Philip Hilton scribbles,
The other day I was on the plane from Dulles International Airport to Johannesburg International Airport, with very little to do, and I fell to daydreaming about my bright political career. And then I wondered what I would say about abortion. I’m only discussing this from a philosophical perspective, do note.
Firstly, I think a word about potential is in order. Aristotelian potential. (Sorry, Nick.) Now, we say that a rock, hovering 200 feet above your head, perfectly balanced, is not actually moving, and perhaps not even emitting heat, has no kinetic energy. That is to say that it’s stationary. On the other hand, the rock has immense potential energy — I’m not going to calculate it in joules for you, but if it landed on your head, you would be fully aware of it.
Similarly, we can talk about potential for other things. In a war, while realizing one potential, one does not want to lose other potential. Thus, developing jet-fighters, while letting your surface-to-air missiles fall apart is not a great idea — it’s an awful and very blameworthy thing to do. The main thing we need to realize is that a potential is not a nothing — it is a something. Destruction of potential is not a neutral, like a destruction of a nothing, but definitely bad, like the destruction of a something. Which brings me to my point.
In the same way, we can talk about potential for life. Destroying the potential for life. Clearly, actual life is worth more than potential life — a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush — but potential life is valuable, which causes several questions to emerge.
For instance, can we freely destroy potential life? Is there a difference between preventing potential life and destroying potential life? Thus, is staying single really a radical choice to destroy life? Then, is using contraceptives a choice to destroy life? Of course, you might normally say that neither of these are bad, but both admittedly destroy the potential for new life, which we just agreed was a good.
Traditionally in theology, the position was that if a man robbed a train station, and you merely stood by, you were considered to have aided and abetted. Does this logic apply here? If you don’t aid in creating life, are you considered to have destroyed it? If you try to prevent creating life, is that the same as destroying it? This must have profound implications on the whole idea of abortion, contraceptives, and celibacy.
If preventing life, or standing idly by, is to be considered wrong, then abortion, contraceptives, and bachelorhood must all be condemned. In other words, it comes down to the difference between potentiality and actuality. Destroying actual life is wrong; the question of potential life must be considered. If we admit value to potentialities, then everything essentially lumps together in the Prolife world — bachelorhood, contraceptives and abortion; if we deny value to potentialites, we’re back down to scientific guesswork.
From the desk of the editors/transcribers, Mr. Mark C. DenHoed and Mr. John R. Ahern -
A word of explanation and recapitulation. This story is written by Russe” ******, found by Ahern and DenHoed outside Reno on Interstate 80. This installment is a good deal longer than the previous installments due to the fact that, as we deciphered the script, we could find no good breaking point. We continued until we came, at last, to a good place to stop. We beg the indulgence of the reader towards the excess length of this manuscript. We have yet to begin on Installment V, so we can’t promise that it won’t happen again. For now, just find comfort, as we do, in the fact that this is not our fault: it is Russe*’s fault.
Thanks, and have some fun,
A Love Lost and Regained: Installment IV
My love is gone, so far away
Gone
Lost
Never to return
The cords that bound us are snapped
The ties that bind are broken
I shall never love again
That day I lost my love
As in the fields, the stars shone above
-Pherden And
Chapter 8
I remembered waking up on my birthday 7 years ago. I was 11. As my beautiful amber hair lifted from the pillow, Burton, our butler, entered the room.
“Miss Cantaloupe,” he said, “Eet ees quahtur to 10 and your parents ‘ave asked that I wake you. Mais oui? You will, no doubt ruhmember dat today is your birthday. And,” he added, “your parents have a surprise or two for you!”
I smiled.
“Thank you, Burton,” I said.
“O, la, la! Joi de vivre!” he replied, and strutted out singing Rossini.
Our house was a beautiful Victorian mansion. It had more rooms than I could count (about 27, I think), many sprawling acres of lush, green land, and a dock on the ocean. Our front was faced with the most beautiful stain-glass windows. They showed a lass and a lad in a beautiful forest playing amongst the dandelions. He would play the fiddle and she would dance. It was so lovely that every time I looked at it, tears would well up in my eyes. Then, the hag from the mountains came, carrying in her wake distension [sic] and fear. She broke the bow of the fiddle and broke heart of the girl.
