Monthly Archives: January 2008

The Picture of Dorian Gray

by

What does evil do to a soul? And how would you live if the only marks it left were preserved visibly in a secret work of art? Apparently for Oscar Wilde in The Picture of Dorian Gray, the answer is, “as decadently as possible.” The story’s vapid pretty-boy protagonist prays for eternal youth in exchange for a painting that bears all the burden of his soul, then spirals downward through various forms of degeneracy until he finally commits murder and (by accident) suicide.

Reading this brought similar stories to mind. For instance, it takes up the same question as Woody Allen’s movie Crimes and Misdemeanors, which tells the tale of a wealthy optometrist who has his mistress murdered, then lives in terror that he’ll be found out. He believes “the eyes of God are everywhere.” But no one ever catches him, and he lives happily ever after.

Interestingly enough, he has a counterpart in this story: Lord Henry Wotton, a wealthy playboy and esthete who worships superficial, value-free beauty. (In this book there is such a thing.) Moral goodness bores him. He instills this value in young Dorian Gray, who carries it to such an extreme that evil eventually becomes “a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.”

But while Lord Henry seems comfortable with his decadence, and never suffers any real consequences, Dorian Gray never quite makes his peace with it. Lord Henry knows how to walk the line without losing reputation, and even makes a name for himself as a naughty boy for his witty and heartless epigrams. But Dorian, though his appearance remains youthful and unspoiled, and though he has the advantages of wealth and social standing, develops a reputation as a truly evil man. We don’t get graphic examples of what this means, but we do learn that everyone close to him either commits suicide or grows to despise him. Finally he murders Basil Hallward, the artist who painted his picture in the first place. Then, in trying to destroy the picture, he ends up destroying himself.

Did I enjoy reading this book? Well, as one of my more sophisticated professors used to say, “It has its langeurs.” Translation: it’s got a big dead spot in the middle, full of tedious descriptions of Dorian Gray’s eccentric hobbies and collections. And the experience of reading the book forced me to hang out longer than I ordinarily do with people I don’t like (i.e. this cast of characters). “Wilde was attacked for his decadence and corrupting influence” when the novel was published, reads the flyleaf. “A few years later the book and the aesthetic/moral dilemma it presented became issues in the trials occasioned by Wilde’s homosexual liaisons, trials that resulted in his imprisonment.” Given the story’s severe moral verdict on Dorian Gray, who dies as a result of his sins, it’s ironic that Wilde himself is similarly destroyed by a work of art.

Rereading Samson

by

In the midst of the Old Testament, where the way women are treated often bugs me, I fell headlong into the reality that God is always way ahead of culture.

Being the dense kind of person that will drive past the same breathtaking view obliviously every day for a month before nearly driving off the road gaping at it, it wasn’t until the third reading of the story of Samson in Judges 13 that I noticed how graciously God treats Samson’s mother, and how much He honors her with respect and favor.

We never even learn the woman’s name. The writer of Judges must not have thought it was important enough. But we know she’s Manoah’s wife, and we know that an angel appears to her, by herself, and tells her that though she’s sterile, she’s going to have a son. The angel instructs her not to drink wine, ingest anything unclean, or cut the child’s hair, because he’s to be “a Nazirite set apart to God from birth, and he will begin the deliverance of Israel from the Philistines.”

She tells her husband about it: “A man of God appeared and told me such and such. He sure looked like an angel – very awesome.” Manoah wants more information, and prays that God will send the ”man of God” again, apparently so he can have a personal audience with him.

So God does send the angel – once again, to Manoah’s wife, alone. The text is scrupulous on this point: “her husband Manoah was not with her.” So she runs and gets him.

All of Manoah’s instincts are to appropriate the terms of relationship with the angel, but the angel politely refuses to play. When Manoah asks, “How should we bring the child up?” The angel answers, “Your wife must do all that I have told her,” and repeats the same simple instructions. “She must do everything I have commanded her.” The angel doesn’t transfer the responsibility to her husband, or redirect the instructions to him. He reinforces the legitimacy of his first conversation with her, and confirms her competency in reporting it.

Manoah continues trying to control the dialogue, asking the angel to have a bite to eat. The angel refuses, suggesting a burnt offering to God instead. Manoah asks him his name; the angel says, “Why ask that? You wouldn’t understand it anyway.” So Manoah proceeds with the offering, and the angel “ascends in the flame.”

And that’s that. He doesn’t reappear. Only then does Manoah realize this is an angel he’s been dealing with. “We are doomed to die!” he tells his wife. “We have seen God.” So once again, with the discernment that has marked her all through the story, she shows that her understanding of all that’s happened is more trustworthy: “If He meant to kill us, He wouldn’t have accepted our offering, or shown and told us any of this.”

