Summer is nearly over, and having spent all of it intermittently in the company of Joel Rosenberg and Peter Wyden (whose two books were written 25 years apart), I owe each man a great debt. Wyden has tour-guided me through the triumphs, horrors, egos, and fallout (literally) of living in a nuclear world. Rosenberg has impressed upon me through thorough research and painstaking interviews why the onset of the nuclear age has become so ominous. I can't say it was sunny reading, but it, like the mushroom cloud over Alamogordo, was certainly enlightening and full of implications for my future.
I left off my last post with that very test having just been completed. From there, the rest of my time with Wyden's Day One pummeled me with the sheer misery the inhabitants of Hiroshima went through--those that were unlucky enough to have lived through the Bomb. Of Hiroshima's 350,000 residents. well over 130,000 died, most instantly. Many more died later that day, a few days, weeks, and even years later. We dropped the Bomb while there were 23 American prisoners of war in that city; of the those airmen in downtown Hiroshima at the time of the blast, only 2 briefly survived. Their deaths were agonizing, and they died bewildered at what had happened, having no idea an atomic Bonb even existed. Their families were never told that the cause of their loved ones' deaths was from the A-bomb. Equally distressing is the scientists' ignorance of the dragon they were unleashing. Oppenheimer's pork-pie hat held dollar bills from 103 of the scientists; guesses varied from 0-18,000 tons of TNT. In the end, the Bomb produced an explosion of 20,000 tons. Then there was Truman's arrogance, Oppenheimer's slow dissolution, and the government seizure and classification of thousands of feet of film footage shot in Hiroshima just after the devastation. Why? Nuclear tests underway in the early 1950s couldn't be jeopardized. And so they weren't. That film footage wasn't released until 1982.
1982--3 years after the Islamic Revolution in Iran. As I mentioned before, Rosenberg's Inside the Revolution chronicles the struggle for supremacy in the Middle East by Radical Muslims, Reform-minded Muslims, and Revivalist Muslims. As I read with keen empathy Hiroshima's struggle to survive and somehow rise from its own ashes, I was simultaneously introduced to many Reformist Muslims--those who do not believe jihad is a viable way to win converts and remove opposition. Rosenberg introduces us to Jalal Talabani, Hamid Karzai, and Morocco's King Hussein, among others--all of whom are touting, either blatantly or covertly, a type of Jeffersonian-style reform they claim as compatible with Islam. Perhaps they are right. There are also the Revivalists, those Muslims who have been converted to Christianity and who are determined to continue challenging radical Islam for the dangerous agent it is. Many of these men and women do so with daily threats of death. Many have had several near-miss assassination attempts. Some, doubtless, have died a real martyr's death--one that offers a real redemption at the other end.
All this to say one thing: I am more convinced than ever that radical Islam poses the biggest threat EVER to the civilized world. We had a conscience during WWII, even though we unleashed the dragon. The after-effects of the dragon's breath inflamed that conscience. Perhaps that's why the Cuban Missile Crisis ended as it did.
But the fires of Alamogordo and Hiroshima only seem to have seared the consciences of those practicing Radical Islam. May God help us. We're a long way from Day One, approaching Day None.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Not-So-Light Summer Reading, Part 1
A friend of mine loaned me Joel Rosenberg's 2009 book Inside the Revolution. I decided to pair that book with another I've had in my bookshelf for quite a few years now, Day One: Before Hiroshima and After, by Peter Wyden. The effect has been startling, and I'm only about half way though both books.
If you're not familiar with these books, here's the basic synopsis of each: Rosenberg takes a look at three primary groups of people who all have a stake in running the Middle East and world domination--the Islamic Radicals, Islamic Reformers, and Christian Revivalists, while Wyden's book details what its title and subtitle suggest--the ambition and anguish over the start of the atomic age.
Now, you may ask, why do these two books work so well together? The answer is simple and chilling: Though they were written 25 years apart, Wyden throws a magnifying glass on the human complexities and failures to regulate (or otherwise refuse to start) the atomic age, and Rosenberg dives beneath the surface of world politics to illuminate one of the darkest and most dangerous times ahead for the world since the end of WWII.
Consider these facts from each book:
(Day One)--The hundreds of scientists fanned out across the country and eventually (mostly) gathered in Los Alamos did not know exactly what they were unleashing. Their test plutonium bomb detonated in Alamogordo, NM, just days before the Hiroshima bomb drop, shocked them all. One scientist was temporarily blinded from 20 miles away (watching through a truck windshield). The bomb's fireball, "infinitely brighter than the sun, its temperature 10,000 times greater, began an eight-mile ascent, warming the faces of the men . . . turning night into day for more than a hundred miles." Scientists and a few army personnel had previously issued warnings, asked for a peaceful demonstration, or no use at all, of the bomb that would forever change the world. But in what Wyden calls the "rush to decision," these protests were swept aside in favor of using the bomb on Japan.
(Inside the Revolution): America was "asleep" according to past CIA operatives and leaders, when Iran became the first Islamic state ever in 1979. We thought it didn't matter. But over the years, Iran's leaders have radicalized Islam, and they mince no words when it comes to what they want: world domination, and a world without Israel and the United States, which they label "the Little Satan" and "the Great Satan" respectively. Ahmadinejad has said, "Israel must be wiped off the map." Osama bin Laden, who has so far eluded capture, has made it plain he considers the acquisition of weapons of mass destruction--and specifically, nuclear weapons--"a religious duty." The audience for radical Islam's agenda has been told to "imagine a world without the United States."
