wonders that he continues along the trail and avoids the temptations to return to his wife. In fact, it's somewhat unclear why Becket does continue with Hale. The first image we have of Glendon Hale is his rowing upriver—going against the current—standing up as he rows. Monte Becket is his
opposite: You'd find him sitting in the boat without a paddle—wherever the current goes, he follows.
This leads Becket into the company of Siringo. Glendon enjoins Becket to return to his wife, which he agrees to do, but is instead "captured" by Charles Siringo, who forces him to travel with him in order to find Glendon. It is an unlikely team-up, but their varying personalities—Siringo the take-charge and Becket the go-with-the-flow type—and similar avocations (both being writers on the side) makes their travels together interesting, to say the least. I especially enjoyed their conversations about writing.
The story has many twists and turns, but it ultimately reaches an uneasy climax with Glendon face to face with his former wife, who has moved on with her life and remarried. I call it an "uneasy climax" because their reunion is not a one-moment event. It isn't that Glendon receives what he seeks (or is rejected) in an instant and the story ends. Glendon instead stays, with the permission of Blue's abundantly gracious husband, on Blue's property, waiting for the grace and forgiveness he so desperately needs, or waiting to be turned away with finality. It is ultimately an act that would seem to turn Glendon away from Blue that results in their reconciliation (which is a paradox of grace, that we find it when it seems we would be least likely to).
The story is told from Monte Becket's perspective, and thus it is full of literary allusions and lofty vocabulary (which I found different from the narrator in Peace Like a River). Glendon Hale is implicitly and explicitly compared to both Peter Pan and Don Quixote, both apt comparisons. Glendon Hale is in many ways quixotic: He is living in a world in which the glory of the old west is coming to a close under the rise of technological innovation, and his quest is a "quest of honor," of seemingly little value to what is going on around him. But he is like Peter Pan in that, even in this changing world, he is the unaging spirit of youth, sprightly even in his advanced years. This is contrasted to Charles Siringo, who, driven by resentment and reputation, seems nothing more than old bones and leathery skin. Having nothing to live for but immortality, he shows his age through every wrinkle of his face. He is like Javert, inexorably tracking Glendon even when his reason for doing so is unclear to himself. There is no room in him for grace.
The book is fairly fast-paced, though not in a traditional sense (i.e., the plot is not convoluted and mysterious to keep the reader engrossed). What keeps the reader reading is attachment to the vivid characters. The chapters are all very short (attributed to the galloping, page-turner nature of old westerns [an alternate theory is that each chapter is around 1,000 words, the number Becket vows to write each day until his book is finished]). Most chapters end on a cliffhanger, but the suspense at the end of the chapter is not of the kind manufactured by withholding necessary information. Instead, the chapter endings generate a natural curiosity about the characters and the events that will befall them next. Enger writes the story in such a way that it is hard to put down.
So Brave, Young, and Handsome is not about the unbelievable, at times fantastic, miracles of life, but is more about the subtle miracles that happen in our everyday lives—the miracles of love, fidelity, friendship, forgiveness, and grace. None of the characters seem deserving of any of these, but it is the divine nature of the Giver that allows them to be recipients of the gifts. Because of the subtlety, the book does not seem as grand in scale as Enger's last book—and it isn't. There aren't as many powerful images that stick with the reader upon finishing. But rather than this being a step backward, So Brave, Young, and Handsome seems more a step to the side: It is a beautiful book in its own right, and it shows that there is beauty even in the seemingly mundane. Grace is within everyone's reach, if only they would respond.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Danny Gospel
Because I have this perfectly good blogspot home that isn't seeing any use, I've decided to make it my new place to talk about and review books. (Also, if you notice at the bottom of my page, you'll find my book-related links; if you don't like what I have to say, at least you can read articles you might find interesting.) Enough of this. Into the first bookish post.
