GKC and me

Last week Paul Kingsnorth, a writer I’ve enjoyed and admired since reading his experimental historical novel The Wake almost a decade ago, posted an appreciation of Chesterton and The Everlasting Man on his Substack. The Everlasting Man vies with Orthodoxy and The Man Who Was Thursday as my favorite Chesterton book so I was interested in Kingsnorth’s thoughts, but it’s his introduction, in which he describes how he came to read Chesterton, that I found most arresting.

Briefly, Kingsnorth discovered Chesterton almost by accident as a godless environmental activist, finding in his work—beginning with The Napoleon of Notting Hill—a salve for the “push-and-pull of apparently conflicting tendencies and views” inside himself. He learned to love Chesterton for his localism and rejection of both socialism and capitalism but had no time for Chesterton’s Christianity. Only after his own conversion did he find that it was Chesterton’s Christianity that undergirded and gave shape to the rest.

Though the specifics are different, the trajectory of Kingsnorth’s story resonates with me—as does the feeling that Chesterton was, at first, a private discovery: “I liked G. K. Chesterton before anyone else did.”

My first GKC—The paperback reprint of Orthodoxy that I read in college

My own story with Chesterton begins, like I suspect many people’s does, with CS Lewis. I started reading Lewis as a freshman in college and somehow became aware of Chesterton as an influence on him. When I stumbled onto an Image paperback of Orthodoxy in Barnes and Noble one day as a sophomore or junior, I snapped it up. At some point I bought matching paperbacks of Saint Francis of Assisi and Saint Thomas Aquinas: The Dumb Ox. I still have all three.

I ended up reading Orthodoxy the same summer I took my deep dive into the Icelandic sagas, the reading of which resulted in No Snakes in Iceland a few years later—that was one formative summer—and read the other two as a burgeoning medievalist sometime before I graduated.

At Clemson I dug into The Everlasting Man, which I even managed to work into my master’s thesis, and from there I read everything else I could get my hands on—What’s Wrong with the World, Heretics, Eugenics and Other Evils, Magic, A Short History of England, Charles Dickens, The Ballad of the White Horse, the Autobiography, Father Brown, and criticism and essays galore. Chesterton’s work startled, amused, confused, and stretched me. I marveled at his range. I collected quotations by the bushel. I remember testing the longsuffering of a friend by texting—in the primordial texting days, with only a ten-digit keypad to type on—a whole paragraph of Eugenics and Other Evils during an argument.

Like Gabriel Syme in The Man Who Was Thursday, I had deeply felt but essentially shapeless and purposeless convictions in college, and the chaotic environment of opinion and argument into which I was thrust after a pretty tranquil upbringing as well as personal upheaval in grad school proved difficult for me. Lewis helped over those years, as did Peter Kreeft. Chesterton continued their work and challenged me even more than they did. He tested many of my assumptions, forcing me to rethink or abandon some and affirming and reinforcing others. He helped give my beliefs a consistent shape. It took years for me to recognize just how much he changed me.

Only much, much later did I become aware of the subculture—or, when I’m feeling less charitable, the industry—that has grown up around Chesterton. And by then that world’s Chesterton didn’t feel much like the Chesterton I had sat at the feet of for a decade. Kingsnorth nods unmistakably toward the kind of Chesterton cosplayer I’m thinking of. I’m not knocking those Chesterton fans—I’m glad he still has enough readers to keep his books in print—but I feel like we’re adoring different Chestertons. Theirs is all tweedy whimsy and cigar smoke and strained cheerfulness and the same endlessly repeated decontextualized quotations and really bad attempts to write like Chesterton. (Don’t attempt to write like him, ever.) Their Chesterton strikes me as a cartoon, a simplification, without the thread of darkness and lifelong self-examination running through the real man.

And yet, their Chesterton is present in the real Chesterton. He contains multitudes. Like the undercover detectives in The Man Who Was Thursday, we’re all pursuing the same gigantic, surprising, seemingly unknowable man, and there is healthy unity in that. As Kingsnorth puts it, “I don’t resent their incursion on my turf, though. Indeed, I welcome them into the fold of true believers.”

But that feeling of difference and my natural un-clubbableness has kept Chesterton a somewhat private love. Which has, with a completely appropriate sense of paradox, made it that much better when I discover that a new acquaintance is also a fan. To bring Lewis back in, he wrote that “[t]he typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, ‘What? You too?’” That feeling is a joy when shared with anyone who stumbled into Chesterton the way I did, and cherishes his work the way I do.

I greatly enjoyed getting Kingsnorth’s perspective, especially his story. You can read all of his reflections on GKC as well as his takeaways from The Everlasting Man here. You can read his conversion story, which came as a great and welcome surprise to me when I stumbled across it, at First Things here.

Chestertober concludes later this week with The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare. The subtitle is important. Stay tuned for that.

Saving the world from the reading nook

Writing at Front Porch Republic in response to several recent news stories—like this one—that suggest our civilizational decline is further along than even the pessimists thought, Nadya Williams argues that saving and restoring civilization begins at home:

In the midst of the (il)literacy crisis unfolding around us, I would like to propose an old-fashioned response: Home libraries will save civilization. Why? Because a home overcrowded with books sets the tone for how its inhabitants spend their time at home. Bored? Read a book. Want something to do for fun? Read a book. Have friends over? Read a book together. Relaxed family night at home? Start a read-aloud.

The right domestic tone is key. So is opportunity. Williams continues:

When books are everywhere, they distract us with their presence in a good way—they demand to be read, shaping the people around them in small but meaningful ways, moment by moment, page by page. They send us on rabbit trails to find yet more books on related topics, to ask friends for recommendations, and sometimes just to sit quietly and reflect, overcome with an emotion sparked by an author who has been dead for centuries but one that expresses the state of our soul in this moment.

This combination—a mood at home that encourages reading and abundant opportunity to do so—reminded me of the early passages of Lewis’s spiritual memoir Surprised by Joy. Here he describes the home his family moved into when he was seven:

The New House is almost a major character in my story. I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstair indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books.

Lewis’ father, you see, had the same bad habit I do: he “bought all the books he read and never got rid of any of them.” Feel free to consult my wife for more information on me, but for the young Lewis this was the happy result:

There were books in the study, books in the drawing room, books in the cloakroom, books (two deep) in the great bookcase on the landing, books in a bedroom, books piled high as my shoulder in the cistern attic, books of all kinds reflecting every transient stage of my parents’ interests, books readable and unreadable, books suitable for a child and books most emphatically not. Nothing was forbidden me. In the seemingly endless rainy afternoons I took volume after volume from the shelves. I had always the same certainty of finding a book that was new to me as a man who walks into a field has of finding a new blade of grass.

The results speak for themselves.

But of course opportunities have to be seized, and the decline of reading, at least among the American populace, is not for lack of reading material. Books are plentiful and cheap. Where a private library used to be a ruinously expensive luxury, the most precious resource of a monastery or the hobby of an aristocrat, Williams argues that “in this day and age, with periodic public library sales and book giveaways, one doesn’t have to be rich to accumulate an impressive home library.”

But that word accumulate my put off the more Marie Kondo-ish among us. Williams suggests we embrace the stacks:

[S]peaking of luxuries, let’s forget aesthetics at least to some extent. Does my home feature many cheap mismatched bookcases? Yes, it does. Do we have too many books for our little space? Most definitely. Are there too many books piled up on every desk, side table, coffee table, and even hidden under the covers in the five-year-old’s bed? Yes. Is everyone in this home living with the joy of books as their primary companions each day? Yes, and that is the point.

