Keeping Up Appearances

I had just a little bit to say about Owen Barfield’s Saving the Appearances. But when I sat down to write, I wondered if I could tie in the exquisite British sitcom Keeping Up Appearances in any way. And I’m pleased to say I can! Hyacinth Walton has married a man named Richard Bucket. Now to most Brits, the name Bucket has connotations; its homonymity with a practical piece of farming equipment brings to mind a sense of respectable yeomanry, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, a comfortable and reliable goodness. But Hyacinth has a delusional sense that she occupies by natural right a higher position in the traditional British social hierarchy than the place of respectable yeoman. So she pronounces the name “Bouquet,” a name that doesn’t just mean an arrangement of flowers; it’s a French word and carries with it overtones of elegance and nobility and carefully trained charm. It’s a good joke, and it’s funny in every single episode.

Owen Barfield, also, was interested in the connotations and overtones in words. The first Barfield book I read, Poetic Diction, I enjoyed so much I read it twice. Here, basically, Barfield says that older languages reveal that their speakers had a richer view of the world than we do. Ancient and New Testament Greek is sometimes said to be a poetic language because every noun has both a literal and a figurative meaning. Pneuma, for instance (you’ll forgive me for transliterating instead of using Greek script), actually means “breath” and “wind” but figuratively means “spirit” or “life force.” A common view (at least I’ve heard it’s common: I haven’t actually read any linguistic history that says this) says that early people saw a person breathing and saw a tree swaying in the wind and came up with a word for the motion of air and then later imagined an unseen entity and, with poetically minded people leading the way, decided that the word for the concrete thing could be applied to the immaterial or abstract thing as well. On the contrary, Barfield argues that early speakers of Greek didn’t see these as two different meanings: they thought of an immaterial life force being carried by wind and breath, they came up with a word for the conglomerate, and they meant everything all at once when they used the word pneuma. Barfield was a friend of Lewis and Tolkien and a frequent attendee of the Inklings meetings at the Eagle and Child in Oxford. I admire Lewis and Tolkien; I liked Barfield’s argument about language; ergo, I concluded Barfield was a reasonable, respectable guy. A Bucket, if you will.

Saving the Appearances begins by saying the same thing from a different angle. Here, Barfield starts with the planets. Ancient people looked at the lights that moved against the background stars and, believing in gods or angels and crystalline spheres, “saw” all of these things when they looked up. We register the same points of light, but we “see” globes of rock or gas revolving around the sun according to laws discovered by Kepler and Newton and Einstein. Now, Barfield claims that the earlier view is one that views material objects as connected to immaterial things; in his words, he says that the ancients viewed concrete things as “participating” in the abstract. (I suppose he got his term from Plato, who taught that beautiful things “participate” in the ideal of Beauty.) Science, Barfield says, has pulled apart the meanings of the sight and dismissed the immaterial part. I’d like to point out that Kepler’s laws are every bit as immaterial as angels or Plato’s ideals. But I get Barfield’s point: the ancients saw meanings actually existing in words and in things that we think of only as poetic, symbolic references. The same patterns of light waves may strike my retina and Julius Caesar’s, but we see different things. So far so good.

But halfway through Saving the Appearances, Barfield becomes a crank, and he lost me. He says that our view of the planets, our thought that we now actually know what they are, is a form of idolatry, since we don’t actually know the real nature of the unseen particles that make up the planets. The ancients were wrong, but only in that they saw the planets as participating in the wrong things. To escape our idolatry, we have to have a new stage of participation, one that “realizes the directionally creator relation.” He apologizes for the awkward phrase but confesses that he can find no better way to describe what humanity needs. Near the end of the book he says that a new morality, surpassing Christian morality as much as Christian morality surpassed pagan, involves man’s obligation to awaken to “final participation” (our intentional reshaping of the way we see things – I think). Jesus’s explanation of the Parable of the Sower talks about the ears to hear and about eyes that don’t see, and Barfield says that, at last, we can now understand Jesus’s words, that we now know that He meant hearing and seeing in Barfield’s way of looking at things. (Barfield reminded me of Hegel at this point: the goal of the unfolding of the universe across eons is for humans to see things the way Barfield sees them. So humble.) Original participation, he says, was paganism, and the Scientific Revolution should be thanked for leading us to the idolatry of the images so we could break free and fulfill our purpose to “realize the directionally creator relation.”