We've been here before. The Cold War and the Cuban Missile Crisis brought us to the brink of destruction. But the key difference seems to be that a sense of annihilation, a real fear of death on a mass scale, stopped the nightmare from unfolding. Those who would radicalize Islam for their own ends believe dying for Allah is a great honor--the highest honor--and life doesn't mean anything to the radicalized mind. It's simply a means to an end. Therein, of course, lies the danger.
As I watch today's headlines, Ahmadinejad, the radical, and Mir Hossein Mousavi, the reformist, are both claiming victory, a situation bound to destabilize Iran even further.
If you're not familiar with these books, here's the basic synopsis of each: Rosenberg takes a look at three primary groups of people who all have a stake in running the Middle East and world domination--the Islamic Radicals, Islamic Reformers, and Christian Revivalists, while Wyden's book details what its title and subtitle suggest--the ambition and anguish over the start of the atomic age.
Now, you may ask, why do these two books work so well together? The answer is simple and chilling: Though they were written 25 years apart, Wyden throws a magnifying glass on the human complexities and failures to regulate (or otherwise refuse to start) the atomic age, and Rosenberg dives beneath the surface of world politics to illuminate one of the darkest and most dangerous times ahead for the world since the end of WWII.
Consider these facts from each book:
(Day One)--The hundreds of scientists fanned out across the country and eventually (mostly) gathered in Los Alamos did not know exactly what they were unleashing. Their test plutonium bomb detonated in Alamogordo, NM, just days before the Hiroshima bomb drop, shocked them all. One scientist was temporarily blinded from 20 miles away (watching through a truck windshield). The bomb's fireball, "infinitely brighter than the sun, its temperature 10,000 times greater, began an eight-mile ascent, warming the faces of the men . . . turning night into day for more than a hundred miles." Scientists and a few army personnel had previously issued warnings, asked for a peaceful demonstration, or no use at all, of the bomb that would forever change the world. But in what Wyden calls the "rush to decision," these protests were swept aside in favor of using the bomb on Japan.
(Inside the Revolution): America was "asleep" according to past CIA operatives and leaders, when Iran became the first Islamic state ever in 1979. We thought it didn't matter. But over the years, Iran's leaders have radicalized Islam, and they mince no words when it comes to what they want: world domination, and a world without Israel and the United States, which they label "the Little Satan" and "the Great Satan" respectively. Ahmadinejad has said, "Israel must be wiped off the map." Osama bin Laden, who has so far eluded capture, has made it plain he considers the acquisition of weapons of mass destruction--and specifically, nuclear weapons--"a religious duty." The audience for radical Islam's agenda has been told to "imagine a world without the United States."
We've been here before. The Cold War and the Cuban Missile Crisis brought us to the brink of destruction. But the key difference seems to be that a sense of annihilation, a real fear of death on a mass scale, stopped the nightmare from unfolding. Those who would radicalize Islam for their own ends believe dying for Allah is a great honor--the highest honor--and life doesn't mean anything to the radicalized mind. It's simply a means to an end. Therein, of course, lies the danger.
As I watch today's headlines, Ahmadinejad, the radical, and Mir Hossein Mousavi, the reformist, are both claiming victory, a situation bound to destabilize Iran even further.
Just seconds after the Alamogordo detonation, Kenneth Bainbridge, the chief physicist at the test site, "sounded the first public note of regret," according to Wyden. He had on his mind the recent destruction of Britain by the Germans, and said, "Oppie, now we're all sons of bitches." Had we handled the start of the nuclear age differently, Bainbridge would have never had to utter those telling words. And Iran's elections wouldn't grip the world they way they do right now.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Spring is for the Birds!
While lying in bed with insomnia one recent early morning (a common occurrence for me), I started counting birds, not sheep. That is, now that it's spring, I added up the number of bird species who are either regular visitors or who happen through on their way to some other more suitable clime. (How can that be? Birds truly have small brains, no?)
Anyway, I came up with 30 species, and here they are: black-capped chickadee, crow, raven, house finch, lesser goldfinch, American goldfinch, house sparrow, Lincoln sparrow, song sparrow, nuthatch, Harris's woodpecker, Downy woodpecker, lazuli bunting, blue grosbeak, evening grosbeak, black-headed grosbeak, stellar's jay, grey jay, pine siskin, oriole, brown thrasher, green-tailed towhee, black-headed junco, summer tanager, yellow warbler, cedar waxwing, magpie, robin, red-tailed hawk, and Canada geese.
Of this last bird, the Canadian goose, Amish farmer and writer David Kline writes in his book Great Possessions, "Canada geese, like us, can hardly wait for spring. Unlike most other migrants who wait until the weather warms and then travel north rapidly, geese return with the opening of the water. Since spring moves north around 15 miles a day, the northward movement of geese might be considered a slow migration."
Indeed. Leisurely, you might say. I have heard a pair honking in a low flyover every morning now for months. I don't know where they sleep at night, but just before sunrise, they're headed east--right toward the Arkansas River, which runs just a couple miles from my house. How long they'll stay is anybody's guess.