Our home library is several thousand volumes, now. I stopped counting at over 3,000 a long time ago. We have a stuffed home office lined with the IKEA Billy bookcases I recently described, three tall bookcases in the master bedroom and large bookcases in our kids’ rooms, shelves on the landing, baskets of kids’ books in the living room, and you can always find stacks here and there that Sarah valiantly keeps under control. Clutter is the danger, but we’re creating opportunity.

Lewis’s memories of tone and opportunity resonate with me. In the little house where I spent the first fourteen years of my life, my parents had one big white wooden bookcase in the foyer by the front door. It had a 1970s-era set of World Book, a big hardback book on the top shelf mysteriously emblazoned Josephus, and scads and scads of kids’ books: Value Tales, Childcraft, Berenstain Bears, Golden Books, etc. We were free to read any of it, any time. I certainly did.

As a high schooler with a taste for literature, I discovered that classics series were helpful. I started as cheaply as I could with Dover Thrift Editions, which at that time were mostly one or two dollars apiece. You got what you paid for, to an extent (when I took a bunch of these to college a friend started calling them “Dover Homeless Editions”), but they gave this hillbilly kid with little pocket change easy access to lots of great old books for very little money. From there, Signet Classics, mass market paperbacks that ranged from $5-$8 when I was in college, and finally the larger and marginally more expensive but better quality Penguin Classics beckoned. I have hundreds of the latter.

The rest of our library has grown up around these like an artificial reef. And I’m glad to say that our reef is now teeming with little fish, busily reading. It is sweet to see them nestled down somewhere with a book, even when they should be doing something like sleeping. For once, I am not so pessimistic about the future.

Read all of Williams’s essay here and be encouraged—and motivated. Relatedly, read this piece on moving a home library from my podcasting friend Michial Farmer, which posted at Front Porch Republic just a day or two after Williams’s. Cf. his thoughts on collecting and loving cheap paperbacks versus cultivating a perfectly matched room full of leatherbound hardbacks. And you can read more about Lewis’s bookish childhood here.

Hurricane hiatus

I certainly didn’t expect to conclude September like this. After a hectic week at school I had several posts lined up to work on over the weekend, including the start of a new series on Chesterton novels, but Hurricane Helene and a sick baby scuppered that. Not that I’m complaining—both of those things together put my writing projects in perspective.

I actually left school early Thursday after the twins’ daycare let me know that one of them had a fever. By that afternoon, with the hurricane veering unexpectedly east of Macon, Georgia, he had a temperature of over 104°, which has a way of narrowing one’s focus. Sarah and I spent hours working to moderate his fever, which we got down to around 100° a few times though it mostly hovered between 102° and 104° until Sunday. As a result, as bad as the hurricane was—and it was bad—it was not foremost on our minds even after it arrived in the wee hours Friday morning and spent several hours slamming the Upstate.

We lost power at 5:59 AM—I noted this specifically because the twins’ white noise machine, which I think may be more of a benefit to us at this point, switched off—and over the next several hours the wind shook the house and rain pounded down. But we were still focused primarily on the baby’s fever.

The hurricane left us without power or internet. Cell phone coverage was weak, too, but we could get most texts and calls out. Mercifully the water never failed. The only property damage we sustained was a single strip of shingles blown askew on a dormer and the gate of our backyard fence blown inside out, warping the hinges. That was an unnerving thing to notice afterward, a clear demonstration of the storm’s power, but we got off lightly.

I can’t say the same for many in the area, though. After we finally got out and drove around a little, Sarah, who has lived in the area for over thirty years, said she has never seen more downed trees. Even a legendary ice storm from the fall of 2006 didn’t wreck the trees and roads this badly. As of last night hundreds of thousands were still without power where we live and, in the mountains where I’m from, entire towns have been inundated or simply washed away. Even with extensive damage and flooding, it wasn’t quite as bad back home in Rabun County, but I spent my high school years traveling to places like Boone and Asheville for basketball games, so those places feel like a part of home. Keep those folks in your prayers.

And I’m thankful to say that the baby’s fever broke early Sunday—Michaelmas, appropriately, as that’s his name—and our power came back on last night. Since the power went off so early in the morning, only the hallway light was on at the time. When that winked back on last night, I thought at first that one of the older kids was playing with a lantern. It took a moment to register that the light was a different color and intensity, and to tell one of the kids to turn on our ceiling fan. By the time it kicked on, we could hear our neighbors cheering in the streets.

Again—not how I expected September to end. And this isn’t even to get into the car battery, the cold showers, the generator, or the fire ants.

Quick notes on two books I finished by candlelight once we had our feverish baby settled at night:

  • Uncommon Danger, by Eric Ambler—A freelance English journalist gets himself in trouble gambling during a Nazi Party conference in Nuremberg and accepts a dangerous commission to repay his debts. As a result, he finds himself embroiled in Eastern European industrial intrigues and Soviet espionage. A fast-paced, greatly enjoyable pure thriller, and also more evidence—if you’re interested in the history of the thriller—that Ambler marks the exact midpoint between Buchan and Fleming. That lineage might make a good post or essay one of these days. At any rate, highly recommended.

  • The Wild Robot, written and illustrated by Peter Brown—I read this one on my kids’ recommendation. They’ve listened to the audiobook a couple times and loved it, and are looking forward to the film adaptation that we would have seen this weekend if not for the aforementioned events. A delightful story, simply but movingly told. Looking forward to watching the movie with the kids once the area has recovered a bit more.

Grateful for good reading, protection in the storm, healing for our son, and the generosity of family, friends, and neighbors throughout the ordeal. Stay tuned for the posts I had planned for as things continue to settle down.

Addendum: If any of my students should see this, I plan to give blanket extensions to any and all assignments open during this period as soon as I can get access to our school systems. Don’t worry about due dates. It’s more important to me that y’all are okay. We’ll catch up.

Being shelfish

Alan Jacobs recently recounted the bookshelf woes that have afflicted him since the reopening of the Baylor Honors College following a remodel. During the wait, he learned that he had been allotted two bookcases: “When I pointed out that my then-current office had eight bookcases, all of which were full, I was told that, okay, I could have three in my new space.” And that was all the new office had room for.

The whole situation, while faintly comic, leads Jacobs to some wry and disturbing conclusions about the fate of books in modern academia, so be sure to read the whole post. But I couldn’t help noticing one detail in particular:

I don’t mind moving into a smaller office. My former one was bigger than I needed, and the new one is better situated and is a pleasant, comfortable space—I’ll be happy there. But when I moved in I was a bit surprised to find that the bookcases—and yeah, it would’ve been hard to fit in any more than three—are thin-industrial-steel things instead of the well-made cherrywood ones I had had in my former office. 

When I started my full-time job at my college seven years ago my office had one bookcase of precisely the industrial steel kind shown in Jacobs’s photo. I learned quickly that these bookcases are not only ugly but terrible for the books themselves. The finish of the steel creates friction when one slides a book in or out of place, and unless the shelf is packed full the books will lean and warp in ways I haven’t seen on traditional wooden shelves. I even had the covers of multiple paperback books delaminate in strange patterns suggestive of unaccustomed structural stress.

And did I mention that the steel shelves are ugly?

Fortunately I was able to request an extra bookcase, which was delivered promptly. I was glad to see it was a more traditional—if cheaply made—wooden case. I eventually moved two of my own IKEA Billy bookcases to my office. This gave me a total of four, which was almost enough. For a while.