So I was wrong, I suppose, in thinking that Barfield was a reliable yeoman. No, no! Barfield was a Bouquet among Buckets. Well, if that’s so, I’m happy being a Bucket.

Recent Audiobooks

Over the last year-and-a-half, while I’m out to pick up my grandkids from school, I’ve been listening to audiobooks in the car. In the first few months of this year, I’ve listened to Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend (as read by the wonderful Mil Nicholson and available for free on Librivox), Stephen Lawhead’s Pendragon, Patrick O’Brian’s The Yellow Admiral, Edna Ferber’s So Big, and Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio.

City driving is not the most conducive to paying careful attention to an audiobook: so many interstate entrance ramps, so many stop lights, so many intersections with no stop lights or stop signs whatsoever (a curious feature of Spokane streets), and, during one recent period, so many girl scouts selling cookies! I found my mind wandering a lot during Pendragon, but then I thought that it was not nearly so good as the first three books in the series (and the internet seems to agree with me). I found my mind wandering a lot during The Yellow Admiral, but then I thought that it was not nearly so good as the first seventeen books in the series (and again the internet seems to agree). Still, with so many hundreds of words just floating past me and not registering, I started wondering if I should just stick with music during the twenty-minute commutes. But then I remembered that I had been very focused on Our Mutual Friend, and it occurred to me that neither of the more recent authors is nearly so good as Dickens. (I haven’t consulted the internet on that question. I know I’m right.)

Over the last three or four weeks I’ve listened to two early twentieth-century books about people in small rust-belt towns, and I haven’t had any trouble following either one. I had heard that Ferber’s So Big, which won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1925, was about a woman who runs a farm. And I suppose it is that, but it’s so much more. As I listened over the course of about three weeks, I heard about the shift in turn-of-the-century America from rural life to urban life. I heard about philosophical conflicts between money and beauty. I heard about birth and death, about happy marriages and unfortunate marriages. I heard about young people from more than one generation imagining what they wanted to do in life and then changing directions because of (or being changed by) unfolding circumstances. I heard about Americans of several generations acclimating to a culture of ad agencies, automobiles, celebrities, skyscrapers, fashion magazines, and world war. When characters learned to adjust, the book was heart-warming. When they didn’t, it was movingly tragic. I can see why it won the big prize, even though Ferber’s use of informal “you” drove me nuts. She writes at one point, “She smiled then so that you saw the funny little wrinkle across her nose.” Why couldn’t she just say that the smile drew a funny little wrinkle?

Have you (I know who you are, so that wasn’t an informal use of “you”!) ever looked at a list of American classic literature – say, the contents of the Norton Anthology that you bought for a college lit class or a beautiful list that your favorite high-school substitute gave you – and found yourself not sure you could remember which works were written by Upton Sinclair and which by Sinclair Lewis? Do Bret Harte and Hart Crane become confused in your mind? Do Robert Sherwood and Sherwood Anderson get smooshed together into some sort of hyphenated monster? I was thinking about this curious pattern in authors’ names just the other day, and that very evening we watched a Jeopardy! episode that included an “Authors Before and After” category! One contestant earned several hundred dollars for enunciating the very improbable question, “Who is Upton Sinclair Lewis?”