I like to think of migration as a kind of bird wanderlust. A few years ago, I was seized by just such a thing when I thought I had to move back to Texas. I wrote a poem about it, called "Migration," which I'll share here, and then close with a comment.
Of all the animals there are to watch, birds are by far my favorite. And spring is by far the best time to do it. The leaves are not yet fully on the trees here in central Colorado--though, as Kline notes, every day another 15 miles green up and obscure these magnificent creatures. Soon, all you'll have is sound.But what a sound!
Anyway, I came up with 30 species, and here they are: black-capped chickadee, crow, raven, house finch, lesser goldfinch, American goldfinch, house sparrow, Lincoln sparrow, song sparrow, nuthatch, Harris's woodpecker, Downy woodpecker, lazuli bunting, blue grosbeak, evening grosbeak, black-headed grosbeak, stellar's jay, grey jay, pine siskin, oriole, brown thrasher, green-tailed towhee, black-headed junco, summer tanager, yellow warbler, cedar waxwing, magpie, robin, red-tailed hawk, and Canada geese.
Of this last bird, the Canadian goose, Amish farmer and writer David Kline writes in his book Great Possessions, "Canada geese, like us, can hardly wait for spring. Unlike most other migrants who wait until the weather warms and then travel north rapidly, geese return with the opening of the water. Since spring moves north around 15 miles a day, the northward movement of geese might be considered a slow migration."
Indeed. Leisurely, you might say. I have heard a pair honking in a low flyover every morning now for months. I don't know where they sleep at night, but just before sunrise, they're headed east--right toward the Arkansas River, which runs just a couple miles from my house. How long they'll stay is anybody's guess.
I like to think of migration as a kind of bird wanderlust. A few years ago, I was seized by just such a thing when I thought I had to move back to Texas. I wrote a poem about it, called "Migration," which I'll share here, and then close with a comment.
Migration
This damned Zugunruhe*, this urge to set my face
Toward some distant land, one I will inhabit again--
Like the doves my father kept when I was a child--
It must be true! I have stored fat for the journey,
A cache of fuel and burden, function and density
To propel me with its own downhill momentum.
I hope as I go I will lighten this load of me.
Before I leave, I watch the colorful cacophony
Of birds in my front yard who’ve just arrived:
The orioles in their dapper orange, white and black,
The Lincoln and white-crowned sparrows dressed in
Diminutive prairie suits of gray and brown,
And the startling, chattering, chortling goldfinches,
Who, like me, never seem to settle down.
And now, it is my turn to go.
Diurnal, I ride the rising current of hope,
The goodwill of friends, then glide slowly
Over my parched and receding present until
The next buoyant bubble catches me and lifts
My soaring soul away from the shimmering
Blue and brown, gray and green.
And thus, I will arrive to where I’ve been.
Nocturnal now, I glide down the dark corridor
Of cooling air, lit faintly by moon and stars;
I need not look up to read their courses.
My body heat trails behind me, a comet,
The long ribbon of highway ahead and behind.
In the quiet wonder I think, imagine, and worry
About all there is, or could be, or might not be.
Or perhaps what I feel is just old biology,
Pulled on by indelible urges known since the
Dawn of time--hunger, mating (It would be nice!)
Or death--to land myself on some other shore
After navigating seas, and seas, and seas.
Lucky and beleaguered, I’ll ease myself down,
Tired and thin, and deserve whatever I get.
Why do we give up our hard-won territory?
Can it really be just to eat, to die, or take a wife?
This is the question of any hour, of any life.
We fly madly on though we know the way,
Bodies aligned like iron filings to a magnet,
Eyes fixed on some point far beyond our vision,
Our bird-souls alighting ahead, calling us to follow.
This damned Zugunruhe*, this urge to set my face
Toward some distant land, one I will inhabit again--
Like the doves my father kept when I was a child--
It must be true! I have stored fat for the journey,
A cache of fuel and burden, function and density
To propel me with its own downhill momentum.
I hope as I go I will lighten this load of me.
Before I leave, I watch the colorful cacophony
Of birds in my front yard who’ve just arrived:
The orioles in their dapper orange, white and black,
The Lincoln and white-crowned sparrows dressed in
Diminutive prairie suits of gray and brown,
And the startling, chattering, chortling goldfinches,
Who, like me, never seem to settle down.
And now, it is my turn to go.
Diurnal, I ride the rising current of hope,
The goodwill of friends, then glide slowly
Over my parched and receding present until
The next buoyant bubble catches me and lifts
My soaring soul away from the shimmering
Blue and brown, gray and green.
And thus, I will arrive to where I’ve been.
Nocturnal now, I glide down the dark corridor
Of cooling air, lit faintly by moon and stars;
I need not look up to read their courses.
My body heat trails behind me, a comet,
The long ribbon of highway ahead and behind.
In the quiet wonder I think, imagine, and worry
About all there is, or could be, or might not be.
Or perhaps what I feel is just old biology,
Pulled on by indelible urges known since the
Dawn of time--hunger, mating (It would be nice!)
Or death--to land myself on some other shore
After navigating seas, and seas, and seas.
Lucky and beleaguered, I’ll ease myself down,
Tired and thin, and deserve whatever I get.
Why do we give up our hard-won territory?