When our department shifted one hall over a few years ago, the wooden shelf and my two Billy bookcases and an additional waist-high case from Walmart came with me and I ditched the steel one. I managed to requisition a second wooden bookcase as a replacement. This is the most satisfactory office library arrangement I’ve had so far, even with books stacked on top of all of them and a couple of boxes full on the floor by my filing cabinet and more waiting at home.

The unbending, unbeautiful, ultimately damaging utility of the steel bookcase is a pretty good accidental metaphor, especially when the scholar and the lover of literature doesn’t have enough.

April is the cruellest month

Nick Nolte as Colonel Tall in The Thin red Line

For the last couple years I’ve jokingly shared the picture above, a powerful closeup of a wrung-out Col Tall from The Thin Red Line, once classes have ended and final grades are submitted. “Celebrating the end of another great spring semester!” is my usual caption.

Not that spring semesters are bad—they’re just exhausting. I’ve puzzled over this and have some ideas, but can’t say with certainty why the spring wears me out so much more than the summer or fall. Regardless of why or whether I ever figure out why, and regardless of the quality of the students or precisely how busy my schedule is, by April every year I am running out of steam. I find myself trying to hearten the students, urging them to finish strong and not just stagger across the finish line. When I say this—as I freely admit to them—I’m speaking to myself.

This year is perhaps the peak of the trend: After a busy and productive winter, I now read books a few pages at a time, I can’t muster enough concentration to write, I’ve neglected my personal correspondence. Here, I’ve begun six blog posts in the last four or five weeks, all of which are half-complete in the drafts folder.

But I remind myself that the exhaustion is not only the result of work but also a symptom of good things. I have a good job with excellent coworkers and I get to talk about history all day, and I begin and end the day at home with Sarah and the kids. And as Sarah and I remind each other, people with infant twins have a legitimate reasons to be worn out.

When Dante meets the spirit of his old friend Forese Donati in Purgatory, Forese, in describing the sancitifying suffering he is undergoing on the terrace of the gluttonous, speaks first of punishment but then corrects himself: “I say pain when I should say solace.” Looking at the exhaustion and the weariness of a busy spring, I might say the same.

After all, in The Thin Red Line that shot of Col Tall comes in the aftermath of a victory.

Pilgrimage back to Bunyan

 
Someday you will be old enough to read fairy tales again.
— CS Lewis, in his dedication of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
 

I’m finishing work on a “life story” project for a church group today, which has got me in an even more than usually reflective mood as I consider family history, personal debts, and the things that have made me who I am. Among these are the books that have most shaped me. Ages and ages ago, sometime early in grad school, I wrote a multi-part series of blog posts on precisely this topic. One of the most important early books I mentioned was Dangerous Journey, a lavishly illustrated adaptation of John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.

This came to mind because just a few days ago Alan Jacobs wrote about teaching The Pilgrim’s Progress and the “great joy” it gives him—not only teaching it, but the mere fact that “so utterly bonkers a book was so omnipresent in English-language culture . . . for so long.” He goes on, in a strikingly incisive paragraph, to note how

One of the “tough” things about [The Pilgrim’s Progress] is the way [it] veer[s] from hard-coded allegory to plain realism, sometimes within a given sentence. One minute Moses is the canonical author of the Pentateuch, the next he’s a guy who keeps knocking Hopeful down. But the book is always psychologically realistic, to an extreme degree. No one knew anxiety and terror better than Bunyan did, and when Christian is passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death and hears voices whispering blasphemies in his ears, the true horror of the moment is that he thinks he himself is uttering the blasphemies. (The calls are coming from inside the house.) 

This captures both the strangeness and the power of Bunyan’s book, as I’ve lately been rediscovering.

I grew up with Pilgrim’s Progress as a load-bearing component of my imagination. My parents had Dangerous Journey at home and I pored over the incredible, grotesque, beautiful, frightening illustrations (by Alan Parry in a style reminiscent of Arthur Rackham) over and over again. My friends and I read a children’s version—with an excellent map—in school. Another time we acted out Christian and Faithful’s trial at Vanity Fair for a school music program. (I played Lord Hategood, the judge.) Occasionally during our church’s summer Bible school the nightly story would be a version of Pilgrim’s Progress in five short installments. I taught this version of it myself once shortly after graduating from college. There was even a two-part “Adventures in Odyssey” adaptation I listened to many times on cassette tape.

I knew Pilgrim’s Progress thoroughly without ever having read it cover to cover.* But you know what they say about familiarity.

Then, late in high school, I discovered Dante. I was on my first medieval literature kick and wanted all the epic poetry I could get ahold of. Dante’s Comedy struck me as both 1) a proper classic, the kind of thing a kid like me should be reading and 2) lurid enough to be interesting and entertaining. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into—it blew my mind. I ended up reading Dante over and over again for several years straight, right through college, and Dante has been a profound influence on me ever since.

But discovering Dante also led me into an easy contempt for Bunyan. Dante, I thought, had fashioned a real allegory. Bunyan—in addition to his other faults, like his Calvinism**—seemed cloddish and simplistic by comparison. What were the ad hoc, making-it-up-as-I-go plot points and symbols of Pilgrim’s Progress worth when I had the masterful intricacies of the Comedy as an alternative?

It’s a typical fault of immaturity to set in opposition things that should really complement each other, but there I was, pooh-poohing Pilgrim’s Progress. I’m bothered even to remember this attitude. And yet, Pilgrim’s Progress stayed with me. And now I’m rediscovering it, having grown old enough to read it again.

Two things have helped rekindle my interest and reopen me to the story, which I freely acknowledged was fundamental to my imagination even when I was most disdainful of it. The first is John Buchan. Anyone who’s followed my John Buchan June readings will know that Pilgrim’s Progress was his favorite book, and that it informed and influenced everything in his fiction from his novels’ stern moralism, hardy sense of adventure, the fact that many of their plots are journeys, and even character names and motivations. Buchan’s love of Bunyan started to bring me back around, the same way a good friend might convince you to give one of their friends another chance despite having made an awkward introduction.

But more important has been revisiting Pilgrim’s Progress itself. A few years ago I broke out my parents’ copy of Dangerous Journey to look at with my own kids and, like me thirty-odd years before them, they found the pictures mesmerizing, horrifying, and impossibly intriguing. They wanted to know more, to find out what’s going on in the story behind these images. The pictures cry out for the story to be told.

And then, right now a year ago, I read Little Pilgrim’s Progress to them a few chapters at a time before bed. Little Pilgrim’s Progress is a children’s adaptation of Bunyan by Helen Taylor, first published in 1947, that abridges, simplifies, and somewhat softens some of the original. The edition I read was a new, large-format hardback illustrated by Joe Sutphin. In Sutphin’s pictures, the characters are all adorable anthropomorphic animals: Evangelist is an owl, Christian is a rabbit, Great Heart is a badger, Giant Despair is a genuinely terrifying hare, Apollyon—rendered “Self” by Taylor—is a wolf, and others are otters, squirrels, toads, dogs, and more. I was worried it would all be a little too cutesy, but I wanted to introduce this story to my kids and I was glad to find the pictures and the adaptation perfectly suited for their ages. It’s brilliantly done.

What I was not prepared for was the way Bunyan’s story, even filtered through an abridgement and fuzzy animals, would wreck me. I had to stop reading Little Pilgrim’s Progress several times—most especially as the characters approached the River of Death and their final, long-awaited but fearful entry into the Celestial City—because I couldn’t hold back my tears. The raw emotional and, as Jacobs notes, psychological power of Pilgrim’s Progress ambushed me. The fear, guilt, anxiety, doubt, grief, and—above all—hope were so real, so true to life in our fallen and wounded state, that the story cut deep. All the more so because I was so familiar with Pilgrim’s Progress that I was, ironically, unprepared to meet it again. I’m glad I did.

