Author Archives: wjduquette

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About wjduquette

Author, software engineer, and Lay Dominican.

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.”

Heresy Doesn’t Develop

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Here’s a nifty post from a blog I’d not seen before, Army of Martyrs.

It’s a commonplace of Roman Catholic theology that doctrine develops: that as time goes by and questions arise, new doctrines arise that answer the questions while remaining consistent with what was known before. Sometimes development is simply drawing out the implications of what is stated explicitly in Scripture; other times, it’s more like discovering that Newtonian physics is a special, approximate case of Einsteinian physics: there’s more going on than we realized. But either way, developed doctrine cannot contradict what went before.

The blogger at Army of Martyrs points out that heresy does not develop in the same way: being error, you can’t build a large structure on it that will stand of its own. Interesting thought.

The Ethics of September 11th

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One statement of ethics I used to hear all the time is “If it feels good, do it!” I haven’t heard it recently, but I think that’s because our culture has internalized it so thoroughly that it goes without saying. I mention it because it highlights a basic principle of the human will: in any action a person takes, he is pursuing an end that seems good to him. And, ultimately, there must be some real good there. We do evil by pursuing some good in the wrong way, or at the wrong time, or in the wrong state, or out of due proportion. It’s not wrong to have enough money to live comfortably; but it’s wrong to steal it. It’s not wrong to have sex; but it’s wrong to have sex outside of marriage. It’s not wrong to eat ice cream; but it’s wrong to binge on it. It’s not wrong to talk; but it’s wrong to gossip. It’s not wrong to play poker on-line; but it’s wrong to do it on company time, or with the rent check. It’s wrong…but it seems good to us, it feels good, and we do it. And there’s just enough genuine goodness there that we can fool ourselves into thinking that it’s OK, despite the protests of our conscience.

Sin makes you stupid, as Mark Shea would say, and I often think that our sense of due proportion is the first thing to go. And the more the conscience is ignored, the more it is deadened, and the more it is deadened, the less a sense of due proportion we have.

So the men who flew the planes into the Twin Towers were pursuing an end that seemed good to them. Ultimately, there is some real good they were after, though I won’t presume to say what it was. But they had persuaded themselves that that tiny spark of true worth outweighed the enormous villainy of their means.

It felt good to them, and they did it.

How deeply wrong they were.

The Sunrise Lands, by S.M. Stirling

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The Sunrise Lands is the latest (paperback) release in Stirling’s series about “The Change”. Short synopsis, for those who came in late: one day, all high technology, from steam engines and gunpowder on up, simply ceases to work. Civilization collapses. There are mass die-offs, and all manner of horrible things. New societies begin to coalesce, and fight for survival against nature and against each other.

At the end of the previous novel, A Meeting at Corvallis, relative peace has settled in the Pacific Northwest, and our heroes (those that survived) get to take a break. Twelve years pass. The son of Juniper MacKenzie, Rudi MacKenzie, is now a grown man, and the tanist of Clan MacKenzie. His blood sister, Mathilda Arminger, remains princess and heir to the throne of the Portland Protective Association. The various states that formed in the previous three books are generally prosperous. And weird things are beginning to happen….

In short, this is the book in which we begin to get an idea–no, that’s way too strong–this is the book in which we begin to get hints about why the Change occurred…and possibly, just possibly, begin to see those who caused the Change begin to make their presence known. I won’t say more than that.

I have mixed feelings about this book. It’s very clearly the first book in a set (of three, I presume) and so there’s lots of set-up and very little payoff. A lot happens, but there’s little suspense; the plot meanders forward, but it doesn’t really build to a climax.

On the other hand, it’s a pleasant enough ride; and there’s a lot about it to like. Stirling’s post-apocalyptic world is an interesting one, and the characters are fun. And given that it is the first book in a set, and given Stirling’s past performance, I’m more than willing to cut him some slack.

I have to say, I really like the treatment of religion in this book, which is amazingly realistic. From most books written from a more or less American viewpoint, you’d think that deeply religious people are either fruitcakes or hypocrites. In this book, we have realistic people whose religion is simply part of their lives. Some, naturally, are more devout than others, but most have some form of religious practice–just as most Americans do. More than that, Stirling plays fair. He has done his homework. This book is chock full of serious Roman Catholics who act, speak, and pray like serious Roman Catholics, including one of the principles, Mathilda Arminger.