Maybe my confusion will resolve a bit now that I’ve finally been reading (i.e. listening to) Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio. This set of linked short stories appeared in section III of Miss Engler’s list: “those works on a difficulty and interest level which require greater maturity on the part of the student.” A lot of sex happens in this book. A teacher is accused of pedophilia. A preacher enjoys peeping at a naked woman in the house next to the church. Several casual trysts occur. One man sends his wife away after he finds that she has committed adultery, and the woman’s mother brings her back to the husband’s house and takes off her (the daughter’s) clothes in front of him. Now I see why Miss Engler told us to wait! But she recommended reading books from section III in college, and I would have hated this book when I was college-age. I wasn’t lonely and desperate and didn’t know anybody who was (or, rather, didn’t know that they were), and I would have wondered why twentieth-century authors couldn’t all write nice stories like So Big about relatable, realistic, sympathetic people. I would have thought that Anderson (See? I remember which is which now! Robert Sherwood wrote that play about Lincoln) was saying that all people were desperate and lonely. I might have thought Anderson was telling me that people should be desperate and lonely because that’s all life can offer or deserves. I might have thought that Anderson himself was desperate and lonely and should have gotten some help instead of writing a book about “unrealistic” characters. Miss Engler just didn’t know how much maturity it would take on my part. I’m way past college age now; I’m even way past the age of teaching college. Finally I know that a lot of people feel isolated and defeated. I know that almost everybody feels this way sometimes. I know that authors don’t always approve of the characters they put front and center in their books; not every book is about a hero. And I have a lot more experience, by grace, showing compassion towards people with these problems instead of shock or disbelief or bewilderment.

I’m having one difficulty, though, in listening to Winesburg, Ohio. More disturbing to me than the characters are the narrators and their bizarre ideas of what an Ohio accent sounds like (one fellow thinks a Maine accent will do) and their weirdly overwrought dramatizations of the characters’ lines. I wish Miss Engler had said, “The works in section III will be suitable for you when you’re retired, but don’t listen to them in the car.”

Rereading Pascal

I have an idea of what I want to write about today, but the topic depends on the story of my life. If we can divide people into those who at least think about writing an autobiography and those who don’t, I would fall in the first group. But today is not the day either for me to write this imaginary book or for you to read it. But here’s the summary as it will no doubt appear in future book reviews.

When I was a kid, I was happy. When I was in high school, I was still happy, but, even more, I was convinced that I was right to be happy and that people who weren’t as ebullient as I were somehow wrong. I started attending a church that taught what would now be called a prosperity gospel, where I heard that God loves us and wants our happiness always. My life concurred.

Then things changed. I can point to three main events in my life around the time I turned 20 that reshaped my thinking. But I also have evidence that my brain chemistry altered. For decades, my favorite Bible verse was Ezekiel 36:32: “It is not for your sake that I will act, says the Lord GOD. . . . Be ashamed and confounded for your ways.” I became convinced that being sad was right and that people who weren’t as melancholy as I was were somehow wrong. I started going to a different kind of church, but still people there would tell me from time to time that I needed more of the joy of the Lord, and I would respond, “King Solomon, inspired by the Spirit of God, said, ‘With much wisdom there is much sorrow.’ ”

I see now that I said much of this more clearly and more efficiently in this post about Chesterton. Today I must say that Pascal’s Pensées helped me as much as Orthodoxy. Here was another intelligent (understatement of the year) Christian telling me that I was correct in being ashamed and confounded in my ways. Pascal’s never-written book (this masterpiece comes to us as notes scribbled on little bits of paper!) moved me profoundly like no other book I’ve ever read. When I reread it some twenty years later, I came face to face again with an overwhelming Power that made me join Job in covering my mouth.

At some point, after thirty years of feeling miserable, it occurred to me to try an antidepressant. The first day I took one, I actually felt (I know people say this, but I really felt it!) a great weight being lifted from my shoulders. Hour by hour, it seemed to me that the folds of an enormously heavy curtain were being raised off of me, one by one. From that day Easter has been more of a celebration for me than ever: I consider myself to have lived a thirty-year season of Lent. Every once in a while, I have days when the pill doesn’t work. The world doesn’t get so dark because I know that I will be better the next day, but I think on those days, “No wonder I was so miserable all those years: I felt like this all the time.”