I’ve had a long history with Pilgrim’s Progress, a history I should cap by finally reading the whole thing. I think that will be a good post-Buchan summer project. Until then, check out Dangerous Journey and Taylor and Sutphin’s Little Pligrim’s Progress, especially if you have kids and you want something that will really shape their faith and imaginations.

* A lesson in just how literate people who don’t read a book can still be when they have a culture to support their knowledge and understanding of it, something I often think about with regard to medieval people.

** Thank you, I will not be taking questions at this time.

500 blog posts!

Not quite a year ago I celebrated the fifth anniversary of this blog. I wasn’t sure, at that time, precisely how many posts I had on here, but knew it was just over 400. I’ve kept better track since then, and as far as I can tell this post is the 500th in just under six years.

To celebrate, I looked back at my analytics from the beginning of this site in December 2017 to the present to see what the biggest hits have been. It’s an interesting grab-bag—a few things I consciously tried to make as appealing as possible, a few things that made almost zero impression when I first wrote them but slowly gathered momentum over years, a couple that have crept into the top Google results for very specific terms, and a few personal pieces that made it big in surprising ways, including getting linked from a New York Times op-ed. I offer these up as a top-ten, with a little commentary.

10 most popular blog posts to date

Ranked in order of popularity:

  • Willy Wonka’s Hidden Nazi Joke, May 2, 2020—A favorite bit of trivia that I wrote about in the structure of clickbait as an experiment. Apparently it worked. This is far and away the most popular thing I’ve ever posted here and is the top Google result for several related searches. Three and a half years on and I can still count on it going viral on Facebook or Reddit a couple of times a year.

  • Kingdom of Heaven, March 26, 2018—The most popular—and probably the best—of my short-lived Historical Movie Monday series, this post has gotten a steady drip of traffic for five and a half years. I still refer back to it myself, as I recently did when responding to Ridley Scott’s ideas about history and historical accuracy.

  • Jon Daker, RIP, February 24, 2022—I was as surprised as anyone that this post blew up. When I found out that internet legend Jon Daker had died early last year, I was moved to pay tribute and reflect a little on what we can both enjoy and learn from his public access TV humiliation. It seems to have resonated with a lot of people. Note that this is easily the most recent post on this list and you should get some idea of the speed with which it spread.

  • My top nine Civil War novels, August 2, 2018—A personal favorites list that I published ahead of the release of Griswoldville. Needs updating but still gets traffic. Every once in a while someone looks at Griswoldville after reading it, but only every once in a while. I guess I should try the Willy Wonka clickbait approach.

  • What’s wrong, Chesterton? February 28, 2019—I wrote this one day after driving back and forth between two campuses of my college. The famously misattributed/misquoted Chesterton line “Dear sirs: I am” had crossed my mind and I determined to find the source for myself, definitively. When I did, I transcribed and shared the whole original source so that it’d be more easily accessible. To my surprise, a lot of people were also keen to find it. Even more surprising, this post is now in the footnotes or bibliographies of at least four books (here’s one, and here’s another that came out just last month), which I accidentally discovered early this year, and was cited in a David French op-ed in the New York Times this summer.

  • I’m not saying it was aliens, August 9, 2018—A slightly labored reflection on the pseudo- or ersatz-religious role played by aliens in many popular imaginations. An important idea to me, but perhaps not expressed as well as it could be. I’ve been considering revisiting this topic one of these days, especially considering how much more I hear about Joe Rogan, Graham Hancock, and the pyramids than “Ancient Aliens” now.

  • I’m not saying Ancient Aliens is racist… November 6, 2020—Curiously, despite a gap of more than two years this post only has a few hits less than the one above, meaning that these two, which both play on an old meme, are almost tied in this top ten. This one has gotten more traffic in less time thanks to a few prominent shares on Facebook and Twitter and the attention given to pretty much any accusation of racism. As it happens, I think the racism of ancient astronauts theories is an accident born of their chronological snobbery (as Charles Portis noted in Gringos), which I tried to suggest in this post.

  • The Winter War, May 14, 2018—Another Historical Movie Monday post, one made possible by the loan of a DVD copy of this hard-to-find Finnish war epic from a Finnish coworker who has now retired. A seriously impressive and hard-hitting movie that I hope this post has made more people seek out. Now if some enterprising home media company would just release a good Region 1 Blu-ray…

  • Jefferson on ignorance and freedom, October 3, 2019—A short reflection on a relatively well-known passage from one of Jefferson’s late letters. I’m glad this one has (again, unexpectedly) gotten so much attention, because the quotation is often garbled or misattributed and I think it’s an important idea well worth meditating on.

  • Hacksaw Ridge, April 16, 2018—One of the last Historical Movie Monday posts before that series petered out, a post that I remember getting little response at the time but which snuck into the top ten most popular posts on the blog over the last five years. A good movie I need to revisit.

Ten most popular blog posts of the last year

You might note a kind of inverse recency bias in the top ten list above, as older posts have had more time to collect hits and work their way up in Google search results, which is still where I get most of my traffic. But I’m also struck that it’s not the most representative sample of what I typically post here. To get a better glimpse, to give more recent posts a chance to shine for anyone who hasn’t looked at them, and to unnecessarily drag out this celebration, here are the ten most popular posts from the last year, a top ten I’m pretty proud of:

  • Borges on the two registers of English, June 7, 2023—A response to a clip of William F Buckley and Jorge Luis Borges discussing the relative strengths of English and Spanish on “Firing Line,” this clip got picked up by two much more popular blogs (one on linguistics, one on Catholic homeschooling) and a professor with a lot of Facebook followers and really blew up. I really enjoyed these reflections so I’m glad others have found them enlightening.

  • Frozen II’s big dam problem, December 13, 2022—This post started as an e-mail to my friends at Before They Were Live, a Disney animation podcast, and turned into a protracted grumble about one of the many things in Frozen II that don’t make sense and why it’s not just an artistic failing.

  • Notes on rereading Storm of Steel, December 3, 2022—Exactly what it says on the tin: a less structured series of observations and reflections based on my first reading of Ernst Jünger’s great World War I memoir since grad school. Storm of Steel is an astonishingly powerful book that, like its author, has often been misrepresented. I hope those who have stumbled across this post have found it helpful, and that if they haven’t read the book they do after reading these thoughts.

  • Orwell, Camus, Chesterton, and bad math, March 16, 2023—2+2=5 is a commonplace example of denial of reality. It’s strongly associated with Orwell, but when the author of an essay I came across suggested that Orwell got it from Camus, I had to go back further and suggest that one or both of them were riffing on Chesterton. This post has gotten interesting traction in the months since I shared it.

  • On the term “Anglo-Saxon,” November 11, 2022—One of the most important posts, to me, in the last year, a response of the foolish, politically-motivated movement to avoid or censor the term “Anglo-Saxon” as racist.

  • History must be written forward, May 10, 2023—A short reflection on historical perspective and presentism inspired by a passage in the introduction to a history of Germany that I didn’t finish reading. I’ll return to it one of these days on the strength of passages like this.

  • 2022 in books, January 2, 2023—My favorite reads of last year. These posts usually don’t get sustained traffic but people keep coming back to this one. I hope they read at least some of what I recommend, because last year was a very good reading year for me.

  • All Quiet on the Western Front, March 19, 2023—My ambivalent but mostly negative review of the new German-language film adaptation of Remarque’s novel. Short version: a technically magnificent bad adaptation.