Of course there are also a great many not-terribly-serious Catholics, especially when it comes to sexual sin; but I can’t argue that that’s unrealistic either.

I do have a qualm, and a complaint. The qualm is that while Catholicism is presented realistically, the “Old Religion” is presented as true, that is, true in the context of the world Stirling is building. (I don’t mean to imply that Stirling is a neo-pagan; so far as I know, he’s a somewhat lapsed Episcopalian, or was.) Of course, it’s possible that the scenes in which the pagan gods appear to take a hand are evidence of something else….

I didn’t expect anything different, though. So that’s a minor quibble. The complaint is about a brief mention of the Dominican order. In earlier volumes, the Lord Protector of Portland has set up his own version of the Catholic Church, with a nutcase as “pope”, and his own version of the Inquisition. Now, twelve years later, the “Church” in Portland has come back into communion with the Church of Rome under Pope Benedict’s successor, Pius XXIII and the Inquisition has been abolished…and it’s said that some of the Dominicans mourn its passing. Now, whatever might be said about the Inquisition as it really was (and the Pope has formally apologized for its excesses), the Inquisition in Portland in Stirling’s books is a wholly evil endeavour, and one that the Dominicans I’ve met (mostly on-line) would have had nothing to do with, much less look back with fondness on. But it was a passing moment, no more.

Orphans of Chaos, by John C. Wright

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It just occurred to me that I haven’t written about John C. Wright’s “Chronicles of Chaos” trilogy, which I read over the summer and quite thoroughly enjoyed. The titles are Orphans of Chaos, Fugitives of Chaos, and Titans of Chaos, and the contents of the titles is an interesting mix of fantasy, mythology, and epistemology, the latter used in a delightfully odd way.

The premise is (apparently) straightforward: there are five orphans, three boys and two girls, living in a boarding school/orphanage in England. The time is the present. They have lived there, all together, for (almost) as a long as any of them can remember. The conditions are reasonably good: they are fed well, clothed well, and educated well, in a surprisingly classical vein. But they are not generally allowed TV or movies or modern novels, and they not allowed to leave the grounds except on rare occasions under strict supervision. As they are approaching adulthood, naturally they chafe under these restrictions.

Oh, and each of them has a strange power. Our heroine, for example, though not obviously muscular, can carry absurdly heavy weights without difficulty.

Who are these orphans? Why are they being kept here? Who is running the orphanage? And what does epistemology have to do with any of this? There’s more below the fold–but be watch for the spoiler warning.

To summarize, though: it’s a neat adventure, Wright does some new and interesting things, the characters are compelling, and I look forward to reading more by him. The only complaint I have is a certain juvenile fascination with sex on the part of the five principles–not a lot of actual sex, mind you, and none on stage, but a fair amount of thinking and talking about it. Of course, the principles are juveniles….

Anyway, good stuff.

Mild Spoiler Warning: If you’re already planning on reading these, you might want to stop here.

I’m going to try to explain what I found so charming, philosophically, about the books, without giving too much away.

Although each of the five orphans appears human, each is really a member of a different supernatural race, each with its own powers, and there’s a complicated rock-paper-scissors scheme whereby the powers of each race can be blocked by those of one of the others; this provides much of the plot. But the neat thing is that each set of powers comes with an appropriate philosophy/epistemology.

One character, for example, can manipulate matter at the atomic level. He can open locks, he can modify machines, he can create “serums” with a profound affect on the behavior of other people. He’s basically a walking nanotech lab. And going along with this is a purely naturalist epistemology. People are essentially machines. There is no super-natural. Everything that is can be manipulated in fundamental ways at the atomic level. That’s the way the character thinks, and that is, in fact, how his power works.

Another character has the power of dreams. He can make things happen just by wanting them to happen strongly enough. Philosophically, he is, I guess you’d say, an Idealist: the real world doesn’t really exist. All is fluid; all can be whatever you want it to be.

In short, the world-views of the five clash just as their powers clash–yet they must learn to work together to survive. Yet they cannot abandon their world-views; they are part of each character’s nature, and one of the means by which they exercise their powers.

Philosophically speaking, this is of course nonsense: there are five philosophies on offer, here, and they can’t all be true. Nor can any of the characters (except possibly the Idealist) truly accept the powers of the others without rejecting the philosophy that underlies their own. In that sense, I guess you’d say that pragmatism (and friendship) wins the day.

Nevertheless, good fun, and a nifty mix of deep thought and occasionally frivolous behavior.