Over the weekend, I went to the Festival of Faith and Writing, hosted by Calvin College. It was a blast. I had never been in a place where every person, it seemed, was interested in talking about books. Several authors were at the festival, some whom I'd read, others whom I hadn't (and now want to). One of the authors I hadn't read was David Athey. After going to his session "How to Write a Novel in Eighteen Years," I bought his eighteen-year novel, Danny Gospel.
Danny Gospel tells the story of the "Gospel family," so named because of their traveling gospel band in the Midwest. Though audiences love their music and view them as an upstanding Christian family, the family members are divided on issues of faith. Danny's grandmother and father have particularly polarizing views and can be seen arguing almost every time they are together in the book.
The book follows the character Danny, a brand of "holy fool" akin to Don Quixote, Ignatius Reilly, or even Napoleon Dynamite. Essentially, he is a character at odds with the world. The world has a view of what a person should be, and Danny is completely different. He says over and over again that all he wants is a "normal happy life," but the reader is left to wonder if anything like this is possible for Danny; even if he were to have what others deem a "normal happy life," such a thing seems like it may be torture for Danny.
Danny's "foolishness" manifests itself in a number of ways: following divining mosquitos, traipsing through fields late at night, trying to faith-heal a car engine. The reader--especially the reader of faith--is in a dilemma in terms of how to feel about Danny. On the one hand, his expectations of faith seem ridiculous. But on the other hand, isn't it possible for God to work in such ways?
Complicating matters is Danny's own neuroses. His is a life beset by tragedy. Over the years, one by one (and, in some cases, more than one at a time) his family members die, those he cares about leave, and things happen that further isolate Danny from society and the "normal happy life" he wants so much. Once again, the reader feels for the character and wishes Danny the best that is possible, but the best that is possible may not be what Danny is seeking. (The tale follows Danny as he searches for a woman he envisions who kisses him in the night.)
The story ends abruptly and leaves questions unanswered, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. I was angry at first that my own expectations for Danny's life and how the novel should end were not fulfilled. Upon further reflection, I am not so upset (though I wish the novel had given more definite closure). It has me speculating on what really happens to Danny Gospel.
This leads me to talk about some of the interesting aspects of how the novel is written. The novel is told non-linearly, akin to Slaughterhouse-Five (though not as artful as Vonnegut, I would argue). This allows for a gradual revelation of facts of the situation Danny finds himself in. Also, what is interesting about Danny Gospel is that it takes the character of the fool and places him at the absolute center, so everything is viewed through him.
Let me explain: I mentioned Don Quixote and A Confederacy of Dunces earlier. In both of these works, the author uses the third-person perspective to describe the "fool." Using this method, the stark, iconoclastic attributes of the character against his environment are more clearly seen. The difference is even more poignant because the character is seemingly unaware of the social norms around him. Don Quixote, as it were, doesn't seem to get the memo that chivalry is dead. Ignatius Reilly doesn't understand that a master's in English does not hand over the keys to the Kingdom. Danny Gospel, in contrast, uses the first-person perspective. This is an interesting deviation, but the grating of the character against his culture is not quite as vivid as the other works mentioned. The first-person perspective does offer some benefits, though. It makes it easier for us to care for and sympathize with Danny Gospel. It also allows us to know what he's thinking more readily (or what he thinks he's thinking). However, since the character is a little off his rocker, the effect comes across, at times, like The Sound and the Fury, where it's hard to make any sense of what he's relating.
The quality of the writing in Danny Gospel is very good. There are a few jarring phrases here and there, but they are mostly explaining gaps that a predominately Christian-bookstore audience is unused to (e.g., in one instance a character inserts a descriptor in dialogue that would almost never be spoken [something like, "Did you hear world-famous evangelist Billy Graham on the radio?"]).
To conclude, the novel deals with themes of faith, forgiveness, and following God (three F's? there may be a sermon in this), and it treats these themes using unconventional means. There are some very powerful and poignant images that readers will remember long after they've finished the novel, which is one of the marks of a good book--it refuses to be forgotten.
