Monthly Archives: October 2008

From the Inbox

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A reader writes:

On November 10th, The Institute for the Future of the Book kicks off an experiment in close reading. Seven women will read Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook and carry on a conversation in the margins. The idea for the project arose out of my experience re-reading the novel in the summer of 2007 just before Lessing won the Nobel Prize for literature. The Golden Notebook was one of the two or three most influential books of my youth and I decided I wanted to “try it on” again after so many years. It turned out to be one of the most interesting reading experiences of my life. With an interval of thirty-seven years the lens of perception was so different; things that stood out the first-time around were now of lesser importance, and entire themes I missed the first time came front and center. When I told my younger colleagues what I was reading, I was surprised that not one of them had read it, not even the ones with degrees in English literature. It occurred to me that it would be very interesting to eavesdrop on a conversation between two readers, one under thirty, one over fifty or sixty, in which they react to the book and to each other’s reactions. And then of course I realized that we now actually have the technology to do just that. Thanks to the efforts of Chris Meade, my colleague and director of if:book London, the Arts Council England enthusiastically and generously agreed to fund the project. Chris was also the link to Doris Lessing who through her publisher HarperCollins signed on with the rights to putting the entire text of the novel online.

Fundamentally this is an experiment in how the web might be used as a space for collaborative close-reading. We don’t yet understand how to model a complex conversation in the web’s two-dimensional environment and we’re hoping this experiment will help us learn what’s necessary to make this sort of collaboration work as well as possible. In addition to making comments in the margin, we expect that the readers will also record their reactions to the process in a group blog. In the public forum, everyone who is reading along and following the conversation can post their comments on the book and the process itself.

I’m writing you now with the hope that you will help spread the word to everyone who might be interested in following along and participating in the forum discussions.

p.s. One last note. This is not essentially an experiment in online reading itself. Although the online version of the text is quite readable, for now, we believe books made of paper still have a substantial advantage over the screen for sustained reading of a linear narrative. So you may also want to suggest to your readers that they order copies of the book now. Whichever edition of the book someone reads (US, UK or online), there is a navigation bar at the top of the online page will help locate them within the conversation.

The experiment is taking place at TheGoldenNotebook.org. I don’t know anything about the book, or about Doris Lessing, for that matter, except that one book of hers I read in college (A Briefing for a Descent into Hell) I seriously disliked. Your mileage may vary.

Fantastic Contraption

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One of the folks at the Tcl Conference mentioned a website called Fantastic Contraption, at which you build odd little machines intended to convey a package from here to there. It’s a physics game, and geometry, weight, and traction are all very important. After it was mentioned, it was not an uncommon sight to see attendees playing it on their laptops while the sessions were on-going.

My younger son, the 9-year-old engineer, has been rapt for the last hour.

15th Annual Tcl/Tk Conference

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I’m writing from the 15th Annual Tcl/Tk Conference, which is taking place in sunny Manassas, Virginia, where the current temperature is 51 degrees, dropping to the 30’s by morning. Perhaps I won’t go outside, much.

It looks to be an interesting conference this year; and though I haven’t seen Michael Cleverly, yet, I saw a nametag with his name on it at the registration desk. With luck, then, we’ll be able to continue our tradition of going out for pizza one night during the conference.

Auralia’s Colors, by Jeffrey Overstreet

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I’d been wanting to read this book for a while, as it has gotten good reviews at Happy Catholic, among other places. The subject matter (it’s a fantasy novel) is right up my street, and in addition, the author is a member in good standing of the Catholic blogosphere, which I’m inclined to support. I finally found a copy in a book store in Kansas City while I was on a business trip last week, and read it mostly on the plane on the way home.

Auralia’s Colors is the first book in a series; the second book, Cyndere’s Midnight, is already out. It takes place in a region known to its inhabitants as The Expanse. The people who live in The Expanse came there from the North at some point in the indefinite past, as refugees from…something. They gathered in four groups, and built four cities, which they call Houses. The Houses are greatly separated from one another, with vast tracts of uninhabited territory in between. There’s a certain amount of contact between them, but The Expanse is mostly unpeopled.

The present story takes place in and around House Abascar, a walled city in which all of the common folk have been forced to give up all colors other than grey and white and black and brown for the glory of the greedy Queen Jaralaine. Beastmen prowl the nearby forests, and so all law-abiding “Housefolk” live within the walls of House Abascar. Law-breakers are forced to live outside the walls as “Gatherers”, who must hunt animals and gather wild fruits and vegetables to feed the people of the house.

Into this world comes a baby girl, left on the bank of the river, a girl who cannot help seeing colors everywhere, and making fine things out of them. She is raised by the Gatherers, as all orphans are, but she grows wild and free, and soon enough comes into conflict with the soldiers of the King, and with his son, Prince Cal-Raven.

There’s a lot here to like; this isn’t your typical pseudo-medieval-European politics-and-intrigue-driven epic fantasy. The author is trying to say some interesting things about the nature of beauty, about settling for too little in the name of security, about being open to the glory of God. (Though, as a proper Christian fantasy in the tradition of Tolkien’s On Fairy Stories, the book isn’t overtly Christian at all.)

Still, my reaction was mixed. Before I say why, I need to make a disclaimer. My business trip last week was extremely productive and useful, but very draining: I was basically in over-drive for two days. Flying home, I was tired (more tired than I realized) and grumpy, and just trying to get through the flight. I found myself having to push myself through the book, rather than letting it carry me. This might have been the fault of the book; or it might simply have been the half-alert state I found myself in. I’m inclined to give Mr. Overstreet the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t really know. Anyway, on to more serious criticisms.