The uppermost windows were crowned with eagles, and rampant lions stood proudly before two enormous columns of the shiniest marble. Everyday would our maids would rub the columns up and down so cleanly that I could look at my face in it. It always used to make me laugh so.
As Burton left the room, I pulled out my finest ball-gown. It was a scarlet silk frock with lavender diamond sequins and a beautiful sky blue and magenta bow. I put on aqua-green emerald ear rings inset in gold, a diamond bracelet, and silver-leather shoes.
It all looked so beautiful. I flung open the great mahogany door and tore down the marble hallway. As I came around the last turn in the cast-iron spiral staircase, the light shining on and illuminating the gentle, delicate, golden-hued folds of the ball-gown, I saw my family waiting for me around the table, smiling. I slowly made my way through the golden-tinted room. The sun, gazing through the pure and the colorful windows, filled the atmosphere with its warm rays of gold, forest green, bright blue, and blood red.
My father looked over the top of his paper and set his crescent-moon spectacles lower on his nose. His lenses caught the glint of the sunlight, reflecting a glint of sunlight onto the table. He had a kindly, weathered face. His face was not young, but weathered and kindly. His short graying hair shone brightly in the warm morning light.
“Ah, Cantaloupe,” he said, tossing me a carefree grin, “I trust you are well rested after your nice sleep.”
I laughed. Father often made the wittiest comments.
“Oh, Father,” I cried, so happy I thought I could bust. [sic]
“Come here, you rascal,” he said, reaching toward me. I screamed and ran about the table, giggling. My mother – oh, she was so beautiful – looked upon the scene and smiled, sipping her coffee.
“Now then,” said Father, “Back to our game.”
Father pulled out our chess set. It was a beautiful mahogany set, with delicately carved pieces.
“Now where were we?” asked father, adjusting his spectacles.
“As I remember,” said father, “the board was something like this.”
Father began placing pieces on the chess board.
“Wait, daddy,” I said, “As I recall, I had an Alekhine’s Gun on C1 through C3.” I gave him a sharp look and smiled.
“You’re so clever, Cantaloupe.” I blushed. “Well, I recall that I had a Maróczy Bind, here,” he said, pointing at the center of the board. We decided to just start anew. The game was begun by me with a strong King’s Gambit Accepted. It was replied in typical fashion by father with a Cunningham Defense.
“Not so good at chess now, are you?” I taunted later in the game, as I set up a brilliant Philidor Position, my favorite endgame strategy. “J’adoube,” said Father, adjusting his king.
I took father’s last pawn en passant. He fell into my trap, taking my rook. As I moved into the setup for checkmate, I said, “Your move, father,” with a victorious ring. Father, visibly embarrassed, swept the pieces from the board. He took off his glasses and put them in top of the chess set, which he then put in its box, which, in turn, went into the cabinet in the corner.
“Now to the business of the day. What would you like for your birthday?”
“Father,” I said, looking into his deep, shining eyes, “All I want for my birthday is a father’s love! It’s all I could ever want! What else could there be?”
“Oh Cantaloupe,” he said, hugging me, “You have such a good Heart. I’m sure it will serve you well. But, you know, there are people out there who don’t have Hearts as good as yours.”
I felt tears well up in my shining eyes. “What?” I said.
“Steven,” whispered Mother, “Don’t bring that up, especially on Canty’s birthday!”
“You’re right, June. Remember, Cantaloupe,” he said, turning toward me, “As long as you keep thiiiis much -” here he stretched out his large arms as far as they would go – “Love in your Heart, nothing can ever happen.”
“But I already have Love in my Heart,” I said.
“I know you Love your mother and me, Cantaloupe,” he said, “But to Truly Love is to be Loved.”
I began to cry. “But don’t you and mother Love me?”