Last month, I read the Pensées again for a third time, and it seemed different. The sharp insight into human nature, the love of God, the brilliant, powerful writing were still there. I was still aware that I stood in the presence of one of the Greatest of the Great Books. But the experience didn’t move me to drop to my knees in humility and godly sorrow this time. And I started to wonder: have I lost something valuable by taking an antidepressant?

Not on the Lists

When I was in college and first really started learning about Literature (high school gave absolutely no direction on this score, although I did end up with Miss Engler’s treasured Book List), I found out that I did not care for certain works by Hemingway and for certain poems by Wallace Stevens. And I knew that I did like the works of Charles Dickens (I had read, I think, two of the novels by that time). So in my thirst for knowledge, I encoded in my head the summary judgment that I did not like Twentieth-Century Literature and did like Nineteenth-Century Literature. (Please read those names the way a pretentious twenty-year-old would pronounce capitalized phrases.)

Of course, over the next few decades, I found plenty of exceptions, some even by Hemingway and Stevens. And yet my dumb rule still held sway in my head. Now to be fair, if a twentieth-century work has a certain streak of modernism in it, I will probably like it less than a nineteenth-century work with a certain strain of Romanticism or of Realism. (Grr. Why are some artistic movements capitalized and some not?) And so I avoided current literature for most of the last two decades of the previous century and the first two decades of this.

To be brutally candid, I was pretty old before I realized that just because the year of a book had a 9 as the second digit doesn’t mean that it falls under the rubric of modernism. “Twentieth century” means a lot of things. The twentieth century was a long time, and it witnessed a lot of different artistic sensibilities. I was served poorly by the clunky names of college classes and my facile acceptance of them.

Now good British expository style would find this off-center introduction leading right up to a tangent point with the central topic of the essay. But I see that I’ve missed the mark: I want to talk about one twentieth-century novel that irks me and one twenty-first-century novel. But I took some time to write that preamble, so I’ll leave it there. I hope you find it informative or entertaining!

I’m well ahead of schedule this year and recently read two books not on my plan, both of which I thought deserved a mention. I think both could be considered somewhere in the vicinity of Great Books. The first one is by a Pulitzer winner, and the second one has been mentioned twice on Jeopardy! in the last year.

First up is a note about Anne Tyler’s The Accidental Tourist. I loved this book until the last page. Macon Leary’s series of travel books for the “accidental tourist” is an excellent joke: Macon hates to travel and assumes others do, too, so his guides show his readers how to travel in Europe while seeing as little as possible and feeling as much as possible that they have never left home. He tries to make feeding his dog easier by pouring the dog food down the old coal chute, but then finds that his dog is afraid of the basement and has to be carried down to his meals. That’s good stuff. I could read a thousand pages about Macon. He wants everything regular and predictable and comfortable, and then he meets Muriel Pritchett. I could read two thousand pages about Muriel and never get bored. She offers to train the dog and says she charges $10 a session but will only charge Macon $5 since they’re friends, even though they’ve just met. Their relationship is hilarious and weird and sad and heart-warming, and I loved reading about every high and low for n-1 pages. But Muriel says that a man can’t just throw away a girl like a piece of trash, and then that’s just what Macon does. On the last page. And I wondered, why did I read about this man if he can’t learn anything? The dog is more sympathetic. There. I think I explained why the last page of the book ruined the whole thing for me without giving away the ending, because there’s also a wife, and if you read it, you’ll still be left guessing right to the end just as I was.

