The Art of the Impossible

In a previous post, I wrote that I cannot read nonfiction. That was, of course, a somewhat facetious statement: I can read it, I do read it, but I wanted to make some observations about the mental requirements for reading fiction as well as the comparative powers of persusasion nonfiction has beside fiction.

Well, now I want to add some thoughts on nonfiction film -- or at least one specific nonfiction film. This is the documentary "MAN ON WIRE." This poignant, delicate, stirring little movie proved that when nonfiction is done like art, its affect is that of art.

"Man on Wire" is the vastly improbably true story of a quixotic French tightrope walker who plotted and schemed with several equally wacky friends to invade the newly-constructed World Trade Center, rig a circus cable, and dance his way back and forth in the haze above NYC. And he did it.

There are several reasons that this film is exquitely appealing. Some are mere personal quirks of my own; others are more universal.

First, the sheer bravado, chutzpah, and talent required to pull off such a mad stunt amazes me. I'm easily wowed by quirky, random skills taken to the extreme. Plus, my body goes wild with the shakes when it mounts to even a moderate height off the ground (when not supported by an airplane!), so my awe was increased as Philippe tackled higher and higher obstacles.

Second, I am turned on by lovely French accents and Gallic turns-of-phrase. The lilting voices, the goofy expressions, all delighted me. The story was that much better told in and out of French and English thick with "frog"!

Third, the filming was fascinating. Maybe not extremely slick, but full of odd angles, intriguing shadows, and so on [I should have a limited number of adjectives I'm allowed to use per post]. There was a scene in which the plotters had to hide from a night watchman in the top of one of the WTC towers, and it was all shot in sillhouette. The music was fun, the pacing perfect. It just tickled me pink!

Fourth, as I'm sure you guessed, the whole unstated irony of a non-terroist "attack" or "invasion" on the World Trade Center. The ineptitude of security would have been funny, were it not for recent history. Although I laughed through most of the film, there was a quiet sadness underneath.

And this, of course, leads into the last charm of the movie: the poignancy of the fact that it can never be done again. Nobody, of course, would do exactly that mad crazy stunt again -- but if they so desired, it can never be done. The towers are gone.

Lost Generation

A friend shared this video poem with me. Watch it and be surprised as the form of the poem emerges.

March Poem of the Month

I have recently been working on a series of "persona" poems, in which I take on the identity of some real, fictional, or archetypal character and speak in his or her voice. What's fascinating about this is how I can comment on my own inner workings or on those of my friends, family, and acquaintances, while also revealing or discribing universal psycho-spiritual truths. This was written for a friend who is in an agnostic phase. Enjoy.

In Persona II: Wotan Wonders if there is a God

If I took off this eye patch, maybe I wouldn’t be blind.
Maybe I would see myself, reflected in the pools of Erda.
If only I could remember I am a god—or else a son of God—
perhaps the clouds would open and I would understand.
If I dropped this twisted walking stick, maybe I could stand.

I could thunder and rage at the tall empty sky—
as that frog-faced Alberich blasphemes me,
paddling his webbed-footed fingers in puddles of earth,
dabbling in divinity—what does he know (but do I?)—
Beneath this intentional eye patch, maybe I am not blind.

From the altitude of Valhalla, I suspect the rarity of air
is a function of some vast expanse where I should be,
where a perfection dwells; but down here, wandering,
I shake my thunder-fist and howl dirty songs against the sun.
I cannot remember I am a god—or else a son of God.

I am a wonder, I know: the music made around me,
the glories of my face, the strong amazement of the body
that I wear among mortals; and I should pose tall
and pull the spear-deep wisdom from the world ash tree:
If I stopped leaning on a walking stick, maybe I could stand.

Your love is better than gold, more beautiful than magic golden rings,
I thought I told her: but she grew invisible and maybe turned away—
so I wander, wondering, imagining my fits of rage
do not shake the stars, do not wake dragons. I could blame
the eye patch, say that without it maybe I wouldn’t be blind.

I could learn from reading, writing: books of wisdom,
books of nature; facts that I should know, and do know
in the core of me. But in my handsome earth-suit I prefer
the alias of espionage, of unrequital, victimized agnosticized
skeptical despair. Remember, I am a god—or else a son of God—

a subcreator of my introspective self. I forge my right
to see peripherally or not at all; to understand
or miscomprehend; to fight the dragon or to walk away.
How many miles have I traveled, crawling, among men?
If I dropped this twisted walking stick, maybe I could stand

to listen to the answers:
Is invisibility necessary for ignorance?
Is infatuation the same as incarnation?
Is immortality the opposite of immolation?
Is identity a sole conception, or the soul’s receptacle?
If only I could remember I am not blind,
I could stand being a son of God.