“Of course we do, Cantaloupe,” he said, softly, patting my shoulder lightly, “but, everyone in the whole wide world, all the way past those hills and mountains, all the way over the great bay, must Love you, Cantaloupe. Everyone you meet. Only then can you truly Love!”
“Remember, Cantaloupe,” he added. “Remember these words, for they shall prove useful. I’ll always be there for you!”
He then began to tap his foot, as he always did when about to sing. He quietly began to put forth a haunting melody. Mother joined in, harmonizing as only she could. The words were sung in a foreign tongue, but one that my heart could understand. These are not the words, but a shadow and shimmer of the magic conveyed in those beautiful syllables.
The way to your home is in your heart,
The path of life is in your soul.
You must always do your part
Make it your unceasing goal.
To love the people in your sphere
It doesn’t matter who they are.
For it is fine to shed a tear
One for every blazing star.
Make Love your well practiced art
To love the world, in its whole.
The way to your home is in your heart,
The path of life is in your soul.
“Oh, daddy,” I exclaimed, “That’s so beautiful!”
“Yes, it is,” he said, “Now, come, dear, it’s finally time to open your presents.”
We went into the cozy family room that had a lofty ceiling stretching up 20 feet to the heavens. Near the hearth of the fire were a pile of presents, wrapped in packages and bows of all sizes, shapes, and colors.
“Oh! Mommy! Daddy!” I jumped up and down for glee while they watched on with big, encouraging smiles.
I remember so well those presents – a new dress, a new pair of shoes, a new deck of cards, dozens of books by Finley, Blackmore, Curtis, Burnett, Burns, Woody, and Sebastian, a new, shiny blue cart for the pony, a new pink hair brush for me, a red one for Saza my pet tiger, a new necklace, and gold-leaf harpsichord with pictures of baby angels with rosy cheeks shooting arrows into the hearts of happy mortals, painted delicately on the side. While Burton took away all the presents to my room, I hugged and kissed my parents and sat on their laps.
“But there’s one more present we – your mother and I together – must give you.”
I heard the sound of water lapping at the side of the boat. I opened my eyes and surveyed the boat. Antonio faced his tan, beautiful features towards me, smiling, rowing as no other man had never rowed before in all of history. [sic]
“How are you holding up, dearest?” he asked.
“Oh, Antonio, I’m fine. You’re not getting tired, I hope.”
“Of course not. We Italians do this – what is it you say – rowing all day.”
I pulled out my heart-shaped pocket watch and watched as the crimson radii slowly made their way across the watch’s face.
“Why, Antonio, it’s gotten to be eight o’clock,” I exclaimed.
“Eight o’clock?” mourned Antonio. “And we have not eaten a thing!”
I reached into the larder and pulled out some sandwiches I had made.
“Thank you, my heart’s desire,” he said as I handed him one of my trademark tuna and grilled zucchini sandwiches. “Oci ciornie!” He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them as they sprung away from his face, in a picture of ecstasy. In that face, I saw Heraclitus, Julius Caesar, Constantinople [sic]….
“We must not take long with Dinner. If I stop rowing too long, we may be caught in a riptide and drift further out to sea. I’ve been rowing to the shore all afternoon and I do not want to lose progress. For your sake, of course.”
I laughed. Antonio was so smart. But, deep as I loved him, I missed Jack. “Antonio,” I asked, “Do… do.. do you drink?”
“Only a little.”
“Oh, Antonio”, I laughed, scrunching up my freckled nose, “you’re so funny sometimes.”
“Shhh,” yelled Antonio, “Can you hear that?”
I closed my eyes very tight and listened as hard as I could.
At first, I heard the sound was a bell from a wharf. But then, I heard over that the familiar sound of garden chimes. The gentle tones reverberated through the air, rising and falling with the wind. I saw that the world is full of magic.
“Antonio,” I exclaimed, “That sound… those bells… I-I-I recognize th-them. I don’t know where, but… I’ve heard them somewheres before…”
“Then we have hit land!”
Antonio found new vigor, rowing with new-found vigor. After being at sea for so long, I could almost cry at the sight of land.