I had a much better experience with Amor Towles’s A Gentleman in Moscow. I couldn’t help thinking of War and Peace when I saw that the protagonist’s name was Count Rostov, but Towles, while no Tolstoy, is good enough to get away with it. (Is “Towles” pronounced like the first half of “Tolstoy”?) In the earliest days of the Russian Revolution, Rostov is sentenced by a committee to lifelong house arrest in the Metropol Hotel. Rostov has stayed there often and even has a dedicated suite there filled with family heirloom furniture. But the bailiffs pass that familiar door and take him to a small attic room. No problem, Rostov thinks. Become master of your circumstances so they don’t master you. Thus Count Rostov is wise and inspirational. He finds ways to treat the attic as a private suite. Thus Count Rostov is resourceful. It seems the Communist Committee is not the only authority that can force one to live in a hotel, and over the course of his life he befriends one nine-year-old girl and later adopts another. Thus Count Rostov is caring and charming. Eventually he becomes the head waiter at one of the hotel’s restaurants. Thus Count Rostov is humble and industrious. Count Rostov also proves to be intelligent and courageous, but to give examples would give too much away. I won’t say this novel is better than Tolstoy’s book, but this Count Rostov is better than Tosltoy’s Count.

At the Norman, OK, Public Library, I once saw a poster that said, over the face of the Statue of Liberty, “BE FREE! READ!” I get what the poster’s maker and the library’s decorator were trying to do. But all-caps commands coming from the stern visage of that lady are hardly consonant with the notion of liberty. Still, I think of that poster when I enjoin you to read this book. (The gentleman in me, as inspired by Towles’s Count, prohibits me from capitalizing those last three words, but perhaps you should read the phrase the way a pretentious twenty-year-old would.)

The Lists

When I was teaching beginning Latin and we got to the words copia and copiae, students always balked at the idea that a word could mean something different in singular and in plural. (Copia is plenty or an abundance, as in “cornucopia.” Copiae refers to troops.) But English has a few examples of its own. A premise, for instance, is a given statement in a train of thought or formal proof, while “premises” can mean the property of some institution or unit; an unwelcome customer might be escorted off the premises, for instance. Another example is “list.” Of course, the plural can mean more than one series of items (a grocery list and a laundry list, e.g.), but it can also mean the pitch or field in which a joust takes place. When a knight “enters the lists,” he is decked out in full panoply of armor and regalia (complete with some cloth token from a lady) and ready to test his mettle (and his metal) by riding full tilt at another brave warrior with couched lance.

I may have first encountered this courtly meaning of “lists” in Sidney Lanier’s The Boy’s King Arthur (surely if I ever do make a list of my top 100 books, Lanier’s treasure will have to appear on it), but it may also have been in Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, in one form or another. I still remember that when my dad recommended Ivanhoe to me, it thought it would be an adventure story about Indians. The word still sounds to me like it comes from a language much more exotic than Saxon. But when Dad bought me the Classics Illustrated version, I found that Scott’s great work was something quite different: a story of knights in shining armor fighting for honor and the safety of beautiful damsels. I was hooked on the setting from the first. And between the artwork in that comic and the inner-cover illustration in my copy of Lanier, I fell in love with a clear visual picture of the anachronistic setting of colorful pennants, striped pavilions, Cinderalla-like castles in the shape of actual specimens from 400 years after Ivanhoe’s time (and a thousand after Arthur’s), high-stepping steeds, and crystalline blue skies dotted with perfectly fluffed clouds.

When I was about 20, I read the prose work by Scott, although it may have been abridged since I read it from my dad’s high-school literature book. (I should write a post about my parents’ high-school literature books!) I wish I remembered more about my experience reading the book then. I wish I could have said to myself, “You’re going to read this again 45 years from now, and you’ll want to know how the book has changed for you.” It seemed harder to read than I remember. That could be because of my general problem of reading with ever-increasing years of memories and ideas jostling around looking for associations with every word I come into contact with. But was it also because at 20 I still just let unfamiliar words roll past? Scott uses a beautiful and influential diction of chronologically jumbled archaisms to give his historical fiction flavors both of days-gone-by and of nobility. When I was that young, did I just enjoy savoring those flavors without worrying about the meaning of every word? Did I just let eremites and recreants and oubliettes pass by with the assumption that if I had been educated better, I would have understood? (That’s a very real possibility). These days I want to know what every word and sentence actually means, and that can slow me down.

