Sermons

In general, I weathered even the worst sermons pretty well. They had the great virtue of causing my mind to wander. Some of the best things I have ever thought of I have thought of during bad sermons.

-Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow, 162

Wandering

If you could do it, I suppose, it would be a good idea to live your life in a straight line—starting, say, in the Dark Wood of Error, and proceding by logical steps through Hell and Purgatory and into Heaven. Or you could take the King's Highway past apppropriately named dangers, toils, and snares, and finally cross the River of Death and enter the Celestial City. But that is not the way I have done it, so far. I am a pilgrim, but my pilgrimage has been wandering and unmarked. Often what has looked like a straight line to me has been a circle or a doubling back. I have been in the Dark Wood of Error any number of times. I have known something of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, but not always in that order. The names of many snares and dangers have been made known to me, but I have seen them only in looking back. Often I have not known where I was going until I was already there. I have had my share of desires and goals, but my life has come to me or I have gone to it mainly by way of mistakes and surprises. Often I have received better than I have deserved. Often my fairest hopes have rested on bad mistakes. I am an ignorant pilgrim, crossing a dark valley. And yet for a long time, looking back, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I have been led—make of that what you will.

-Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow, 133.

Waking Up

I would appreciate it if they would call a halt on all their devoted efforts to find a way to abolish war or eliminate disease or run trains with atoms or extend the span of human life to a couple of centuries, and everybody concentrate for a while on how to wake me up in the morning without my resenting it. It may be that a bevy of beautiful maidens in pure silk yellow very sheer gowns, barefooted, singing Oh, What a Beautiful Morning and scattering rose petals over me would do the trick, but I'd have to try it.

-Rex Stout’s character Archie Goodwin (hat tip Terry Teachout)

The Prodigal Father

The Prodigal Son goes off with his inheritance and blows the whole pile on liquor and sex and fancy clothes until finally he doesn’t have two cents left to rub together and has to go to work or starve to death. He gets a job on a pig farm and keeps at it long enough to observe that the pigs are getting a better deal than he is and then decides to go home. There is nothing edifying about his decision. There is no indication that he realizes he’s made an ass of himself and broken his old man’s heart, no indication that he thinks of his old man as anything more than a meal ticket. There is no sign that he is sorry for what he’s done or that he’s resolved to make amends somehow and do better next time. He decides to go home for the simple reason that he knows he always got three squares a day at home, and for a man who is in danger of starving to death, that is reason enough. So he sets out on the return trip and on the way rehearses the speech he hopes will soften the old man’s heart enough so that at least he won’t slam the door in his face. “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” ...And just about the time he thinks he has it down, the old man spots him coming around the corner below the tennis court and starts sprinting down the drive like a maniac. Before the boy has time to get so much as the first word out, the old man throws his arms around him and all but knocks him off his feet with the tears and whiskers and incredulous laughter of his welcome.

-Frederick Buechner, Telling the Truth, 66-67.

Highs

1. Six library books
2. Several hours of Burn Notice on DVD
3. A new skein of 'Fisherman's Wool' yarn for crocheting scarves
4. An impending snowstorm!

Anthologies

And so of the making of books there is no end, and of the making of anthologies there seems particularly to be no end because we are all anthologists. The collection and hoarding of bits and pieces is basic to all animals, from the squirrel with his nuts...to the anthologist with his oddments stored up in his memory...Anthology-making is therefore essentially selfish, like self-preservation...with the advantage of literature over nuts that it can be shared without personal loss to the hoarder.

-Elizabeth Goudge, preface to A Book of Comfort, quoted by Leland Ryken in his preface to The Christian Imagination

Today It Reads

I read in a book that the objectivity of thought can be expressed using the verb “to think” in the impersonal third person: saying not “I think” but “it thinks” as we say “it rains.” There is thought in the universe—this is the constant from which we must set out every time.

Will I ever be able to say, “Today it writes,” just like “Today it rains,” “Today it is windy”? Only when it will come natural to me to use the verb “write” in the impersonal form will I be able to hope that through me is expressed something less limited than the personality of an individual.

And for the verb “to read”? Will we be able to say, “Today it reads” as we say “Today it rains”? If you think about it, reading is a necessarily individual act, far more than writing. If we assume that writing manages to get beyond the limitations of the author, it will continue to have a meaning only when it is read by a single person and passes through his mental circuits. Only the ability to be read by a given individual proves that what is written shares in the power of writing, a power based on something that goes beyond the individual. The universe will express itself as long as somebody will be able to say, “I read, therefore it writes.”

-Italo Calvino, If On a Winter's Night a Traveler, 176.

(This makes my head spin...)

Ideo (Therefore)

On this day earth shall ring
With the song children sing
To the Son, Christ the King,
Born on earth to save us;
Him the Father gave us.
Ideo gloria in excelsis Deo!

His the doom, ours the mirth,
When he came down to earth;
Bethlehem saw his birth;
Ox and ass, beside him,
From the cold would hide him.
Ideo gloria in excelsis Deo!

God's bright star, o'er his head,
Wise men three to him led;
Kneel they low by his bed,
Lay their gifts before him,
Praise him and adore him.
Ideo gloria in excelsis Deo!

On this day angels sing;
With their song earth shall ring,
Praising Christ, heaven's King,
Born on earth to save us;
Peace and love he gave us.
Ideo gloria in excelsis Deo!