Can it really be just to eat, to die, or take a wife?
This is the question of any hour, of any life.
We fly madly on though we know the way,
Bodies aligned like iron filings to a magnet,
Eyes fixed on some point far beyond our vision,
Our bird-souls alighting ahead, calling us to follow.
-----
*Migratory restlessness often seen in caged birds.
*Migratory restlessness often seen in caged birds.
Of all the animals there are to watch, birds are by far my favorite. And spring is by far the best time to do it. The leaves are not yet fully on the trees here in central Colorado--though, as Kline notes, every day another 15 miles green up and obscure these magnificent creatures. Soon, all you'll have is sound.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
More than Nature Hates a Vacuum
I am a writer. I am a musician. For the most part, I have been creating and practicing these art forms in a vacuum. I don’t like it at all. I’m also a Christian, a designation that complicates these other two: does that change—or should it change—how I feel about bringing writing into the world without a readership? Songs into the world without a listener?
Some people, other Christians in particular, think it should. Some of these people believe seeking glory or “the praise of men” is wrong, and I should just be content to sit back and wait on God. Well, I do believe in waiting on God, but I don’t believe it’s wrong to want someone—or a large group of people, even—to appreciate what I do. I’ll explain the key reason why in a moment.
For now, I want to discuss the word decorate. We use it often in association with art and art forms. When we hang a cherished painting, we are “decorating.” We usually think that means something like “making a room look pretty.” But actually, the word comes from the Latin word decoratus, which means “ornament” or “honor.” So, “to decorate” means something more profound: “to add honor to.” When I hang an artist’s painting, am I adding honor to the room? No. The room is an inanimate space. I am adding honor to the artist.
Is this wrong? Again, I don’t think so. How can it be, when art, by its very nature, is about conveying ideas, and those ideas basically cease to exist if they are not recognized, if there is no one to appreciate them?
I’ll be the first to tell you not all ideas expressed in art need to be honored. Their merits are a matter of taste or sensibilities, to be sure, but I think we can agree a song proposing murder contains less “honorable” ideas than a song proposing forgiveness. And if we “decorate” our lives (in the “make it pretty” sense) by choosing the song about forgiveness over the one about murder, are we not aligning ourselves with those ideas, endorsing them, if you will? We are. And more than that, while “giving honor” to the higher ideal, we are also decorating the artist behind that creation. That’s the spirit of the word “decorate.”
We often hear it spoken of soldiers, whom we decorate with medals of honor. When we do so, we are acknowledging the “rightness” of their actions; in effect, we are endorsing them in their sacrificial losses and acts of valor. And in so doing, we restore to the soldier some of the dignity of humanity—something war tends to strip away as a matter of course.
Sometimes, creating art can feel like fighting a battle. Seizing on an idea is just the beginning: the artist must find the best medium to convey that idea, then figure out how to do it in a way no other person has, in a way that speaks resoundingly to the souls of those who come in contact with that art. And now, we’re back to the beginning: the artist must then search for an audience.
I believe that in the searching for (and finding) an audience, something much more profound than artistic vainglory is at work: at the point of contact between artist and audience, a two-fold decorating takes place: the audience honors the artist, and the artist honors the audience. How? When I can speak resoundingly to the souls of those with whom my work resonates, I acknowledge their human dignity, their struggles, and their triumphs. I also honor the gifts God has given me, and if I can point someone toward God through the use of those gifts, so much the better.
Okay. I’ve held off long enough. The above reasons are important, but the key reason I believe it’s not wrong to want my art to be appreciated or understood by many people is this: my Christian teachings tell me I’ve been made in the image of God. He may have created in a vacuum, but He wasn’t content to leave it that way. After He created the heavens and the Earth, scripture says He created man and woman. And what do you think God wanted from them? Foremost, He wanted them to give Him honor—to decorate His achievements in creation. Why else would God pour out His infinite imagination? What good is a starry night sky, the achingly blue feathers of an indigo bunting, or the perfect crystalline symmetry of a snowflake without someone to notice? God seeks acknowledgement of His artistry from His creation, and He created humans to do just that. So, because I’m made in His image, I therefore share the same desire—and it’s a completely legitimate one—tucked inside every strand of my DNA.
Notice I didn’t say they would acknowledge Him. God left them free to choose. But for those of us who believe in a Creator, decorating God with the honor He deserves is a natural thing to do.
I know—someone is going to say, “But what you’re asking for is worship!” No, I’m not, no more than I “worship” my favorite songwriter or painter. God alone is worthy of worship, but for that to occur, I must at least first see His incredible, infinite hand in creation. And while it’s true some people do worship songwriters, painters, and writers, the true deficiencies of these gods come out sooner or later. In my case, it would be sooner, if not instantly.
No, I’m not looking for worship. But I would like some acknowledgement now and then that I’m using my God-given talents usefully, that I’m speaking deeply to the souls of those who can hear me. God sought it, and He created beings He hoped would give Him honor. But He left them free to exercise their wills.
Made in His likeness, I find creating in a vacuum as distasteful as He did. But unlike God, I can’t create an instant potential audience out of nothing.
Or can I?
Some people, other Christians in particular, think it should. Some of these people believe seeking glory or “the praise of men” is wrong, and I should just be content to sit back and wait on God. Well, I do believe in waiting on God, but I don’t believe it’s wrong to want someone—or a large group of people, even—to appreciate what I do. I’ll explain the key reason why in a moment.