--Sørina

Why I Cannot Read Non-Fiction

I am exaggerating a little in the title. I can and do read non-fiction; more now than ever. I regularly read bits and pieces of literary criticism, history, biography, apologetics, and so on, but I rarely read a work of non-fiction straight through for fun. I generally treat it as reference materials. Recently I've been trying to be more intentional about reading non-fiction works cover-to-cover. Too many years of my life have gone by for me to remain ignorant in many categories! But one of the main motivating factors has been reading Louisa's book. And this leads me to the first way that I "can't read non-fiction":

1. My brain has atrophied
So, I'm trying to read Louisa's brillant, challenging book, and I find that too much novel-reading has weakened my brain cells. When I was in graduate school, I was more used to applying mental power to understand, classify, and apply difficult writing. But now I'm used to reading only what high schoolers read, plus pleasure reading! So I need to get my brain back in shape.

But that's not the serious problem. That's my own fault, and [more or less] easily remedied by some good brain-application. The more serious difficulty is:

2. Works of non-fiction convince me of the opposite of what they are attempting to prove.
Yes. You see, I am such an in-grained skeptic that I naturally argue with writers. I search for the holes in the arguments, look for alternative interpretations, and consider what might be written to prove the exact opposite. I recently read Between Heaven and Hell by Peter Kreeft; a delightful little Socratic dialogue with C. S. Lewis trouncing the weak atheistic and humanistic arguments of [caricatures of] Aldous Huxley and J. F. Kennedy. It's a cute book, but it has some problems. First of all, Lewis made the arguments better in the first place. Second, JFK and Huxley are really just straw men, not themselves nor even well-rounded 3-D characters at all. Third, the "inescapable logic" that Lewis used to "prove" incontrovertibly that Jesus is God really didn't feel incontrovertible. I'm not a good enough logician to really say what's wrong with the logic, but here's how it felt to me. It felt as if each syllogism, each step of the argument, was correct, but that the sudden conclusions had somehow skipped a point. To me, the point is the "leap of faith" -- Kierkegaard's subjectivity as truth -- but Kreeft never mentioned that. So his wonderful work of great apologetics left me feeling funny and doubtful inside. I'd rather read a great work of spiritual fantasy and sense God's presence in nature, imagination, and art than read a work that "proves" His existence yet leaves me feeling far away from Him.

And it's not just spiritual "non-fiction" that has this effect. I'm also reading The Language of God by Francis Collins. OK, I guess that's spiritual, but the main points are scientific. It's supposed to be proving that evolution is completely consistent with Biblical Christianity. I approached the book ready and willing to be convinced. But the more I read his impassioned descriptions of how Darwinian evolution is proven fact, and beautiful fact, and Biblical fact, the more I feel the whole thing is complete nonsense!

I wonder why this is? Am I just an inveterate skeptic, or is there actually some truth to the idea that FACT CANNOT SURVIVE WITHOUT THE CONSENT OF THE IMAGINATION? Let me know what you think.

God’s Design: The Arts as a Way of Being Human, Learning Truth, and Doing Justice

My article in the Spring 2008 issue of Direction Journal is now available online: God’s Design: The Arts as a Way of Being Human, Learning Truth, and Doing Justice.

Vindicated

Do you remember how upset I was at the Prince Caspian film? Well, take a look at the article below, which I have reprinted from The C. S. Lewis society of California's email newsletter "Logos: The C.S. Lewis Society Update" (January 2009). See what happens when you mess with C. S. Lewis?


Disney Pulls Out of Narnia Films, but Walden Media Remains Committed:

Numerous articles have recently appeared announcing the decision announced on Christmas Eve by Walt Disney Pictures not to co-finance The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the third of the films based on C.S. Lewis's beloved, 7-volume book series, The Chronicles of Narnia. Disney officials point to "budget considerations" during the economic downturn and poorer performance of the film version of Prince Caspian. In this regard, the first film, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, received $745 million internationally at the box office, while Prince Caspian received $419 million. However, some of this decline resulted from a weak and mangled script by director Andrew Adamson, who refused to embrace the full story and theme of the book, as Yahoo! Movies notes in its review:

"As a result, the movie edits out or severely compromises much of the real character development and interesting story lines in the original story and replaces them with Hollywood’s usual bag of tricks: gratuitous amounts of violence, overtly sentimental moments that fail to resonate, and romance that in this case seems disturbingly like mental statutory rape."