-Piae Contiones

Serious Frivolity

People are losing the power to enjoy Christmas through identifying it with enjoyment. When once they lose sight of the old suggestion that it is all about something, they naturally fall into blank pauses of wondering what it is all about. To be told to rejoice on Christmas Day is reasonable and intelligible, if you understand the name, or even look at the word. To be told to rejoice on the twenty-fifth of December is like being told to rejoice at quarter-past eleven on Thursday week. You cannot suddenly be frivolous unless you believe there is a serious reason for being frivolous.

-G. K. Chesterton, "The New War on Christmas," G. K.'s Weekly, December 26, 1925, quoted in Advent and Christmas Wisdom from G. K. Chesterton, 50.

Poetry

...She thought it was the misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but sparingly.

-Jane Austen, Persuasion, 74.

Calvinism

If God is to save souls, he must do so with people who for the most part fight tooth and nail against the process.

-Frederick Buechner, quoted in A Proper Scaring, Baumgartner.

Biography

My assumption is that the story of any one of us is in some measure the story of us all.

- Frederick Buechner, Listening to Your Life, quoted in The Christian Imagination, ed. Leland Ryken, 56.

Rereading

An unliterary man may be defined as one who reads books once only. There is hope for a man who has never read Malory or Boswell or Tristam Shandy or Shakespeare’s Sonnets: But what can you do with a man who says he “has read” them, meaning he has read them once, and thinks that this settles the matter? Yet I think the test has a special application to the matter in hand. For excitement, in the sense defined above, is just what must disappear from a second reading. You cannot except at the first reading, be really curious about what happened...

The re-reader is looking not for actual surprises (which can come only once) but for a certain ideal surprisingness...We do not enjoy a story fully at the first reading. Not till the curiosity, the sheer narrative lust, has been given its sop and laid asleep are we at leisure to savor the real beauties. Till then, it is like wasting great wine on a ravenous natural thirst which merely wants cold wetness. The children understand this well when they ask for the same story over and over again, and in the same words. They want to have again the “surprise” of discovering that what seemed Little-Red-Riding-Hood’s grandmother is really the wolf. It is better when you know it is coming: free from the shock of actual surprise you can attend better to the intrinsic surprisingness of the peripeteia...

-C. S. Lewis, “On Stories,” quoted in The Christian Imagination, ed. Leland Ryken, 454-455.

Eureka!

When we read the poem, or see the play or picture or hear the music, it is as though a light were turned on inside us. We say: “Ah! I recognize that! That is something which I obscurely felt to be going on in and about me, but I didn’t know what it was and couldn’t express it. But now that the artist has made its image—imaged it forth—for me, I can possess and take hold of it and make it my own, and turn it into a source of knowledge and strength.

-Dorothy Sayers, “Towards a Christian Aesthetic,” quoted in The Christian Imagination, ed. Leland Ryken, 234.

Paradise

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

-Jorge Luis Borges, quoted in The Christian Imagination, ed. Leland Ryken, 232.

Review: The Christian Imagination, ed. Leland Ryken

I stumbled across this book last weekend, as I perused Wheaton's card catalog in search of lesser-known essays by some of my favorite authors (Buechner, Chesterton, O'Connor, etc...). This is a marvelous book, exploring literature as an art-form from a Christian perspective. I'm sorry I didn't have time to read it more thoroughly (alas, 500 pages or so), but I had a lovely browse, and copied out as many quotes as I could - many from Lewis, but a few from other sources too. Some are posted below, and there will be more over the next few days...

Lit Crit

Every good book should be entertaining. A good book will be more; it must not be less. Entertainment...is like a qualifying examination. If a fiction can’t provide even that, we may be excused from inquiry into its higher qualities.

-C. S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism, quoted in The Christian Imagination, ed. Leland Ryken, 137.

Books as Doors

Now there is a clear sense in which all reading whatever is an escape. It involves a temporary transference of the mind from our actual surroundings to things merely imagined or conceived. This happens when we read history or science no less than when we read fictions. All such escape is from the same thing; immediate, concrete actuality. The important question is what we escape to...

Escape, then, is common to many good and bad kinds of reading. By adding –ism to it, we suggest, I suppose, a confirmed habit of escaping too often, or for too long, or into the wrong things, or using escape as a substitute for action where action is appropriate, and thus neglecting real opportunities and evading real obligations. If so, we must judge each case on its merits. Escape is not necessarily joined to escapism.

-C. S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism, quoted in The Christian Imagination, ed. Leland Ryken, 147.

Books as Windows

What then is the good of—what is even the defense for—occupying our hearts with stories of what never happened and entering vicariously into feelings which we should try to avoid having in our own person? Or of fixing our inner eye earnestly on things that can never exist...? The nearest I have yet got to an answer is that we seek an enlargement of our being. We want to be more than ourselves. Each of us by nature sees the whole world from one point of view with a perspective and a selectiveness peculiar to himself...We want to see with other eyes, to imagine with other imaginations, to feel with other hearts, as well as with our own...We demand windows. Literature as Logos is a series of windows, even of doors...

Literary experience heals the wounds, without undermining the privilege, of individuality...In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.

-C. S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism, quoted in The Christian Imagination, ed. Leland Ryken, 51, 52.

Granfalloon

Hazel's obsession with Hoosiers around the world was a textbook example of a false karass, of a seeming team that was meaningless in terms of the ways God gets things done, a textbook example of what Bokonon calls a granfalloon. Other examples of granfalloons are the Communist party, the Daughters of the American Revolution, the General Electric Company, the International Order of Odd Fellows—and any nation, anytime, anywhere.

-Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle, 90, 91.