I cried.
“Oh, Antonio… we made it! I almost lost hope!”
“There seems to be a dock,” said Antonio as we came upon the dock.
The grass had all withered. The old weeping-willow tree was bent almost to the ground. It was a dreary sight.
The wood of the pier was old, stiff, rotting, and beautiful. All that was left of what was once, no doubt, a boathouse, was a plank of wood, standing on end, like a sentry, watching over the old dock, keeping out the foreigners. They hung a bell which tolled morosely in the maritime blue. There also hung the garden chimes, singing in the wind, which I had previously heard, several yards away up the path from the dock.
I slowly stepped out of the rocking boat onto creaking dock. I wondered, asked, pleaded of the world, the reason for the condition of the dock. Antonio jumped out of the boat in his own strong way. I wrapped my jacket tight about me, for the fog was so cold I thought it would freeze my bones. The bracing breeze swept my long hair out of my face, and I thought, deep in my heart, that I could hear a small child crying off in the distance.
It was all too much for me.
I ran.
The cool wind streamed through my face as I tore up the cobblestone pathway. My feet splashed softly through the puddles on the path. A fog hushed all of nature like a wet, cold blanket of moisture. The only sound I could hear was that of my own fevered crying. I knew that something terrible had happened here long ago. But what? I listened very hard and I thought that I could, just a little, make out the sound of dripping water. I hurried on ahead.
I stopped and stared. A lone tear made its winding way straight down my cheek.
It was the saddest thing I’d ever known, seen, felt. There was a rosebush, small and fragile, with nothing but its own inner strength and unbreakable spirit to shield it from what fate might bring. It had but one rose, just budded.
I felt Antonio’s presence behind me.
The one rose was covered with golden beads of water from the fog. The beads collected and, hesitantly, began to gently [sic] slide down the petals. Then, converging into one large drop, they edged to the tip of the petal, stood for a moment, and fell, falling like the last breath of a faerie as it dies from the loss of a silent lover. That infinitesimal tear splashed into a small puddle in the ground. The waves – oh, how small! – reverberated unto the edge of the water and were no more. The glassy surface of the puddle stood still, reflecting the hazy image of my tear-stained face.
>
I cried.
Antonio’s strong arm came around my shoulder.
“There, there, Cantaloupe,” he said reassuringly, “All will be well.”
“Oh, but Antonio,” I cried, “How can it? There’s so much evil and hatred! How can anything ever be happy again?! It would be better for nothing good or bad to have ever happened than for this one thing to happen!”
“Oh, Cantaloupe,” he said.
He burst into song. His tenor voice was magical and delicate.
“Just hold on to your hope,
Cantaloupe,
Open your mouth and sing,
Dearest thing,
Everything will be alright
Just stay bright.”
“It’ll be alright,” he said, “As long as you hold onto your hope and keep your chin up!”
“You’re right, Antonio,” I said, wiping away my tears.
Now that my eyes cleared, I caught a faint glint amidst the rubble.
“A-antonio,” I said, “What’s that?!”
We slowly made our way through the soaked stone and wood.
We came into an open area of what I now realized was once a building. A huge stone claw, as if of a tiger or a jaguar, was tossed on its side. Beautiful, delicate glass was strewn here and there, and Antonio and I had to make the greatest efforts that our feet not be pierced. The remains of a spiral staircase stood, ready to topple at any second. There stood in the corner a box of delicate wood with blue and gold paint pealing off and metal wires sticking out in all directions like the snakes on the Gorgon’s head.
The glint that had attracted me was sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, than when I had first seen it, but now, as I had almost lost hope of finding it amidst the chaos, the light was refracted in a swan-shaped pawn in a brightness that practically blinded us. It was made of the most transparent glass, except for the rose in the swan’s beak, which was a rosy-red colored glass.
I clutched the pawn in my blushed hands. And put my hands to my chin.
“En passant,” I whispered.
Memories once more flooded back on me.
Father put me down and walked to the hearth above the fireplace. Pressing on the hearth, he balanced his weight forward, and there was a rumbling as two secret cupboards arose from the ground on either side of the hearth. Out of the right one he took a small object wrapped in tissue paper.