God didn’t abide by the cultural customs of the time at all. The story anticipates Jesus with the woman at the well in John, where He too breaks – or perhaps more accurately, ignores - the man-made gender rules of that time and place.

I can’t help noticing that Samson’s mother is the only non-manipulative woman in the story. She’s humble, submissive. All the others seem to deal with the constraints of their lives by manipulating and deceiving, by trying like Manoah to control those around them. But this humblest of women is honored with a direct visit from an angel, a compliment confirmed in her husband’s presence. It’s a reassuring reminder that though God is eternally patient with the human race at every stage of our development, He doesn’t applaud all the cultural mores of the Old Testament.

The Black Cauldron

by

I read Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain chronicles when I was in junior high. Mrs. Greenblatt, the librarian, recommended them to me, and I wasn’t disappointed. Last year I revisited the first book, The Book of Three, and this week I read book 2, The Black Cauldron. Experiencing the book as an (alleged) adult, I was less absorbed by the story, but more appreciative of Alexander’s ability to craft a myth for young adults that includes so many of the pleasing elements of some great stories they’ll encounter later.

Once again I found myself joining up with Taran, the assistant pig-keeper on a quest to test his mettle and find his manhood; Eilonwy, the mouthy princess; Gurgi, the hairy spinner of rhymes (more verbose than Chewbacca, but otherwise surely an ancestor!); Fflewddur Flam, the unflaggingly cheerful harpist and teller of tales; as well as the valiant Gwydian, the gruff dwarf Doli, and the wise wizard Dallben. This book includes a few new faces too, most notably Ellidyr the spiteful prince of Pen-Larcau and the brave and mysterious Morgant.

My brother-in-law says there are only about 5 stories out there, remixed over and over. I’m not sure if I agree, but I did find lots of connections between this story and others, especially Tolkein’s. Like The Two Towers, The Black Cauldron as the second book in the series is (in my opinion) the darkest. Its central mission is serious: to secure and destroy the cauldron Arawn uses to turn corpses into “cauldron-born” warriors who can never be killed. Alexander’s characters also reminded me often of Tolkein’s: Arawn and Sauron; the cauldron-born and the ringwraiths; Taran and Frodo; on and on. Both authors include a fellowship in which rivalries fester and threaten to break it apart. Both include an evil, enchanted object that magnifies the characters’ inner wrestling with good and evil. Even the imaginary kingdom of Prydain, and its inhabitants with their difficult-to-pronounce names, calls to mind Tolkein’s much more elaborate, meticulous alternative world and language in Middle Earth.

There are links to other stories too. The 3 enchantresses, Orwen, Orgoch, and Orddu, remind me of L’Engle’s Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which, who also take the form of dishevelled crones and leave us guessing whether they’re entirely to be trusted. The cauldron itself hearkens to the biblical story of redemption, for it’s used to keep those who are dead alive as slaves to the evil will of Arawn, and it can only be destroyed if a living person willingly climbs in and loses his life. And the cast of characters– a young man coming of age, a princess, a bard– could serve as the template for any number of classic tales.

I’ve adopted some of the assumptions of classical education in my approach to homeschooling my children. One of these assumptions is that if you can introduce children to some of the great stories when they’re young sponges (my oldest is 6), they will love them, and take that love with them into a later and more complex understanding of them. Right now, for instance, we’re reading an illustrated version of The Iliad for children. The idea is that later, reading a more difficult text of the story won’t be intimidating, because my daughter will already know it.

I thought of this as I read The Black Cauldron. It contains so many elements of other tales (more than just the ones I’ve mentioned) embodied in a narrative that’s entertaining and fast-paced. It seems very likely that younger readers who encounter these stories will feel the “shock of recognition” and the joy of discovery later if they attempt the harder work of reading a longer and denser version of them– enough recognition and pleasure to disarm any intimidation. Surely this is a main pull of reading for all of us: entering fictional worlds which, though they may seem new and different on the outside, are familiar enough ground to offer us a new perspective on our lives.

None of this is meant to discount the fact that these are simply good stories in themselves, filled with humor, skillful character development and true wisdom. I think they’re a great gift, one that I appreciate even more now than I did when I first encountered them years ago. I suppose that’s one of the benefits of becoming, uh, “seasoned.” So it seems fitting to be reading and enjoying The Black Cauldron in honor of Lloyd Alexander’s birthday this month. The Celebrate the Author Challenge for January is here.