  • My problems with Glass Onion, February 10, 2023—Another film post, of which I’ve written more this year, this time sorting through some things that hung on and bothered me in the otherwise entertaining Rian Johnson whodunnit Glass Onion, which Sarah and I saw last fall.

  • On ancient and medieval “propaganda,” January 16, 2023—Another post parsing a controversial term, this one a term that seems to me to have a purely modern and political valence that is distorting and anachronistic when applied to the past. I picked apart several examples that have been bugging me for years. I still see and hear people do this, so the struggle isn’t over yet.

Conclusion

As always, I appreciate y’all’s readership. This little bit of practice, this commonplace book, has been a fun and rewarding outlet, and the fact that people read and enjoy it still humbles me. It’s been a busy month, but I’ve got more things line up to write about once I can scrape together the time. It means a lot that y’all will be here for it. Thanks again! Here’s to 500 more posts!

JRR Tolkien, 50 years later

Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the death of JRR Tolkien, an occasion for reflection and appreciation. A few impromptu thoughts on Tolkien’s work and what it—and Tolkien himself—have meant to me over the years:

Part of Tolkien’s legacy for me is purely philosophical. Writing at The Critic yesterday, Sebastian Milbank considers the unlikely success of Tolkien’s storytelling in a literary environment under the Sauron-like dominion of irony, cynicism, amorality, and the tortured solipsism of post-Freudian psychology. Milbank:

More than anything else Lord of the Rings communicates a sensibility utterly at odds with the spirit of the age in which it was written. It is one of profound, tragic loss, of the vulnerability of irretrievable, ancient beauty, that must desperately be conserved and defended. It is of the inherent heroism of standing against destructive change, of hope beyond all reason, amidst the logic of history, which Tolkien named “the long defeat”.

Further, there is no “authorial wink,” no signaling or messaging for fellow bien pensants of the kind typical of elitist, politically motivated modernist art. In its morality (not moralism), earnestness, and total commitment to the act of storytelling and the sub-creation of imaginary worlds, Tolkien’s legendarium has become perhaps the anti-modernist myth par excellence, and not by taking any conscious stance but simply by being utterly and sincerely itself.

And yet this philosophical and religious understanding of the drama of Tolkien’s stories came to me later, after long thought and even longer thoughtless basking in his world and words. And I do mean words quite literally.

During college I moved from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings to some of Tolkien’s essays. This proved a fortuitous time to do so. I read “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics” at about the same time I was taking British History I and British Literature I, a one-two punch of subjects that have become lifelong passions. Reading and rereading Beowulf, and learning about the Anglo-Saxons, and rereading The Lord of the Rings, and then giving intense nuts-and-bolts attention to language, style, tone, and technique in my Creative Writing minor classes, aided by the insights and example of John Gardner, revealed much that was at work beneath the surface of Tolkien’s stories. For the first time I perceived the purposeful deliberation behind his choice of words and the structure of his sentences and poems, and the careful use of allusion to expand the world in which a small story takes place.

This was heady stuff and, emboldened with the enthusiasm of discovery and youthful experiment, I plunged into my Novel Writing class in my final semester of college armed with new and exciting tools. The eventual result was No Snakes in Iceland. It may be that I belong to that class of “mediocre imitators,” as Milbank calls them in his piece, but my first published novel would not have come to be without Tolkien’s example.

And Tolkien’s example extends beyond the literary. Milbank does not delve far into Tolkien the man in his essay, but Tolkien’s actual life story stands as just as strong a rebuke to modernism as his novels. A child of hardship, orphaned at an early age, raised in a teeming industrial city, a soldier in some of the worst combat in history, here is a man who lived through all the blights that should have embittered and driven him to misery and indulgence nevertheless living quietly and faithfully with his wife and children and working just as happily in his professional field as on his private hobbies. He is not the tortured, arrogant literary scribbler of modern myth and his protagonists are neither whiners nor degenerates. Geniuses don’t have to be jerks. A man of faith, duty, family, close friendship, rigorous and honest scholarship, and devotion to the small and parochial and workaday, Tolkien was in every way a candidate for a saintly “hidden life.” And yet everyone knows who he was.

This is perhaps the starkest irony of Tolkien’s life: that a man so contented with his lot and so unambitious (in the way of the worlds of commerce, politics, or celebrity) should become the author of the twentieth century. The more I have studied his life the more I admire him and wish for the grace to emulate him.

All of these things matter to me—the philosophy, the aesthetic, the man himself—but at the root of Tolkien’s meaning for me lie the stories. As it should be.

I can actually date my love for Tolkien. I read The Hobbit in high school at a friend’s urgent insistence (thanks, Josh!) and—again, fortuitously—my county’s brand-new Walmart had the book in stock. On July 10, 2000, I was reading it while my family sat in Atlanta traffic on our way to Turner Field for the home run derby. I had reached a chapter called “Riddles in the Dark.” We drove through a tunnel, one of those places where the interstate runs under a major street like Jimmy Carter Boulevard, and I was hooked. I had enjoyed The Hobbit up to this point but now I loved it, and knew I would read the rest and move straight on to The Lord of the Rings as soon as I could. I’ve never looked back and that love and excitement has never flagged or diminished.

That’s the power of a good story told by a great artist. In Chesterton’s words, Tolkien became for me the “center” of a “flaming imagination.” That imagination has remained aflame for twenty-three years because Tolkien not only told a good story, which plenty of people can do, but because his work is rich and deep and loving and, most of all, true enough to return to again and again for more. No burglar can diminish this hoard by even a cup.

I’ve used the word “fortuitous” twice in this reflection despite knowing that Tolkien would not himself think of it that way. Rightly so. Tolkien believed in Providence and it is largely through his example that I can grasp and trust in that idea. So when I do think of those coincidences, the circumstances and strong confluences and old friendships that kindled and kept my love for Tolkien burning, I hear Gandalf’s closing admonition to Bilbo: “You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit?”

No, I don’t. Thank goodness.

JRR Tolkien, artist, scholar, elf-friend, and faithful servant of God, from whom all creativity descends, RIP.

More if you’re interested

Milbank’s essay at The Critic is excellent—one of the best recent pieces on Tolkien that I’ve read. Check out the whole thing here. For more on the religious and philosophical underpinnings of Tolkien’s world, all worked out organically through his storytelling rather than imposed as a moral, read Peter Kreeft’s The Philosophy of Tolkien. I’ve written about Tolkien here many times before—just click the Tolkien tag below for more—but in the early days of this blog I reviewed a delightful and beautifully illustrated children’s book called John Ronald’s Dragons that I want to recommend here again.

A quick personal update

Books and Bede—a favorite gift from my wife and kids

The hot but unhurried days of the summer gave way, right at the beginning of this month, to the haste and chaos of preparation for the fall semester. In my case, I am preparing for three fall semesters, as I have picked up adjunct classes at two other colleges in addition to my full-time teaching. Just keeping deadlines straight will be an adventure.

The reason for all of this is a happy one that I’m not sure I’ve directly addressed here—my wife and I are expecting twins, our fourth and fifth children. I’ve taken on this extra work for the time she will be out following their birth. These adjunct courses were mercifully easy to find. One was even offered to me sight unseen thanks to a recommendation from a colleague. How often now does someone need work and have it dropped into his lap like that? We are blessed and have had a lot of cause this summer to reflect on God’s provision—in time, in work, in material needs—for these babies and for us.