“Here,” he said. “Unwrap it.”
I unwrapped it, and there inside was the most beautiful pocket-watch I had ever seen. It was dark gold in the shape of a heart, with pink arrows for hands. The band was made of silver. I looked on the back. The word “Love” was inscribed in delicate golden cursive.
“Treasure this watch forever, Cantaloupe. And always keep my words with you. For, with Love, Wisdom, and Power, you will inherit the greatest treasures. And Cantaloupe, don’t forget this – never forget this – Lamas Therion!“
I hugged him. “Thank you, Father.”
And then…
And then…
[Editor's note: We edited out several more "and thens" for the sake of space. Just realize they're there.]
There was a commotion in the other room. My father looked at my mother.
“Burton probably just spilled something,” mother said.
“I shall treasure this watch forever,” I said, hoping to keep the magic. But it was gone.
“Cantaloupe,” said my mother, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s go shopping for a new gown!”
“Oh, that would be delightful, mother! Is father coming?”
“No, I can’t come, Cantaloupe,” said Father, “There’s…there’s a house wreckage I have to go adjust.” Father was an insurance adjuster, you see, and his job often involved all sorts of horrible tedious work.
“Goodbye, Father,” I said, as Mother and I left.
“Goodbye, Cantaloupe,” he yelled after us.
“Have a good time, June,” he added.
Mother and I had a glorious time shopping. And when we came back…the house was gone. Burnt. To the ground. In a pile. Of ashes. And soot. And smoke.
The sound of Antonio’s voice returned my thoughts to the present.
“Cantaloupe, what’s wrong? Where have you seen this before.” he asked.
“I… I think that…”
“What? What do you think?”
“This was my house!”
Antonio and I both gaped at the gravity of my startling revelation. For, if this was my house, I must have lived here!
“Cantaloupe… I don’t understand,” said Antonio.
“You’re right,” I said, my hands twitching, “You don’t understand! It’s you that can never understand. My parents were wrong! Everything is wrong! JACK was wrong!”
Suddenly, I felt an indescribable pang of sadness pierce my heart, like a sword skewered into an innocent pig, only to be used for the food of greedy men.
“Oh, Jack. Jack. I miss you! Can’t you come back!”
But I am right here.
It was a voice not in my ears, not in my head, but in my heart. My heart lept at the feeling. I felt an indescribable, all-consuming joy welling up from the very depths of my being as I slowly felt the full impact of those beautiful syllables. I slowly, hesitantly, turned around.
Antonio suddenly starting turning around, slowly at first, and then began twirling faster than my eyes could stand. And then he came to a gradual halt. Only, it wasn’t Antonio anymore. It was Jack.
“Oh, Jack. You’re back. Why did you disguise yourself like this?”
“To test your love. Now I know, my dearest Canty, that you truly love me. Nothing can separate True Love. Not even death or not paying the bill.” He slipped his strong arm around me.
“Oh, Jack. I love you so much.”
“And I you, Canty. Only, do you have a drink?”
I laughed, really laughed, for the first time in months.
Suddenly, a voice said, “Da mihi basia mille, deinde, centum….“
We turned around, and there stood Mrs. Willowbend, with a little smile on her face.
“Mrs. Willowbend! You were speaking in tongues!” I exclaimed.
“Mrs. Willowbend!” Jack shouted out in a voice that I’d never heard before. It was not angry, but it seemed to call upon all the inner forces of nature and goodness and the unbreakable human spirit with authoritativeness. “My Watch!”
Mrs. Willowbend mused for a moment, and then brought her head up with a jerk. “Ahh! Your watch. Quite right.”
Fumbling about in her pocket, she brought out a simple pocket watch, and then smiled. “You want your watch, deary?” She took it off and dangled it invitingly in front of her face. “Come and get it!”
Jack leaped towards her like the prince of the deers, only to find himself caught in a trap laid by Mrs. Willowbend!