In addition, as NewsMax reports:

"Unlike the first 'Narnia' which had a holiday release, the sequel came out in the spring, and it was up against superhero summer fare like 'Iron Man' and 'Indiana Jones.' Disney tried to market it as an action flick, with limited success. Thankfully, Walden remains committed to C.S. Lewis’ remaining books."

Furthermore, Disney flatly refused to have any pre-screenings of Prince Caspian and would not pursue any special marketing of the film to churches and other Christian markets. In direct contrast, for the first film an extensive and highly effective marketing campaign directed by Motive Entertainment (the marketing experts from Passion of the Christ fame) produced an enormous response from Christian movie goers. Disney however presented Prince Caspian as a strictly secular and violent, fantasy/adventure/romance, and the result was all too predictable.

Meanwhile, interest in the Narniad book series and Lewis's work overall continues to grow unabated among the public worldwide. And here in her January 1st column entitled "A 'Chronicles of Narnia' voyage Disney should take," Los Angeles Times critic Mary McNamara gives Disney a well-deserved scolding for being so short-sighted. The most likely new partner for Walden Media is Fox, which already markets and distributes Walden films using the Fox Walden banner.

The end of the world is near!

Well, maybe not. The end of 2008 is near, but that's not what I'm thinking about, either.

Earlier this school year, several students began a conversation about eschatology and/or the Apocalypse. We talked about the antichrist, various approaches to prophecy, and other end-times topics. While the conversation was brief, it did spark a thought in my mind I've been hoping to pursue. So here it is, with some background thoughts first.

Whenever I read an absolutely unforgettable book -- whenever a work of literature gives me that feeling Emily Dickinson described thus:

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

-- whenever I read a work like that, I say (whether it's Dante, Shakespeare, George MacDonald, Ayn Rand; or Wordsworth, Edna St. Vincent Millay; or the young adult fantasy novels of J. K. Rowling and Christopher Paolini; Ray Bradbury's short stories; rare moments in Freud or Jung; or, just this morning, "Mirror" by Sylvia Plath --

here's what I think. I think, "This author has touched on ultimate human realities." These books that move me profoundly are always "about" (such a weak word, about) love, life, death, birth, bodies, souls and so on, and these great realities are set into some stark relief so that they are sharper, colder, brighter, and more inescapable than they usually are in daily thought. "The Small Assassin" by Ray Bradbury, for example (in the short story collection The October Country), takes our deeply hidden sense of strangeness (or alienation) from birth and babies and uses it as a source of horrific terror. Pincher Martin by William Golding does something similar with the human body; alienating the character from his own material existence in a terrifying way. The great modern epics -- Lord of the Rings, Narnia taken as a whole, Star Wars, Harry Potter, the Matrix -- face death with stark, vivid power.

Great works of literature often deal with the cosmic moments in human history. Narnia and Paradise Lost with creation; Dante's Comedy with Heaven and Hell. So I got to thinking about the end of the world and how it figures in literature. And I couldn't come up with many examples of books set at the end of the world. I recall the nauseating, nihilistic Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. The Last Man by Mary Shelley recounts the life and death of the last human being (oo, couldn't have guessed that ending, could you!?), but not the end of the planet earth. CSL's The Great Divorce tells about the final choice of heaven or hell, but not the Apocalypse. There's Wagner's Ring Cycle, of course (a true Gesamptkunstwerk)--which really is the death of the gods and the beginning of a new existence for humankind, not the end of the world for humans. Similarly, there's the death of "god" in Philip Pullman's trilogy. There's (sort of) the Paradiso -- although Dante returns to earth at the end.

I found a list of "Christian Apocalyptic Novels" on amazon: besides Jerry Jenkins and Tim LaHaye, the only books were a zombie novel by A.P. Fuchs, two novels by John Hagee, and a political thrillers series by Joel C. Rosenberg. They're not exactly on the same footing as Dante, eh?

Here's another list of end-times literature at wikipedia.

What I'm really saying is that I'm surprised there isn't more End-of-the-World literature -- or at least that I haven't come across it. Most fantasies, science fiction adventures, and action films involve some sort of heroic averting of the end of the world; but not many authors, contemporary or classic, seem willing to tackle the end of human, earthly existence. Is it for lack of imaginative ability to depict heaven? What do you think?