That said, when exactly the twins will arrive is up in the air. Were they to go full-term they would arrive three weeks into September, but my wife’s OB doesn’t let twins go past 38 weeks. So we were looking toward the second weekend in September. Now, though, the doctor may decide to induce around 37 weeks, bumping the twins’ arrival another week nearer. There is also the possibility—just a possibility, but a possibility that has a startling way of focusing one’s attention—that they may induced this week, depending on how my wife’s checkups go. She spent last night at the hospital under observation, a common enough occurrence for women at this stage of expecting twins but still a reminder of how near we are. Fortunately all signs were good and she’ll be released this morning.

And of course the babies could do their own thing and come at any time now, something we’ve been working to prepare for for the last couple weeks. We have a “go bag” in the back of the van, waiting.

All of which is to say that my writing here, already spotty since the end of the summer session, may be more sporadic in the coming weeks. I may not, for instance, have the time or stamina to complete a summer reading list. Then again, being able to work on something one paragraph at a time might be just the thing. There’s no way to tell at this point. But I hope y’all will keep checking in and stay in touch, and most of all that y’all will celebrate with us.

In the meantime, here’s a short reflection on birth and life inspired by an offhand metaphor in Beowulf that I wrote following the birth of our third child four years ago. Please check that out.

A visit to Tulum

 
He thought too much fuss was made over all this ancient masonry. . . . It was all a great bore to him, the Maya business, except for the tourist aspect. It gave people the wrong idea about Mexico. Blinking lizards on broken walls.
— from Gringos, by Charles Portis
 

Last week, as part of a family trip to Mexico, I got the chance to visit my first Mayan city—the Yucatec town of Tulum. Having never been to this part of the world and having only studied it cursorily, I looked forward to an opportunity to learn a little more directly, on the ground. It was a great experience.

Tulum stands on rocky cliffs overlooking the sea on the Caribbean coast of the Yucatán Peninsula, about a third of the way between Cancun to the north and Belize to the south. The Mesoamerican Barrier Reef, which stretches from north of Cancun to Honduras, lies just offshore. A natural gap in the reef created by the undersea outlet of a freshwater underground river that flows into the ocean below the city played an important role in the siting of the city sometime around 800 years ago. Possibly more.

In the broader context of Mayan history, Tulum is a late post-classical city. The classical era—the one most people imagine, however vaguely, when they hear the word Maya—lasted about seven centuries, from c. AD 250-950. The post-classical period saw the diminution in size, population, influence, and order of the great classical city-states. Some were abandoned outright. Tulum was founded and flourished.

The playa at Tulum, now closed to the public as its shelter and ready supply of sargassum (the reddish brown seaweed visible along the shoreline) make it an excellent nesting site for sea turtles

Tulum is unusual in two respects. First, it sits on the coast, as a port. Though historians and archaeologists are discovering or recovering more and more about travel, communication, and trade throughout the Maya world, port cities are uncommon. That gap in the reef is the key. By aligning the city with the gap, Tulum allowed for the easy entry and exit of the large canoes used for trade up and down the Yucatán coast. A sheltered beach below a notch in the cliffs provided a natural dockyard. Further, the central political and religious complex of the city and its most important monumental building, the Castillo, were oriented to the gap in the reef. Not coincidentally, this the same direction in which the sun rises.

Second, Tulum is small. The city’s walls, greatly diminished but still impressive, enclose and protect a space 400 meters wide and 200 deep. Our guide, Pedro, estimated a population of 2,000, predominantly the city elite and traders, who lived in luxurious stone houses within the city walls. A larger population of farmers and slaves lived outside, growing the food.

So Tulum is no Chichén Itzá, perhaps the most famous late classical city, or the much earlier Tikal, but it has a unique history and its ruins are still impressive. Several houses, including two called the “palace” and “great palace” by archaeologists, have been excavated and partially reconstructed, but the centerpieces are the walls and the temple complex. Two smaller temples, the Temple of the Wind God and the Descending God Temple, sit atop the cliffs bracketing Tulum’s sheltered beach. The latter, presumably dedicated to a solar deity, has doorways aligning with the sunrise on the summer and winter equinoxes. On those days, dawn light shines straight through and clear across the city, striking a large stone in the outer walls.

Temple of the Descending God, visible upside down above the opening at the top of the stairs

But dominating the city is the Castillo, so named later, after the city’s abandonment, but in fact a combination temple and lighthouse. Canoes seeking to pass through the reef could aim for the Castillo. According to Pedro, fires were kept burning to help navigators aiming for the port.

The “great palace” in the foreground and the Castillo beyond

It also provided a stage for human sacrifice. Pedro proved refreshingly straightforward about this, indulging neither romantic notions that the victims offered were idealistic volunteers (something I’ve heard, absurdly, about the occasional victims of Viking human sacrifice, but never about the Maya) nor trying to diminish or explain away the practice. These were human sacrifices. Those offered were other Maya, captured in the ongoing internecine warfare characteristic of the ununified, warlike Maya world, and the offerings were meant to ensure good harvests, success in war, prosperity and stability for the city and all of its inhabitants.

That fact gives this sunny spot by the ocean, cooled by continuous breezes rushing in over the reef, an ominous aspect not unlike the Colosseum or some other ancient site of bloodshed. The intimacy, the smallness of the setting only strengthens this impression. Gladiator notwithstanding, it’s hard to visit the Colosseum and imagine it full of people celebrating bloodsport. At Tulum, it is easy to fill the avenues and plazas with people and visualize them staring up at the priests and doomed offerings. It’s easy because on the morning we visited, Tulum was full of people, and it is hard not to look up at the temple. Reverence comes naturally in a place like this.

The Castillo looms above the central plaza, the palace in the foreground, and dominates even the Temple of the Descending God at left

This in no way diminishes Tulum. It’s just a fact of the place, and Pedro treated it as such, explaining things gently but firmly. This is history—accept and understand it. I appreciated that approach.

The face of a god on the facade of the great palace, with yellow, red, and black paint still decorating the eye and nose

The human sacrifice and the dedication to astronomy that I’ve already mentioned are perhaps the two most famous aspects of Maya culture, but do not come close to expressing all of it. In addition to telling us about trade, the observation of the stars and the careful orientation and construction of Tulum’s monumental buildings, Pedro described the art and decoration of the city. Rather than bare stone, Tulum in its heyday was brightly painted with a variety of colors derived from natural pigments. The dominant color scheme was a bright turquoise, though reds, blacks, yellows, and other colors were used for murals or to accent sculpture.

On “the great palace,” in addition to the faces of gods sculpted in larger-than-life size into the masonry at the four corners of the building and reliefs of other gods—including the Descending God and a squatting goddess of birth and fertility—ritual scenes were painted inside. The paintings were still visible through the columns supporting the upper level. The faces of the gods still bore traces of yellow and red paint, and red handprints—artists’ signatures? marks of prayer? pure decoration?—showed plainly all over the building.

Tulum, as Pedro explained, was seen and described but never conquered by the Spaniards. It was abandoned in the 1540s. The pressures of war, overpopulation, and crop failure led the people of Tulum to pull up stakes and leave. And where did they go? Yet another unexplained aspect of the mysterious Maya?

That reputation, after all, has drawn people to ruins like Tulum from all over the world for the better part of a century. Charles Portis’s final novel Gringos, which I reread during the trip, is in no small part about the cranks and oddballs who all wind up in the Yucatán hoping to get something out of the Maya. The allure of the mysterious and the uncanny. But here Pedro was excellent as well. The city was abandoned, yes, later to be claimed by the jungle and rediscovered by European travelers exploring rumors of lost cities, but the people did not disappear. More than twenty Mayan languages are still spoken in Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, and Honduras.