She looked up in a mystified amusement. “You know, I thought my relatives were bad, but you really do amaze me. I didn’t think anyone could possibly fall for that.” And then she let out a fearful laugh that filled our ears with hate, anger, and despair.
Oh, hold on, Jack! I’m coming for you!
To be continued…
Vicki writes
(it’s too long to put in one post)
Terezín. 5 years. 32,000 prisoners. You don’t hear about it because it wasn’t the Dachau or Ravensbrück, or Auschwitz. But it was there. And for 32,000 people, it was hell.
Now you can walk through it in the gorgeous Czech summer, you can see the mass grave out front, each tombstone adorned with a rose-bush. You can see the courtyard where they entered, with the wickedly ironic slogan Arbeit Macht Frei on the portal. You can see the place where three men escaped—the only successful escapees. You can see where the prisoners lived in squalor, and where the Germans lived in the lap of luxury. And you can see the barracks for the less important Germans, now converted into a museum.
I knew Great-Grandpa was a German. I guess I knew he was a Nazi too. But nothing prepared me for the shock of seeing his name on the wall of the museum. The museum was divided into little rooms, with posters of information and pictures on the wall. And on the inside wall of each room, there was a painting of an agonized hand. The paintings were actually different in each room. Some of the hands were clutching something, some of them had Nazi symbols on them, some were bleeding…
One of the rooms had pictures and information about the Germans who worked at the concentration camp. The first was Heinrich Jöckell. He was the one in charge, and he was the worst. But there were others too, of course. I went around the room reading about the Germans, what they did (always described in the vaguest of terms), and how they were brought to justice. And then suddenly there was Great Grandpa, smiling down at me, informing me that he had never been punished. He had lived out his days quietly and pleasantly, the poster informed me.
There was something else in the camp, too. The camp wasn’t built as a concentration camp. It was built as a military fortress in the 1700s. And as such, it needed escape routes and places to shoot from. For this purpose there was an extensive tunnel system. It wasn’t used during the concentration camp days, but the tunnels were re-opened when the camp was turned into a memorial. Actually, only one of the tunnels was opened. The rest were grated off, so that over-curious tourists couldn’t wander in and get lost. But you knew the other tunnels were there, because that was where they put the lights. The main tunnel, the one the tourists were allowed to walk through, was 500 meters long. Other tunnels branched off it, and they put the lights a way back in the other tunnels, so the main tunnel was lighted but still dark.
I saw the tunnel first, before I went to the museum, but afterward the tunnel kept forcing its way back into my mind. If you could get over the grates—and I was confident I could—without anyone seeing you—of that I was less confident—you could potentially live there for quite some time without discovery. By the time our tour was done, and we were back on the bus to Tli?in, I was obsessed with the idea. Actually, two different ideas were sloshing around in my brain, bumping into each other, intertwining, tangling up, latching on, until they were absolutely inseparable. Great-Grandpa was never brought to justice. I could live in the tunnels probably indefinitely. Great-Grandpa worked at Terezín. I could live at Terezín. Great-Grandpa never atoned for his deeds. I could.
I’ll post the rest at a later date.
Philip Hilton scribbles,
Mr. Ahern recently released a post referencing one of our conversations about the Trinity. I actually posted a comment, but apparently the internet swallowed it up, and so I wrote this post. I’m writing not about beauty/grotesqueness and the Trinity, but about the Trinity in Things, which was the discussion point of our original argument. In that original argument, he argued that it was reasonable to see types of the Trinity in various relationships on earth (correct me if I’m wrong), and I stated that it was arbitrary. An example of this type-seeing (for the uninitiates) would be a husband and wife. The husband represents God the Father, the wife represents God the Son, and the bond between them (marriage) is the Holy Spirit.
Now, firstly, I expect you to agree with me. Don’t you think it’s fairly arbitrary to see the wife as a type of God the Son? I mean, God isn’t female, for one thing. You might perhaps, after some thinking, suggest that perhaps marriage isn’t a real “type” of the Trinity, but the parent-son relationship is, since this allows the parents to represent God the Father, and the son (or daughter) to represent God the Son, and we can call the bond between them the Holy Spirit.