For now, I want to discuss the word decorate. We use it often in association with art and art forms. When we hang a cherished painting, we are “decorating.” We usually think that means something like “making a room look pretty.” But actually, the word comes from the Latin word decoratus, which means “ornament” or “honor.” So, “to decorate” means something more profound: “to add honor to.” When I hang an artist’s painting, am I adding honor to the room? No. The room is an inanimate space. I am adding honor to the artist.
Is this wrong? Again, I don’t think so. How can it be, when art, by its very nature, is about conveying ideas, and those ideas basically cease to exist if they are not recognized, if there is no one to appreciate them?
I’ll be the first to tell you not all ideas expressed in art need to be honored. Their merits are a matter of taste or sensibilities, to be sure, but I think we can agree a song proposing murder contains less “honorable” ideas than a song proposing forgiveness. And if we “decorate” our lives (in the “make it pretty” sense) by choosing the song about forgiveness over the one about murder, are we not aligning ourselves with those ideas, endorsing them, if you will? We are. And more than that, while “giving honor” to the higher ideal, we are also decorating the artist behind that creation. That’s the spirit of the word “decorate.”
We often hear it spoken of soldiers, whom we decorate with medals of honor. When we do so, we are acknowledging the “rightness” of their actions; in effect, we are endorsing them in their sacrificial losses and acts of valor. And in so doing, we restore to the soldier some of the dignity of humanity—something war tends to strip away as a matter of course.
Sometimes, creating art can feel like fighting a battle. Seizing on an idea is just the beginning: the artist must find the best medium to convey that idea, then figure out how to do it in a way no other person has, in a way that speaks resoundingly to the souls of those who come in contact with that art. And now, we’re back to the beginning: the artist must then search for an audience.
I believe that in the searching for (and finding) an audience, something much more profound than artistic vainglory is at work: at the point of contact between artist and audience, a two-fold decorating takes place: the audience honors the artist, and the artist honors the audience. How? When I can speak resoundingly to the souls of those with whom my work resonates, I acknowledge their human dignity, their struggles, and their triumphs. I also honor the gifts God has given me, and if I can point someone toward God through the use of those gifts, so much the better.
Okay. I’ve held off long enough. The above reasons are important, but the key reason I believe it’s not wrong to want my art to be appreciated or understood by many people is this: my Christian teachings tell me I’ve been made in the image of God. He may have created in a vacuum, but He wasn’t content to leave it that way. After He created the heavens and the Earth, scripture says He created man and woman. And what do you think God wanted from them? Foremost, He wanted them to give Him honor—to decorate His achievements in creation. Why else would God pour out His infinite imagination? What good is a starry night sky, the achingly blue feathers of an indigo bunting, or the perfect crystalline symmetry of a snowflake without someone to notice? God seeks acknowledgement of His artistry from His creation, and He created humans to do just that. So, because I’m made in His image, I therefore share the same desire—and it’s a completely legitimate one—tucked inside every strand of my DNA.
Notice I didn’t say they would acknowledge Him. God left them free to choose. But for those of us who believe in a Creator, decorating God with the honor He deserves is a natural thing to do.
I know—someone is going to say, “But what you’re asking for is worship!” No, I’m not, no more than I “worship” my favorite songwriter or painter. God alone is worthy of worship, but for that to occur, I must at least first see His incredible, infinite hand in creation. And while it’s true some people do worship songwriters, painters, and writers, the true deficiencies of these gods come out sooner or later. In my case, it would be sooner, if not instantly.
No, I’m not looking for worship. But I would like some acknowledgement now and then that I’m using my God-given talents usefully, that I’m speaking deeply to the souls of those who can hear me. God sought it, and He created beings He hoped would give Him honor. But He left them free to exercise their wills.
Made in His likeness, I find creating in a vacuum as distasteful as He did. But unlike God, I can’t create an instant potential audience out of nothing.
Or can I?
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Fiction's "Grand Ambition"
"If fiction works, it doesn’t work because it diverted your attention for five hours or three days. It should work as if you got into a space capsule and you lived another life, and you came back and it’s only Tuesday, and you’re carrying all the lessons with you from that other life. That’s the grand ambition and the opportunity fiction has."
Dr. Abraham Verghese uttered these words during my March-April interview with him as we discussed his latest book and first novel, Cutting for Stone. I've been thinking about them for a while now. What makes them especially true is his assertion that the lessons of fiction are transportable, even over vast spans of time, circumstance, and reason. We know that fiction is fiction, right? Well, yes and no. All fiction is based on fact. What else have we to build stories on? But the novel you or I hold in our hands conveys a kind of false, make-believe world to us. Those people and places do not exist in our world. Just try holding a conversation with one of them at your next dinner date and see where that gets you.
Yet, the "unrealities" of fiction--that is, fiction done right--can become the realities transported back to our world after the last page has been turned. As Verghese rightly states, what an "opportunity," what a "grand ambition" for any author to aspire to. Remembering a story is one thing, but remembering a story's lessons is quite another. I can remember the plot of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird (small-town white lawyer defends black man who's been framed in the 1940s south), but the lesson (prejudice hurts not only the persecuted, but the persecutors) is the real value, the real "point" of the story. It is Mockingbird's message of prejudice and its damage that I bring back to my world--hopefully to make a difference in it--in my "space capsule." There are countless other literary examples I could mention, and maybe you can think of your own.