There was much more I could describe and much more detailed information imparted by Pedro and the bilingual signage around the city, but I want to encourage y’all to visit for yourselves if you can. I came away with a strong impression of the strength and vibrancy, the ingenuity and ceremony, the good and the bad of a civilization even in its period of decline and of Tulum’s unique place in the broader Maya world. And visiting in person—seeing the centuries-old handprints on the great palace, staring up at the site of a long ago bloodstained altar, feeling the relief from the tropical heat borne from the sea by the wind—gave me a flesh-and-blood appreciation for the history I’ve previously only read about.

If you’re going to visit Tulum, let me corroborate a few things that a travel agent will probably tell you:

  • Dress comfortably and coolly, even if you’re visiting in the late winter, like we did.

  • Wear a broad-brimmed hat, and make sure it fits well. The closer you get to the cliffs the more likely it will be blown off.

  • Bring bottled water, and plenty of it.

  • Bring sunglasses and sunscreen.

  • Bring bug spray. We came well-equipped in this regard but had no trouble with insects whatsoever. But it can’t hurt to be prepared.

And a final, personal and historical bit of advice: behave yourself. Much of the ruins of Tulum are roped off and closed to the public—with armed federales at the entrance and local police hanging around, watching—because of vandalism. Per Mark Twain, “There have always been ruins, no doubt; and there have always been pensive people to sigh over them, and asses to scratch upon them their names and the important date of their visit.” Always have been, perhaps, but it doesn’t have to be you.

My wife and I have been back in the States for a week and have enjoyed going over our experiences on the trip, especially our visit to Tulum. I hope this rare travelogue will entice y’all to visit, too. In the meantime, I’ll conclude with a gallery of a few other photos from our visit.

Five years of blogging

Today marks the fifth anniversary of this blog. Five years—half a decade—does not amount to much in the end, but this website and blog began in a time that now feels utterly remote to me. I had just started a new job, my first full-time teaching position, and was getting used to a commute I could now do in my sleep. Sarah and I only had two kids, one only a few months old. We weren’t quite aware of it just yet, but we were outgrowing our apartment. And the year before, I had self-published my first novel and a novella I had whipped up in two weeks. There was kind enthusiasm among friends but few sales.

I created this website to coincide with and, hopefully, help promote the release of Dark Full of Enemies, a novel which had itself lain dormant for almost five years, from its completion just before Sarah and I got married until that winter of 2017. I had written but not yet finished revising Griswoldville, and I hoped a website would help with that project, too.

It may surprise y’all, now, but I almost deleted the blog option when I first started building this site. I had even scoffed when I saw it on the default version of the template. Thanks, but no thanks, had been my attitude. I don’t want to get fired for something I write there. And who reads blogs, anyway?

But I hesitated. I had run a blog in college, one of those free blogging sites that one now only encounters in the dirty alleys and out-of-the-way park benches of Google searches, and I had found it great fun. This remembrance also brought to mind the diary I had kept for four or five years, daily from January of 2008 through most of grad school, then sporadically, catching up when I missed days here and there, and finally sputtering out sometime in the years between grad school and marriage.

What that Blogspot page and the diary had in common, though, that made me hesitate to write off blogging on this new site, was practice—both in the sense of training and in the Alasdair MacIntyre sense of a life-shaping routine. A regularly maintained blog is good practice.

When I had kept that blog during and just after college, I had also produced one almost complete World War II novel as well as the manuscript that became No Snakes in Iceland. When I had kept that diary, I had also finished No Snakes in Iceland, put it through its first rounds of readers and revisions, and written the rough draft of Dark Full of Enemies. Habitually writing something, I decided, would prepare me for the day I need to write the important thing.

And so here I am.

I have no regular schedule and no real plan. I just know that I need to write here occasionally, often enough to keep limber, the same way I need exercise. (More than ever, in fact.) Five or six posts a month feels, to me, like I’m staying on track. And I have no set topic. This blog, to borrow a concept from Alan Jacobs, whose blog I regularly read, is a commonplace book, and so whatever catches my eye, interests me, irritates me, makes me stop to think, or that I enjoy and want to tell others about may wind up here.

So now, half a decade after launching this blog, my wife and I have three kids, we live in a house in a slightly more country part of a crowded county, I have published two more novels and yet another is going through the usual cycles of hibernation, reading, and revision—and I have hundreds of posts here. (I have the specific number written down in my office at school, and am now on Christmas break. Excellent foresight.) These have been fun to write—good practice, just as I’d hoped, as well as a place to ruminate and occasionally just vent—and have connected me to some good people whom I might never have “met” otherwise. I am deeply grateful.

A few statistical giblets for those of y’all who are interested:

Traffic to my site, most of which goes to the blog, has steadily increased every year since I started. In 2019, with two years to get established, the site got over 6,700 distinct visits. In 2020 that nearly doubled to over 12,500. In 2021 it doubled again: 25,390. And already this year, with a couple weeks to go, it’s received 36,000. Pageviews are even higher, though I am no web analytics expert and can’t tell you much of what this signifies. Now all I need to do is turn this traffic into book sales!

At any rate, the website and blog have served their purpose: I am getting practice, and people are reading and, occasionally, seeking out and buying my books. And I’m most thankful for that.

Again, I’m thankful for those of y’all who regularly read what I post here, especially considering what an idiosyncratic jumble of topics it must seem to be, and thanks most of all to those who have reached out over the years. Hearing from y’all has been an encouragement, a fun source of conversation, and it has made me a better writer. Just last week one of y’all caught a glaring error in my post about run-on sentences, which I was able to fix—or at least slap a Band-Aid on.

I’m looking forward, God willing, to five more years of writing practice here! Thank y’all for being here, and thanks, as always, for reading.

Old men shall dream dreams

Jacob’s Dream, by Jusepe de Ribera (1639)

Final exams have ended, final grades are in, and summer graduation was yesterday—a fast and busy capstone on a fast and busy semester.

Coincidental to completing and sharing my post on John Gardner’s “vivid and continuous fictional dream” last week, John Wilson had an interesting reflection on dreams and dreaming at First Things. He writes that, like me, he has had a peculiar “fascination” with dreaming since childhood and that, like me, on first encountering Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams he “digested his interpretations of dreams, and pronounced him ridiculous, a judgment I was never required to modify.” Hear hear.

What most interested me was the way Wilson, who is about twice my age, meditated on the way his dreaming has changed with the accumulation of years: he and his wife Wendy seem to dream as much as we always have, so far as we can tell, but—as I reported—the quality of our dreaming is markedly inferior.”

And what are they like? He offers “a few mostly firsthand reports”:

It’s interesting that in my dreams, I am never old (nor am I very young). I honestly can’t remember even a single exception. Rather, I am an indeterminate age, neither “old” (as I am now in truth) nor “young” (as I once was). Wendy [Wilson’s wife] says much the same, though now and then she has a dream in which she is a girl. My dreams now tend to be much more fragmentary, less “well-shaped,” than they used to be; often I can hardly remember them when I wake up, whereas in the past I could often remember them in some detail. I do not have as many truly “good” dreams as I used to, but blessedly they do come now and then, leaving a sense of great felicity and thankfulness.

There is more in this fun, thoughtful reflection (fun and thoughtful are the chief characteristics of most of Wilson’s writing, an admirable combination), and you should definitely read it. Having so recently written about the writer’s quest to create, to craft—with meticulous and exacting hard work—a fictional dream in the mind of the reader, Wilson’s piece turned me toward my own dreams. For whomever is interested (“we all know that sinking feeling when someone is about to recount a dream to us,” Wilson writes), I thought I’d work out a few firsthand reports of my own.