Still, it remains arbitrary. An equivalent case would be if I compared, say, my brother’s swimming style to Michael Phelps’. It may be similar in certain cases, nevertheless, that does not mean that my brother represents Michael Phelps in any way. Nor does it mean that Michael Phelps represents my brother.
Admittedly, since God is the creator of all things, we may reasonably assume that he left his mark on creation. Nevertheless, there are two types of marks. First, there is a single quality left in creation, such as beauty, or strength, whatever they may be. We might, in fact, dispute the existence of such qualities, but bear with me for a moment. Second, there is this other quality which we are supposed to believe exists, i.e, “triunity”. Triunity differs very significantly from beauty, and is much harder to discern.
For instance, suppose we have a certain relationship that groups in sixes. Is that an evidence of triunity, since six is a multiple of two? What about a certain relationship that groups in twenty-fours? Then too, can invisible things form part of a triune relationship, such as the case above, of marriage?
Moreover, why is not marriage a “quadriune”? — the woman, the man, the children, and the marriage that binds them? Clearly, this particular instance is awfully ambiguous, as are most of the other instances generally given.
All in all, so many questions remain about how triunity expresses itself in nature, that I feel that any instance of a triune relationship must be severely questioned before being admitted as an instance of God in nature. A given situation may be groomed to be quadriune, triune, quinquiune or whatever, which demands great caution on our part in recognizing *any* situation as triune.
In short, I dissaprove of any classifying any relationship as triune, simply because, as I said the mathematics can be so easily twitched to do it. And as easily as making a triune relationship, one might decide that God is four, and start finding evidence of quadriunity all around the globe.
John Ahern writes,
A while back, Philip and I were arguing about beauty. Or rather, that’s exactly not what we were arguing about. I was saying that everything on some level reflects the Trinity – even and especially the grotesque things. He disagreed, and I won’t explain why because I won’t do it justice. And I’m throwing this out here in hopes of a response from him. But here are my ruminations, put better in the words of others with my entirely unworthy elaboration.
“My own feeling is that writers who see by the light of their Christian faith will have, in these times, the sharpest eyes for the grotesque, for the perverse, and for the unacceptable.”
Flannery O’Connor explains this further on down the paragraph – “Redemption is meaningless unless there is cause for it in the actual life we live, and for the last few centuries there has been operating in our culture the secular belief that there is no such cause.”
Secularism denies original sin, as human evil and human deformity are both things to be evolved out of. The Christian is playing into the hand of secularism’s condescension of the idea of original sin whenever it denies the existence and even the necessity for dark, grotesque, ugly things in art and writing. Plato never, to my knowledge, imagined making ideals out of the dark, the grotesque, and the ugly, perhaps because they are deeply material. But that doesn’t mean they’re not spiritual – the Cross is just as spiritual as it is material.
And the Cross is the crux of the matter – interlinguary pun intended – as it is the most grotesque and ugly. As for return to the Platonic, Neo-Platonic, and gnostic duality between spirit (good) and matter (evil), O’Connor comments on the Manicheans.
“The Manicheans separated spirit and matter. To them all material things were evil. They sought pure spirit and tried to approach the infinite directly without any mediation of matter. This is also pretty much the modern spirit, and for the sensibility infected with it, fiction is hard if not impossible to write because fiction is so much an incarnational art.”
Here O’Connor’s trinitarianess comes right through – that, for the fiction writer, the Incarnation gives fiction its boundaries. Its essence. And, according to herself, she is counter-modernity. She is fighting with “an incarnational art” against the lie that the grotesque has no place in the religious.
But is that ugliness simply a process to get through, a process discarded so that we reach the beautiful? Is childbirth only ugly until it brings forth beauty as a child? Is ugliness never an end in itself?
The lesson to learn from grotesqueness isn’t just something we meditate on and then continue. The Cross has long-lasting effects: the holes are still in His hands after the Resurrection. And to hear about Thomas sticking his fingers in them is kind of gross. The unacceptable is very close to the infinite, in this case, and it isn’t a stain that becomes magically zapped-free of ugliness once all the darkness is over.