There are two ways to write fantasy, which I’ll call the realistic way, and the fabulous way. The Lord of the Rings is an example of the first, as is George R.R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones and its sequels. The world presented by the book is intended to be taken as real. Its laws may be different than those of our world, but it is meant to be internally consistent and as real to its inhabitants as ours is to us. Most of the fantasy novels I’ve read have been in this vein. The fabulous way is less often attempted, and seems to be much harder to do. Examples would include Tolkien’s own Smith of Wooton Major, and Lord Dunsany’s The King of Elfland’s Daughter. Books in this vein are not allegories, but everything in them is freighted with meaning, and with mystery. Everything in them seems to glow, as though the people and places and other creatures are merely stand-ins for something much bigger and grander that is always in danger of breaking through.

I suppose one could further break the fabulous into two subcategories, those in which that deeper, grander world is really there, and those in which it’s simply an illusion. Michael Moorcock, for example, is a master at linking his books together with references and allusions that create the impression of a much larger world, when it’s really all just sleight of hand. But I digress.

My main criticism of Auralia’s Colors is that it doesn’t quite succeed in either mode. It doesn’t succeed as a realistic fantasy: I simply can’t buy House Abascar as a going concern. Most of the people live within the walls, but all of the food, apparently, is produced by a small village of Gatherers. The level of technology seems way out of proportion to the size of the population consistent with this food supply. Queen Jaralaine travels with a small retinue to a distant House, and returns unnoticed by the Captain of the Guard; how? How did she get there? How did she get back? And how (given the walls) could it have gone unnoticed?

If the author was trying to write in the realistic mode, then he’ll have answers to all of these objections, I feel sure. Perhaps there are large gardens and fields within the walls, for example (though at least once Prince Cal-Raven indicates that their food comes from the Gatherers). But the cues that would have encouraged such a view are missing.

My conjecture, however, is that the author was pursuing the fabulous; his themes and plot and background almost require it. But his storytelling is too realistic to support this. To make the fabulous work (I am trying to express ideas I only dimly understand, here) you need a certain distance, a certain veil of formality, between the reader and the characters. In this regard, Auralia and the other characters are almost too vivid, too down-to-earth. They are too much themselves to be archetypes.

Or so it seems to me; your mileage may vary.

I was sufficiently intrigued (and, in spots, moved) that I plan to take a look at Cyndere’s Midnight; but I think Mr. Overstreet can do better.

Moral Obfuscation

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First thing this morning, The Deacon’s Bench called my attention to a distressing exercise in moral obfuscation.

The writer, a retired priest named Fr. Emmett Coyne (about whom I know nothing beyond what appears in his essay) takes Catholic bishops to task for their stand on moral issues. The core of his statement is that conscience trumps hierarchy, or, in other words, what I think is right and wrong is more important than what the Church says is right and wrong.

To a certain extent Fr. Coyne is correct. If my conscience tells me that something is wrong, I must not do it. However, it is also my responsibility as a Catholic to form my conscience, and the magisterial teachings of the Church are key here.

You can read the piece yourself; let me mention a couple of key points:

Bishops indeed have a task to teach and educate, but they cannot usurp the role of judge of another’s conscience. That is domain of God alone. Unfortunately, today, they are perceived as being the judge of others’ conscience, particularly as they have politicized the Eucharist. They are determining who has a right to receive or not. They have sadly undermined their role as teachers by selective unfairness. They are slow to deny Communion to politicians who favor capital punishment, support an immoral war, the inequity of income distribution, etc.

However, the Church does not teach that capital punishment is always wrong, and never has. The Church does not teach that war is always wrong, and never has. These are matters about which prudential judgements may be made, and, in fact, it is the State that is responsible for making them. Nor has the Church ever taught that income distribution must be “equitable”; rather that those who have more must help those who have less. On the other hand, the Church has always and everywhere taught that abortion is gravely wrong, intrinsically wrong. There are no prudential judgements here; it’s simply wrong. Though he doesn’t mention it, this is clearly what Coyne’s talking about, as it is only in this context that the Bishops have discussed who should and who shouldn’t receive Communion. Another misstatement: no Bishop I’m aware of has told anyone that they do not have the right to receive Communion–no one has the right to receive Communion. They have told certain public individuals that they ought not present themselves for Communion at the risk of their immortal souls.

All this said, political support for abortion certainly isn’t the only grave sin that should prevent one from receiving Communion without repentance and confession. I’m addressing Fr. Coyne’s argument, not the moral state of politicians, or anyone else, including Fr. Coyne.

The other point that really bugged me was this one:

The prayer a Catholic prays before receiving Communion is, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you.” But now a Catholic needs to pass judgment on having a well-formed conscience before proceeding to receive Communion (praying now, “Lord, I am worthy!”).

I begin to wonder what planet Fr. Coyne has been living on. It has always been a Catholic’s responsibility to make sure he is free of grave sin (by receiving the Sacrament of Confession, if necessary) before presenting himself to receive Communion. He is still not worthy, even then; the Eucharist is the “Good Gift” par excellence. None of us are ever worthy. But yes, indeed, it is a Catholic’s responsibility to attend to forming his conscience, and to be sure he is clear of grave sin. That’s what I was taught in Catechism class as a small boy, and it’s what I read in the Catechism now.

Examine your conscience. Ask forgiveness for your sins. Go to confession regularly, and more often if need be. And repent of grave sin, and do not present yourself for Communion until you have done so and been absolved. “Have mercy on me, God in your goodness.”