In any case, everything I remember loving was still there: the lists and the pavilions with their pennons, the mysterious Black Knight, the castle besieged, the definitions of chivalry that helped at least one romantic young man determine to do the right thing in difficult circumstances, the beautiful ladies who prefer death to dishonor, the trial and the call for a champion to decide guilt or innocence, Robin Hood and his merry men, and the return of good King Richard Lionheart. What I didn’t remember was the complex and nuanced judgment of the narrator on all that happens. I’ve read that this was the most popular Scott book at the time, and I can see why. It’s the best I’ve read recently, and not just because of the chivalric action, but because of its challenging wisdom. The Jewish characters are sympathetic, and they argue against the prejudice hurled against them by “Christian” society. Scott has horrible villains perpetrate all manner of hideous cruelties against them, but the heroes of the story, in defiance of both the time of Richard I and Scott’s time, defend the dignity of the Jews and even offer to fight for their honor. Scott’s knights define chivalry in a way that makes it sound like the loftiest way to live ever conceived, and I’m sure that as a kid reading the Classics Illustrated version, I felt that had I been alive at the time I would gladly have died for noble King Richard. And yet the women of the story, who depend on the chivalry at crucial moments, critique the code as a way for hot-headed young men to pretend they’re serving God while really they’re just indulging their sinful passion for violence. Scott portrays the Catholic Church as both the ultimate source of truth and as rife with corruption. He describes the Normans as conquerors, usurpers, and oppressors of the Saxons, and yet the most noble person in the story, Richard, is a Norman. The great Norman king receives the loyalty of the great Saxon agitator, Robin Hood, and he oversees a marriage at the end of the book that brings about amity between the nations.

As I read, I thought about the nineteenth-century English teenage girls who made up a substantial portion of Scott’s audience and of what a sane, wholesome influence this book must have had on them. I don’t think they knew when Ivanhoe first appeared that the author was Walter Scott. But I think they knew him as the author of the Waverly novels and knew that he was Scottish, and so they read a book by a Scotsman praising everything noble in the history of Scotland’s English oppressors. They read a book by a member of the Scottish Presbyterian Kirk praising the Christianity of the truest Catholics. They read an argument that if nobility of blood depends on length of pedigree, the Jews must be the most noble people on earth. All these issues were matter of political importance in a society that barred Catholics, Jews, and sometimes Scots from political office and university education, and Scott taught these young readers politically subversive views in an acceptable and even wildly popular way, and yet they come across not as political positions but as moral truths. Yes, this book was way, way better than I remembered!

Top 100 – Part VIII

This is the 800th post on exlibrismagnis! Every hundred posts, I’ve departed from reporting on current reading and shared some of my favorite moments from books: sections and ideas and lines that I think about often. I just went through all the previous entries in this subseries and did two things. First, I added the label “Top 100” to each of them; now you can find all the others easily in the “Labels” section at the right side of the page. (If you’re reading on a phone, you have to click “View web version” at the bottom of the page to see the “Labels” section, as well as other “gadgets.”) Second, I realized that, sure enough, I do think about all these favorite passages often.

Two or three years ago, I selected the items for today’s post. Curiously, I’ve read a couple of these books within the last twelve months and even wrote on this blog about these very moments, proving, I suppose, that I do really think about these things often.

I’ll begin with a Russian theme.

• Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov: Dmitri, railing against God, asks his brother whether he (he, Alyosha, not God) could have created a world in which one little girl would be tortured for the good of the whole. For me and others, it’s the most piercing, devastating presentation of the “problem of evil”: if God is all-powerful and all-benevolent . . . . And yet human beings do torture little girls, so the question creates its dilemma partly by pushing this responsibility off on God.