I don’t deny that there is a certain extent at which we must see beauty in the ugliness of scars and perverseness and deformity, but that is what O’Connor and her intellectual mentor, Jacques Maritan, would call Mystery. Perverseness is not something to be avoided (and it certainly isn’t avoided in O’Connor’s short stories), but it isn’t necessarily revealed as beautiful. Hence the Mystery. O’Connor’s refusal to shy away from this is shown in a scene in Temple of the Holy Ghost as the hermaphrodite shouts, “God made me thisaway and if you laugh He may strike you the same way. This is the way He wanted me to be and I ain’t disputing His way.” I doubt he was the first to suggest it, but Douglas Jones wonders if any other author would have thought that Christ could appear “as a carnival hermaphrodite?”
If it isn’t obvious how this relates to the Trinity, then why not get Dorothy L. Sayers to set your minds at rest? “I will go so far as to maintain that the extraordinary confusion of our minds about the nature and function of Art is principally due to the fact that for nearly 2,000 years we have been trying to reconcile a pagan, or at any rate a Unitarian, aesthetic with a Christian — that is, a Trinitarian and Incarnational — theology.” It should be obvious how this relates to the Trinity because central to the Trinity is a “death” to self (Psalm 110), from which, as the Nicene would have it, proceeds the Spirit. And, not simply a metaphorical or spiritual death, but a real, unplatonic, tangible death. But this, as Hans Decker would hasten to point out, is only another divine joke.
Nick Embrey writes,
I am a wanderer of the world,
And I keep an emerald in my pocket.
Whenever I am tired, I look at the emerald
And I feel the fire inside again.
I have been to many cities,
And visited many houses and shacks.
Whenever I am lonely, I look at the emerald
And I feel I am myself again.
I have prayed to many gods,
And acted in many ancient rituals.
Whenever I am blind, I look at the emerald
And I see the face of God again.
So what is the use of a thousand landscapes,
A thousand warm fires and welcoming towns?
What is the use of fulfilment in the Lord?
I, for my part, have my emerald,
And I am content to always desire it.
L. C. Russell writes,
This is a response to Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress”, found here: http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/coy.htm
The poem will be familiar to the graduates of English lit. I also included one allusion to another E-lit author’s poem (read: stole good meter and rhyme) in each verse. The first one is easy, but I’ll give twinkie points to whoever can come up with the other two. I’m too lazy to point out all the delicate echoes and contrasts to the original poem. Besides, it would make reading it horribly dull. Enjoy!
Had you but truth enough, and spine,
These words, my suitor, were no crime
We would sit down, and think which way
To talk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the honesty of thy words
Shouldst my love mine, I am assured
Though it’s been said, where words abound
Much sense beneath is rarely found.
But you should, if you wish, then construe
That what Pope says cannot be true
With words and wit, ‘till all do sleep
In a most attentive heap
A hundred snores shall be thy praise
From somnolent corpses in thy gaze;
Two hundred twitches for each line
Of sparkling charm and perfect rhyme;
An age at least to form each verse,
Thrusting forward logic’s hearse.
For, suitor, you deserve this fate
Nor could you write at slower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Truth’s winged chariot hurrying near;
Bidding me flee before your lies
Shall chance to take a captive mind.
Thy words shall no more be found
Nor thy rocky voice shall sound
Like a Siren’s whining wail
Bidding me come, and thee to hail.
Shall my honor turn to dust
Burnt to ashes by thy lust?
If thou doth love me, in truth adore,
Thou should love my honor more.
Now, therefore, while youthful lies
Sit on thy lips in sweet disguise,
And while thy spineless flesh transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Thy words shall wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten:
No more than a shepherd’s vow
With the strength of beauty’s power
Each shall change with equal weight
One to age, and one to hate.
Shall I suffer in pleasure’s strife
Through the vineyard of my life?
No, I shall not let thee come
Rather, I shall bid thee run.