If so, drop me a comment and let me know what's on your mind. Lessons are for passing on, after all.
Dr. Abraham Verghese uttered these words during my March-April interview with him as we discussed his latest book and first novel, Cutting for Stone. I've been thinking about them for a while now. What makes them especially true is his assertion that the lessons of fiction are transportable, even over vast spans of time, circumstance, and reason. We know that fiction is fiction, right? Well, yes and no. All fiction is based on fact. What else have we to build stories on? But the novel you or I hold in our hands conveys a kind of false, make-believe world to us. Those people and places do not exist in our world. Just try holding a conversation with one of them at your next dinner date and see where that gets you.
Yet, the "unrealities" of fiction--that is, fiction done right--can become the realities transported back to our world after the last page has been turned. As Verghese rightly states, what an "opportunity," what a "grand ambition" for any author to aspire to. Remembering a story is one thing, but remembering a story's lessons is quite another. I can remember the plot of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird (small-town white lawyer defends black man who's been framed in the 1940s south), but the lesson (prejudice hurts not only the persecuted, but the persecutors) is the real value, the real "point" of the story. It is Mockingbird's message of prejudice and its damage that I bring back to my world--hopefully to make a difference in it--in my "space capsule." There are countless other literary examples I could mention, and maybe you can think of your own.
If so, drop me a comment and let me know what's on your mind. Lessons are for passing on, after all.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Banging the Drum
I've managed to secure two possible reviews of Depending on the Light over the last month, one with Denver-based licensed counselor Janelle Hallman, whose recent book The Heart of Female Same-Sex Attraction was published through Intervarsity Press in 2008. The other possible review is through the National Association for Research and Therapy of Homosexuality (NARTH). Hallman and NARTH have both been laboring in the trenches well over a decade for client counseling away from homosexuality if it's asked for. I appreciate their stances on this issue, and of course, I'm hoping for the best if/when they each get around to looking at the book.
VDM (my publisher) has been only partly helpful, having finally sent a review copy to Hallman after I had to request it twice (and endure some vitriol, too); my request to NARTH went unfulfilled completely, so luckily I had a review copy cc'ed to me in my own e-mail box to Hallman from VDM to send on. I do not understand this publisher, nor will I ever. Should the book go out of print in October, which seems likely, it will almost be a blessing to be done with VDM. In the meantime, I keep hoping for good reviews here and there which might generate another publishing deal on the book.
Inch by inch things get done. And undone. And done again.
VDM (my publisher) has been only partly helpful, having finally sent a review copy to Hallman after I had to request it twice (and endure some vitriol, too); my request to NARTH went unfulfilled completely, so luckily I had a review copy cc'ed to me in my own e-mail box to Hallman from VDM to send on. I do not understand this publisher, nor will I ever. Should the book go out of print in October, which seems likely, it will almost be a blessing to be done with VDM. In the meantime, I keep hoping for good reviews here and there which might generate another publishing deal on the book.
Inch by inch things get done. And undone. And done again.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Surprise of Desolation
"In desolation we expect to find utter emptiness. There should be nothing but the barren end of the world here, but instead I find an inalienable, voracious presence. . . . These years have brought me closer to this living creature, and tonight, I am right up against it, the heat of its body pressing on me. Of course I want to go further. I want to reach into this animal, however many seasons and long treks it will take. I want to see through its eyes."
Writer Craig Childs, sitting naked watching a thunderstorm in a canyon, penned those words near the beginning of his mesmerizing book Soul of Nowhere (Sasquatch Books, 2002). In just 226 pages, Childs writes so eloquently about the desert southwest that the reader is stunned into its trance, just the way the sun can pin one to the barren outcrop of rock on the lip of a canyon, then compel her to jump without the slightest trace of remorse.
I live in the high desert, and I am often so caught in its spell I can hardly articulate it. But I discovered as I read this passage again today that Childs is speaking not just about a capitvating land. He's also speaking about an inner, sometimes brutal force that catapults us through life. All the desert manages to do is unmask it, lay it bare. Then the reckoning comes.
I've written before in this blog about sexual orientation and change, how it affected me and continues to do so. I will borrow Childs' passage above to illustrate that "desolation" I now find myself wrapped in. And rather than the "barren end of the world," I find that "voracious presence" residing in me--the "inalienable" drives God gave me, restored to me, those that refuse to starve, to leave me alone even when all else is right. Not to put too fine a point on it, the paradox is that real change brings real needs. It is specifically the voraciousness of that animal--the one that I, like Childs, long to reach inside of--that is about to drive me mad.
Childs has spent thousands of miles hiking through landscapes so rugged and beautiful that he has, at times, almost given in to the overpowering pull of the desert southwest--and those who spend any amount of time here know what I speak of--to dissolve oneself into the abyss. You can't even call it death, really. It's more a blending, a breakdown of the barriers that separate humans from the landscape, the elements. The effect is cumulative, over time and compounded by silences. And voids that need filling.