Over the weekend, I went to the Festival of Faith and Writing, hosted by Calvin College. It was a blast. I had never been in a place where every person, it seemed, was interested in talking about books. Several authors were at the festival, some whom I'd read, others whom I hadn't (and now want to). One of the authors I hadn't read was David Athey. After going to his session "How to Write a Novel in Eighteen Years," I bought his eighteen-year novel, Danny Gospel.
Danny Gospel tells the story of the "Gospel family," so named because of their traveling gospel band in the Midwest. Though audiences love their music and view them as an upstanding Christian family, the family members are divided on issues of faith. Danny's grandmother and father have particularly polarizing views and can be seen arguing almost every time they are together in the book.
The book follows the character Danny, a brand of "holy fool" akin to Don Quixote, Ignatius Reilly, or even Napoleon Dynamite. Essentially, he is a character at odds with the world. The world has a view of what a person should be, and Danny is completely different. He says over and over again that all he wants is a "normal happy life," but the reader is left to wonder if anything like this is possible for Danny; even if he were to have what others deem a "normal happy life," such a thing seems like it may be torture for Danny.
Danny's "foolishness" manifests itself in a number of ways: following divining mosquitos, traipsing through fields late at night, trying to faith-heal a car engine. The reader--especially the reader of faith--is in a dilemma in terms of how to feel about Danny. On the one hand, his expectations of faith seem ridiculous. But on the other hand, isn't it possible for God to work in such ways?
Complicating matters is Danny's own neuroses. His is a life beset by tragedy. Over the years, one by one (and, in some cases, more than one at a time) his family members die, those he cares about leave, and things happen that further isolate Danny from society and the "normal happy life" he wants so much. Once again, the reader feels for the character and wishes Danny the best that is possible, but the best that is possible may not be what Danny is seeking. (The tale follows Danny as he searches for a woman he envisions who kisses him in the night.)
The story ends abruptly and leaves questions unanswered, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. I was angry at first that my own expectations for Danny's life and how the novel should end were not fulfilled. Upon further reflection, I am not so upset (though I wish the novel had given more definite closure). It has me speculating on what really happens to Danny Gospel.
This leads me to talk about some of the interesting aspects of how the novel is written. The novel is told non-linearly, akin to Slaughterhouse-Five (though not as artful as Vonnegut, I would argue). This allows for a gradual revelation of facts of the situation Danny finds himself in. Also, what is interesting about Danny Gospel is that it takes the character of the fool and places him at the absolute center, so everything is viewed through him.
Let me explain: I mentioned Don Quixote and A Confederacy of Dunces earlier. In both of these works, the author uses the third-person perspective to describe the "fool." Using this method, the stark, iconoclastic attributes of the character against his environment are more clearly seen. The difference is even more poignant because the character is seemingly unaware of the social norms around him. Don Quixote, as it were, doesn't seem to get the memo that chivalry is dead. Ignatius Reilly doesn't understand that a master's in English does not hand over the keys to the Kingdom. Danny Gospel, in contrast, uses the first-person perspective. This is an interesting deviation, but the grating of the character against his culture is not quite as vivid as the other works mentioned. The first-person perspective does offer some benefits, though. It makes it easier for us to care for and sympathize with Danny Gospel. It also allows us to know what he's thinking more readily (or what he thinks he's thinking). However, since the character is a little off his rocker, the effect comes across, at times, like The Sound and the Fury, where it's hard to make any sense of what he's relating.
The quality of the writing in Danny Gospel is very good. There are a few jarring phrases here and there, but they are mostly explaining gaps that a predominately Christian-bookstore audience is unused to (e.g., in one instance a character inserts a descriptor in dialogue that would almost never be spoken [something like, "Did you hear world-famous evangelist Billy Graham on the radio?"]).
To conclude, the novel deals with themes of faith, forgiveness, and following God (three F's? there may be a sermon in this), and it treats these themes using unconventional means. There are some very powerful and poignant images that readers will remember long after they've finished the novel, which is one of the marks of a good book--it refuses to be forgotten.
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