• Edward Rutherfurd, Russka: One afternoon a visitor from the west visits a humble restaurant in Russia, almost nothing more than a domestic kitchen opened to the public. He asks for bread, and the woman of the house offers him the last stale heel of yesterday’s loaf. After asking if she has any fresh bread, the woman says that she doesn’t start the new loaf until the last loaf has been completely eaten. How often do you make a loaf? Every day, she says. So every day you serve a couple of slices of fresh bread in the evening and then stale bread during most of the day the next day? Yes. Why don’t you, one morning, throw out the old loaf and make a new loaf each morning? That would waste the bread. But only once, and then you could serve fresh bread all day every day from now on! Well, she finally replies, suffering is a part of life. I think of that woman every time I drink the bitter cup of coffee left in the pot overnight instead of just throwing it out, every time I hang on to a cheap, plastic mechanical pencil after the eraser end has broken. Oh, the examples are embarrassingly numerous.

• Tolstoy, Anna Karenina: Levin struggles with belief in God until he sees his baby’s face for the first time, and his doubts “blow away like dust.”

• Cervantes, Don Quixote: I mentioned this point just last month without realizing it was in my notes to talk about in no. 800. Cervantes treats two prostitutes as if they were great ladies worthy of respect. At one level, we’re supposed to believe that he’s crazy and can’t see how they’re dressed. But what does dress have to do with the dignity of the human person? I think Quixote is the sanest man in the book.

• Ariosto, Orlando Furioso: Orlando has lost his mind (over a girl not worth losing one’s mind over), so Astolfo goes to look for it. Does that sound like a joke straight out of The Phantom Tollbooth? Maybe. But it turns out that in the world of Orlando Furioso, a lost mind does indeed go somewhere. In fact, everything that is lost goes to the same place, and that place is the moon. Naturally, Astolfo searches for the legendary Prester John (who is strangely easier to find than Orlando’s lost wits), and together they ride a hippogriff to the moon to look through the landscape of discarded treasures. To me that sequence stands right at the pinnacle of fantastic creations along with the Yellow Brick Road, a snowy wood in a wardrobe, a pilotless boat covered in white samite waiting to take Galahad to the Holy Grail, and Sauron’s Eye, and perhaps surpasses them.

• Dickens, The Pickwick Papers: Just a few months ago, I mentioned Toby Weller’s contribution to the trial scene in Pickwick and said, “Trust me: it’s hilarious.” Well, in jotting down the outline of this list a few years ago, I thought then that I could actually convey the humor so that you didn’t have to trust me. Now that we’ve come to it, though, I don’t think I can, but I’ll try. The Wellers have a Cockney habit of switching around V’s and W’s when they speak. “ ’e’s wery aggrawating,” one of them might say of an annoying personage. In the dock (i.e. on the stand), Sam Weller gives out his name as “Veller.” The judge asks him if he spells it with a V or a W. “Mark it down a wee, milord!” shouts his father, Toby, from the gallery. “Mark it down a wee!” Out of context, the line probably doesn’t make you crack a smile. You might not even get the joke, since it depends on my poor retelling. But I have laughed out loud many times a Toby’s eccentric understanding of the alphabet and think of that line every time a spelling issue with a V comes up.

• Dickens, Dombey and Son: Okay, I know I’ve already used up all the credit I have for retelling great jokes without the necessary context of hundreds of pages of setup. But here I go overborrowing: Captain Cuttle has a habit of quoting hodgepodges of Scripture and common aphorisms. When he realizes that the result doesn’t sound right and that he has no way of looking up the correct version easily, he turns to any handy young person in the vicinity and says, with all the airs of a great, wise professor of sacred literature, “Search the Good Book, and when found, make note of.” This is my favorite of all the Dickens books that most people haven’t heard of, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. When you read it, that joke will make you laugh. For right now, though, know that I laugh at it, and imagine how often I think of it with glee when a garbled Bible verse comes to mind and I make a resolution to look it up later.

I don’t have a plan yet for the books to talk about in my 900th post. But at the rate I’m going, I’ll have several years to work it out.