My own interest in dreams originates in personal experience. As long as I can remember, I have dreamed vividly and often, pretty much every night. I still remember a few from very early childhood quite palpably—probably because, like a good fictional dream, they included good sensory details to assure my mind that this is really happening.

Though I had nightmares often enough as a kid, I never experienced sleep terrors or sleepwalking, though my brother and sister did. I have also never experienced sleep paralysis and can only remember ever having one lucid dream.

Like Wilson, I’ve had a few dreams come true, though never any of consequence—though the accurately foretold death of my favorite goldfish hit pretty hard when I was ten.

Also: A song that used to play on our local Christian music station, late at night when I was trying to go to sleep (see below), paused between stanzas for a quotation from the Book of Acts: “And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” Your old men shall dream dreams, among the most poetically rich and eerie lines ever written, has stuck with me ever since.

While I’ve never been an outright insomniac, I have often struggled to sleep. Dreaming seldom helps. As I’ve aged, I’ve dreamt more and more; while I know it’s an illusion, it sometimes feels as though I’ve dreamt all night and I wake up exhausted.

I have occasionally thought of keeping a dream journal. I never have because it would be too time-consuming.

That feeling of exhaustion, of having worked at something all night, occurs irrespective of what happens in the dreams. I seldom have real nightmares. When I was a kid, an episode of “The Real Ghostbusters” inspired one recurring one, and I had a few in high school and college that involved moments of pure, horrifying epiphany, which ended in trying to release a scream for which I could never have mustered enough breath. The last time I remember a movie or book affecting my dreams was in college, when reading Flags of our Fathers for a historiography project made me dream that I was walking around campus with my right arm blown off. The nightmares I have nowadays are exclusively about failing to protect my children.

But more often, my “bad” dreams are either work, or getting some concept stuck in an endlessly repeating loop—like a conversation that keeps coming back to the same thing, like one bar of a tune or half a line of a pop sung stuck in the head. When Sarah asks how I slept after a night like this, I always call it “busy busy busy.” Other times I dream of catastrophic disruptions to our household: flooding, storm damage, black mold, ineradicable weeds (that is, weeds), and, in one particularly vivid dream, fire ants fountaining out of the floor of our master bedroom, streaming clean through the carpet. One thing that hasn’t changed in the form of my dreams is that horrifying moment of epiphany I described above.

Back to the struggle to sleep. Getting hot makes me dream. So does having to go to the bathroom. So does soft ambient light shining on my face. (Once during college the blanket I had hung over my bunk fell during the night, and I woke from bad dreams to the soft green glow of the power button of my roommate’s desktop, beaming onto my face like a searchlight in the dark.) It is a commonplace in my family that the phase of the moon affects our dreams. It used to be full moons that had the starkest effects, but now, nearing forty, I seems to be full moons and new moons and most of the phases in between. I’m less sure of its role, now, but a full moon is still a virtual guarantee of weird dreams.

Did I mention I didn’t sleep well last week?

Regarding form: My dreams are rarely long narratives. More often they are snapshot moments with the backstory somehow built into my consciousness of that moment. Often they affect me deeply, though not necessarily negatively, and take a while to dissipate when I wake. This is despite often staggering absurdity. I woke the other night dreaming that a self-checkout card machine had declined a purchase with the onscreen note “It appears you have no money left.” This was the night after payday, and I nevertheless spent a while tossing and turning, fighting the urge to check my balances on my phone.

But every once in a while I have a continuous dream, which doesn’t have a story so much as an improvisatory complexity, continuously and spasmodically uncoiling into new phases that seem in the moment to relate to each other but disintegrate like a sandcastle under the high tide of waking.

Another recent one: There was a noted haunted house on my campus (which wasn’t really my campus). I and a colleague, a presence as indeterminate and generic as Wilson’s age in his dreams, opened the trap door into the tunnel with the intention of investigating but had to go away for something. Here there was an interval explaining the history of this house as the model home for some kind of old development planned by a famous industrialist. When we returned, students were lounging around the trapdoor and had broken the rungs off the ladder leading down. I reamed them out—something I would never do in real life and that stressed me out in the dream. We entered, climbed up into the haunted house (haunted houses apparently not having front doors), and on a second-floor landing I started hand cranking a Victrola-like record player that emitted either 1) old music or 2) the voices of the dead. It wasn’t even clear during the dream.

And it went on from there. Absurd in toto, but moment by moment real and believable and important and absurd. This is where my nights mostly muddle along, in dreams of this quality, much of the night (or so it feels).

All of which has influenced my artistic sensibilities about dreaming. I have a “writing notes” post on crafting dreams in fiction (as opposed to Gardner’s fictional dream) that I’ve been fiddling with for a year or so. Realistic, effective dreams in fiction are short, hard-hitting, emotionally simple but thematically complex. Here’s one I believe 100%, from eight hundred years ago:

Living surrounded by splendor Krimhild dreamed a dream:
she had trained a falcon, glorious, strong-winged, fierce, and wild,
and a pair of eagles tore it apart in front of her eyes.
No pain, no sorrow in all the world could be worse than what she’d seen.

That’s from the very first “Adventure” or canto of the Nibelungenlied, and turns out to be prophetic. I believe and accept this dream totally, as I do some of Winston’s pained dreams of Julia in Nineteen Eighty-Four or Sheriff Bell’s dream at the end of No Country for Old Men. I do not believe or accept the long, complicated, coherent dreams, heavy on dialogue and obvious symbolism, of Robert Jordan’s Eye of the World.

Let me conclude with good dreams. Like Wilson, for me these are rarer and a real mercy when they come along, shining out in the middle of a crowd of busywork, annoyingly repetitive dreams, bad dreams, and a scattering of nightmares. They mostly have to do with home, or family. Contentment and relief are a recurring theme. Stillness is their motif. Here’s one for which I only changed the names and location (and century) before importing it into Griswoldville:

A dream worth recording last night: I was at home—both here and at the farm where I grew up, as is the manner of dreams—of an evening. I sat on the porch in the quiet watching the sunset and the younger children playing in the yard beside the shade tree, and was somehow aware of a get-together going on in the house. Eliza was there, and all our children, and James and Jefferson and Bit and their children, even Fayette. What is more, my mother and father were there, not as ghosts but as I recall them from my childhood, before the war, far younger than myself now—and finally my grandfather. After a time he came out of the house where the sound of cheer and fellowship was going on and joined me on the porch. We sat in the rockers Eliza and I used to rest in of an evening. It was, in the dream, not that strange that he should be there with us, these generations gathered from the quick and the dead of the better part of a century, but I nonetheless sat shamefaced for a time. For as long as I have missed him, as long as I have had to live without him, I could not now—with him here, with all the evening before us to converse and commiserate—find anything to say. Such, once or twice a decade ever since the war, have been my dreams of him. This one seemed no different, until at last he, seeming to know my thoughts, patted me on the shoulder with his warm earth-smelling hand and chuckled in his old raspy laugh, a sound I recall as if it were yesterday. My shame lifted in an instant.

The narrator, Georgie Wax, is an old man dreaming dreams. That’ll be me soon enough. I pray they are mostly good and restful ones.

If you overmastered that “sinking feeling” Wilson so aptly described and put up with me, the “tedious person” from my post on the fictive dream, thank you for reading. This won’t be my last reflection on dreams and dreaming. Perhaps soon I’ll dust off that note on crafting dreams in fiction.