All my years have brought me here, too. I am "right up against" my animal, "the heat of its body pressing on me." Of course, I want to go further. But I can't, so I'm ready to yank the wiring job God did for me, and did quite well--not because I disagree with it, but because I need a little relief. Lucky for me, I can't find the main connection.
In the meantime, I'll sit naked on this canyon ledge "however many seasons and long treks it takes," I'll keep seeing this life through my desert animal's eyes, breathe in the sharp ozone, and watch that thunderstorm on the horizon march toward me, too.
Writer Craig Childs, sitting naked watching a thunderstorm in a canyon, penned those words near the beginning of his mesmerizing book Soul of Nowhere (Sasquatch Books, 2002). In just 226 pages, Childs writes so eloquently about the desert southwest that the reader is stunned into its trance, just the way the sun can pin one to the barren outcrop of rock on the lip of a canyon, then compel her to jump without the slightest trace of remorse.
I live in the high desert, and I am often so caught in its spell I can hardly articulate it. But I discovered as I read this passage again today that Childs is speaking not just about a capitvating land. He's also speaking about an inner, sometimes brutal force that catapults us through life. All the desert manages to do is unmask it, lay it bare. Then the reckoning comes.
I've written before in this blog about sexual orientation and change, how it affected me and continues to do so. I will borrow Childs' passage above to illustrate that "desolation" I now find myself wrapped in. And rather than the "barren end of the world," I find that "voracious presence" residing in me--the "inalienable" drives God gave me, restored to me, those that refuse to starve, to leave me alone even when all else is right. Not to put too fine a point on it, the paradox is that real change brings real needs. It is specifically the voraciousness of that animal--the one that I, like Childs, long to reach inside of--that is about to drive me mad.
Childs has spent thousands of miles hiking through landscapes so rugged and beautiful that he has, at times, almost given in to the overpowering pull of the desert southwest--and those who spend any amount of time here know what I speak of--to dissolve oneself into the abyss. You can't even call it death, really. It's more a blending, a breakdown of the barriers that separate humans from the landscape, the elements. The effect is cumulative, over time and compounded by silences. And voids that need filling.
All my years have brought me here, too. I am "right up against" my animal, "the heat of its body pressing on me." Of course, I want to go further. But I can't, so I'm ready to yank the wiring job God did for me, and did quite well--not because I disagree with it, but because I need a little relief. Lucky for me, I can't find the main connection.
In the meantime, I'll sit naked on this canyon ledge "however many seasons and long treks it takes," I'll keep seeing this life through my desert animal's eyes, breathe in the sharp ozone, and watch that thunderstorm on the horizon march toward me, too.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Peanuts vs. Money
Everywhere we look, industries are shedding jobs and asking for bailouts, economic numbers foretell doom and gloom, and people are nervous about their futures. There is good reason, yes. The publishing industry is right in the fray tightening its belt, too (to the dismay of those of us who write--now it will be a little bit harder to break into that cask). I'm not happy about it, but I ran across an anecdotal story that helps me keep the whole mess in perspective.
George Washington Carver (1864-1943), the renowned U.S. agricultural researcher and son of black slaves, had the right outlook. He lost his entire life savings--about $70,000--in a bank collapse in Alabama. He hardly skipped a beat when he got the news, saying, "I guess somebody found a use for it. I was not using it, myself."
What strikes me most about Carver's comment is his resourcefulness. He was raised by his master, went on to earn a college degree (not easy in his day) and excelled in agricultural breakthroughs, including a myriad of uses for the peanut. Our lives are forever changed by his curiosity, tenacity, and his ability to see beyond his nose--indeed, beyond the loss of his entire monetary future. Carver knew the intrinsic value of a dollar, and it paled in contrast to the value of an intellect. He saw things rightly.
Think about that as you whip out the peanut butter (not on the recall list) for your next meal, or future meals, if things tighen even further. I hope we all can catch and keep his vision in the weeks and months to come.
George Washington Carver (1864-1943), the renowned U.S. agricultural researcher and son of black slaves, had the right outlook. He lost his entire life savings--about $70,000--in a bank collapse in Alabama. He hardly skipped a beat when he got the news, saying, "I guess somebody found a use for it. I was not using it, myself."
What strikes me most about Carver's comment is his resourcefulness. He was raised by his master, went on to earn a college degree (not easy in his day) and excelled in agricultural breakthroughs, including a myriad of uses for the peanut. Our lives are forever changed by his curiosity, tenacity, and his ability to see beyond his nose--indeed, beyond the loss of his entire monetary future. Carver knew the intrinsic value of a dollar, and it paled in contrast to the value of an intellect. He saw things rightly.
Think about that as you whip out the peanut butter (not on the recall list) for your next meal, or future meals, if things tighen even further. I hope we all can catch and keep his vision in the weeks and months to come.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Resolved:
By now, I imagine a few people are taking stock of their New Year's resolutions' feasibility--can't possibly do that one, this one is still achievable. I don't tend to make them because I know I won't keep them, no matter how simple or attainable they may be.
But one man's many resolutions came to mind as 2009 began: those of Jonathan Edwards (1703-58). Though Edwards is largely dismissed now in academic and secular circles for his "hell-fire" preaching, he remains nonetheless a pillar of the American Christian experience. Edwards' life, coming to an abrupt end due to a too-powerful smallpox vaccination, stands as an example of one man's passionate love of God and man, and his resolutions exemplify these two loves. There are 70 in all, and they are not just a list of things to "do" but to be. They are admirable, indeed. Here are a few of my favorites, edited for brevity.