Allegorically Speaking

Last year I wrote here that Owen Wister’s The Virginian grabbed me in a very positive way at first and then turned awful. This year, Graham Greene’s The Quiet American did just the opposite. I started reading about Thomas Fowler, a married British journalist in Vietnam in the ’50s, living with a local girl who fixes him multiple opium pipes every evening and then lies dutifully on the bed while he enjoys himself adulterously, and I thought, “What have I got myself into?” But then the American showed up, and the book got really good.

In reading other works by Greene before, I’ve almost always found something like allegory. I’ll pretend to be an actual literary critic for a moment and try to explain why I say “something like allegory” instead of just calling it allegory. Pilgrim’s Progress is an allegory. Bunyan gives characters names like Piety and Hopeful and Heedless to show that they represent characteristics. If he thinks some fault, like despair, is an especially tough problem, he makes that character a giant. In the world of Pilgrim’s Progress, any fantastic thing can happen because the story isn’t really about a man named Christian traveling to a new place called Celestial City; it’s really about any Christian’s advancement toward sanctification and heavenly reward. For this allegory to work, the details don’t have to have in-world consistency or coherence; they only have to be consistent with what they represent in our world.

By contrast, Greene’s story really is about Englishman Thomas Fowler, American Alden Pyle, and Vietnamese woman Phuong. Pyle doesn’t represent the United States in the sense that the United States is the actual character in the actual story and that Pyle is merely the country’s avatar. He does represent the U. S. in that he comes from the U. S. But if a story began with a traveling salesman who says to the first housewife who opens the door, “Hello, madame. I represent the Whirlwind Vacuum Cleaner Company” (my hypothetical story clearly takes place in a bygone era), no one would think that the story is actually about the vacuum company and that the salesman is merely an allegorical manifestation of it.

And yet Greene’s character, the actual point of the actual story, does do a little bit of allegorical work because he quite naturally acts like someone who comes from the U. S. One can’t read the book without thinking that the U. S. national policy toward the nation of Vietnam in the ’60s is an awful lot like Fowler’s attitude toward Phuong, but that’s because U. S. national policy was developed by people like Fowler, not because Fowler arbitrarily represents the country. In an actual allegory, like Animal Farm, Fowler might have in fact been a fowl (a rooster probably), and the other characters, representing various countries, would have been other farmyard animals, all from the same in-story country (in fact all from the same hundred acres in the same country), because allegorical representation can be in many ways arbitrary as long as the necessary attitudes or actions are clear enough that the reader knows what each character represents and what the story is really about. But Fowler doesn’t represent the U. S. in an arbitrary way. His representation is totally natural and normal. Arggh! Does that make any sense?

The novel is short, and I don’t want to give too much away, but I’ll say this much about the plot. Pyle comes to Vietnam as part of an American economic mission, and he sees Fowler with Phuong. He decides he likes Phuong, and he believes it to be objectively clear that Phuong would be better off with him than with Fowler. “Sorry it had to be you, Fowler,” he says (I’m quoting from faulty memory and paraphrasing slightly), “since we’re such good friends. But you can see that she would be better off with me and that she’ll see it, too.” Pyle sees that a brothel is a likely future for someone like Phuong if not suitably protected and believes he has something like a duty to preserve her from that fate, and in fact makes his pitch to her in very objective terms. Of course, this looks like an allegory of the United States taking over the war in Vietnam from the French with the attitude that only our country can save Vietnam and her neighbors, all lined up like dominos, from Communism. But don’t Americans tend to believe in simple solutions and to believe that Americans have the ingenuity and perseverance to implement those solutions better than anyone else in the world? Fowler doesn’t allegorically represent the U. S. He’s a citizen of the U. S. acting like it.

And yet The Quiet American, as a story truly about an American and a Vietnamese woman, is also at some level an allegory about Americans and Vietnamese people. Will you be surprised if I tell you that things don’t end well for everyone? Some readers say that Greene, writing in 1955, predicted the American phase of the war and its outcome. But, really, it didn’t take special powers of prediction. You read twenty pages of this book and tell me you see any way for it to end happily ever after!