1. Resolved, that I will do whatsoever I think to be most to God' s glory, and my own good, profit and pleasure, in the whole of my duration, without any consideration of the time, whether now, or never so many myriads of ages hence.
4. Resolved, never to do any manner of thing, whether in soul or body, less or more, but what tends to the glory of God; nor be, nor suffer it, if I can avoid it.
5. Resolved, never to lose one moment of time; but improve it the most profitable way I possibly can.
6. Resolved, to live with all my might, while I do live.
7. Resolved, never to do anything, which I should be afraid to do, if it were the last hour of my life.
11. Resolved, when I think of any theorem in divinity to be solved, immediately to do what I can towards solving it, if circumstances do not hinder.
12. Resolved, if I take delight in it as a gratification of pride, or vanity, or on any such account, immediately to throw it by.
13. Resolved, to be endeavoring to find out fit objects of charity and liberality.
14. Resolved, never to do any thing out of revenge.
15. Resolved, never to suffer the least motions of anger towards irrational beings.
16. Resolved, never to speak evil of anyone, so that it shall tend to his dishonor, more or less, upon no account except for some real good.
17. Resolved, that I will live so, as I shall wish I had done when I come to die.
25. Resolved, to examine carefully, and constantly, what that one thing in me is, which causes me in the least to doubt of the love of God; and to direct all my forces against it.
56. Resolved, never to give over, nor in the least to slacken, my fight with my corruptions, however unsuccessful I may be.
66. Resolved, that I will endeavor always to keep a benign aspect, and air of acting and speaking in all places, and in all companies, except it should so happen that duty requires otherwise.
68. Resolved, to confess frankly to myself all that which I find in myself, either infirmity or sin; and, if it be what concerns religion, also to confess the whole case to God, and implore needed help.
Oh, the one thing Edwards acknowledged was this: BEING SENSIBLE THAT I AM UNABLE TO DO ANYTHING WITHOUT GOD' S HELP, I DO HUMBLY ENTREAT HIM BY HIS GRACE TO ENABLE ME TO KEEP THESE RESOLUTIONS, SO FAR AS THEY ARE AGREEABLE TO HIS WILL, FOR CHRIST' S SAKE. [CAPS in original].
I'd say he's right on. Here's to a better year, a better me, with God's help.
But one man's many resolutions came to mind as 2009 began: those of Jonathan Edwards (1703-58). Though Edwards is largely dismissed now in academic and secular circles for his "hell-fire" preaching, he remains nonetheless a pillar of the American Christian experience. Edwards' life, coming to an abrupt end due to a too-powerful smallpox vaccination, stands as an example of one man's passionate love of God and man, and his resolutions exemplify these two loves. There are 70 in all, and they are not just a list of things to "do" but to be. They are admirable, indeed. Here are a few of my favorites, edited for brevity.
1. Resolved, that I will do whatsoever I think to be most to God' s glory, and my own good, profit and pleasure, in the whole of my duration, without any consideration of the time, whether now, or never so many myriads of ages hence.
4. Resolved, never to do any manner of thing, whether in soul or body, less or more, but what tends to the glory of God; nor be, nor suffer it, if I can avoid it.
5. Resolved, never to lose one moment of time; but improve it the most profitable way I possibly can.
6. Resolved, to live with all my might, while I do live.
7. Resolved, never to do anything, which I should be afraid to do, if it were the last hour of my life.
11. Resolved, when I think of any theorem in divinity to be solved, immediately to do what I can towards solving it, if circumstances do not hinder.
12. Resolved, if I take delight in it as a gratification of pride, or vanity, or on any such account, immediately to throw it by.
13. Resolved, to be endeavoring to find out fit objects of charity and liberality.
14. Resolved, never to do any thing out of revenge.
15. Resolved, never to suffer the least motions of anger towards irrational beings.
16. Resolved, never to speak evil of anyone, so that it shall tend to his dishonor, more or less, upon no account except for some real good.
17. Resolved, that I will live so, as I shall wish I had done when I come to die.
25. Resolved, to examine carefully, and constantly, what that one thing in me is, which causes me in the least to doubt of the love of God; and to direct all my forces against it.
56. Resolved, never to give over, nor in the least to slacken, my fight with my corruptions, however unsuccessful I may be.
66. Resolved, that I will endeavor always to keep a benign aspect, and air of acting and speaking in all places, and in all companies, except it should so happen that duty requires otherwise.
68. Resolved, to confess frankly to myself all that which I find in myself, either infirmity or sin; and, if it be what concerns religion, also to confess the whole case to God, and implore needed help.
Oh, the one thing Edwards acknowledged was this: BEING SENSIBLE THAT I AM UNABLE TO DO ANYTHING WITHOUT GOD' S HELP, I DO HUMBLY ENTREAT HIM BY HIS GRACE TO ENABLE ME TO KEEP THESE RESOLUTIONS, SO FAR AS THEY ARE AGREEABLE TO HIS WILL, FOR CHRIST' S SAKE. [CAPS in original].
I'd say he's right on. Here's to a better year, a better me, with God's help.
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