Jeremiah & Joseph Campbell: Part 1

Recently, our pastor preached on the Book of Jeremiah. He's someone who loves reading great stories, particularly mysteries and Fantasy by early British writers such as G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, and Charles Williams. In fact, he attaches such importance to these stories that he believes that, before any pastor gets ordained, he should have a thorough understanding of how Fiction influences our lives. Still, he surprised me when he likened the prophet Jeremiah to the ancient myths, legends, and sagas concerning such heroes as Gilgamesh and Jason of the Argonauts. 

Personally, I've never really gotten Jeremiah. To me, he was just somebody who sat around and wailed a lot. "Oh, why can't you do it my way! Why can't you see things the way I see them! If only you'd listen to my words, you could have a bright future--the best of all possible futures!" And, let's face it: nobody likes a whiner.

A few years ago, I read Joseph Campbell's classic book The Hero with a Thousand Faces. In it, he expounded on his philosophy of the Monomyth, or the Hero's Journey. He studied these ancient heroes of mankind, and detailed the various stages each story had in common. Thus, he wrote, these stories grew important to mankind. They were passed down orally, and later in written form, from chiseled cuneiform on stone tablets, to carefully written sentences on papyrus. 

Just like the stories detailing the classic heroes' feats, the Israelites recorded all that Jeremiah said and did. But why? I mean, no one listened to Jeremiah when he railed against the Israelites, did they? So why take the time to record and preserve his words? And how could he possibly be considered a hero? 

Jeremiah: a hero? I don't know about you, but I need to think about that a little more. 

Dragon Dave

The Bitterest Pill

Despite their friendship and mutual regard, the differences between C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien gradually drew the two apart.  Beyond Lewis’ marriage to Joy Gresham, a woman Tolkien disproved of, and beyond Lewis’ friendship with Charles Williams, a cult-like figure whose wild imaginings broke the rules of what Tolkien considered proper storytelling and religious belief, there was the matter of Lewis’ literary success.  Tolkien enjoyed acclaim in scholarly circles, and his first novel The Hobbit was successful enough to warrant a sequel.  But throughout the years of their friendship, Lewis enjoyed far more success as an author.  One need only compare the two men’s bibliographies to appreciate the yawing gap that separated them in this regard.  

While Tolkien plodded along quietly on The Lord of the Rings, Lewis kept the editors at his publishing houses ecstatic with his prodigious output.  The Narnia series proved the bitterest pill for Tolkien to swallow.  He regarded the Narnia books as ill conceived and structurally unsound.  With each volume, Lewis produced a jumble of Fantasy constructs, such as Father Christmas, talking animals, and centaurs.  Where was the cohesive system, the history and culture, the underlying rationale that would account for a collection of elements drawn from such unrelated historical and mythological sources?   If it existed, Tolkien could not perceive it.  Instead, it seemed to him as if Lewis simply threw out a new character, creature, or idea when the plot began to slow, or when he needed to steer the story in a different direction.  This might not be something as wild and improper as Williams’ stories, but it lacked the consistency and the structure that Tolkien had thought Lewis believed in.  Worse, the Narnia books were universally praised and loved.

At times, I’ve had difficulty looking at the People and Publishing section of Locus Magazine.  Each month, the magazine lists a slew of book deals made between publishers and authors.  Books are contracted.  Manuscripts are delivered.  Advances are paid.  Film, television, and other lucrative rights are sold.  Awards are bestowed.  Meanwhile, I labor away in obscurity, never quite finishing my stories, always believing that I’m pursuing the proper course.  Yet, like a mirage, completion lingers just beyond my reach.  Of course, I envy my fellow writers for their achievements.  Yet…I am who I am.  Wishing I were someone different will not help me in any way. 

So what if some authors, like C. S. Lewis, publish several bestselling books each year?  So what if others, like Charles Williams, have built an enthusiastic following?  What is that to me?  I have my own destiny to fulfill.  I must swallow the bitter pill of patience, and celebrate the triumphs of my contemporaries.  Only in that way can I retain a positive perspective, and contribute to the lives of others, regardless of whatever success eventually comes my way.

Dragon Dave

Yearning To Stretch

J. R. R. Tolkien wrote The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, two of the most important stories of the twentieth century.  But before he could write those novels, and particularly the latter one, he had to create Middle Earth, the Fantasy world in which they took place.  For Tolkien, everything in those novels had to fit together into a logical, coherent system.  Thus, after he finished The Hobbit, he spent over a decade developing and enlarging Middle Earth, while he worked on The Lord of the Rings.  It wasn’t enough for a given character to hold a sword, for example.  For his novel to be complete, Tolkien felt he must create the races and cultures that mined the ore, refined the metal, and fashioned the sword.  Equal consideration would be devoted to the sword, which would be covered in runes and carvings, and sheathed in a history of previous owners and battles waged.  Of course, he also needed to know the history, culture, agriculture, beliefs, and all sorts of other things about the peoples involved in every stage of the creation and life of the sword.  And we haven’t even talked about the individual wielding the sword yet: his history, family, and aspirations.

Tolkien felt that all of these types of facts, very little of which would actually appear in the finished narrative, were necessary infrastructure for his Fantasy novel.  A writer more prolific, such as his friend C. S. Lewis, would no doubt have disagreed.  Lewis wrote many fiction and nonfiction books that were popular in his day.  Like Tolkien’s work, they have also transcended their time.  Yet Lewis was not a Worldbuilder like Tolkien.  It was enough for him to select a given idea he wished to pursue, brainstorm a few characters, story elements or essay points, and then leap into his writing.  Lewis also diverged from Tolkien in other ways.  He chose the Church of England over the Catholic Church, he married a divorced woman, and he promoted Charles Williams, a Christian author who combined Christian viewpoints and teachings with secular issues and beliefs, in the process transforming what conservatives like Tolkien might see as unquestionable and settled religious teachings into spurious, if not heretical theological concepts.  

Both men were Oxford educators, passionate about their faith, and talented writers.  Yet Tolkien simply wasn’t as inclusive as Lewis.  Tolkien must have tried to stretch himself: his friendship with Lewis, despite the other's differing beliefs and actions, seems like proof of that.  Still, he also had to retreat to his comfort zone, where he knew who he was and what he believed, in order to finish building Middle Earth, and then complete The Lord of the Rings. 

As much as a voice inside tells me that much of my Worldbuilding is unnecessary, like Tolkien I feel I must build a foundation firm enough to support the Fantasy elements of my eventual novel.  So I labor each day to complete what work I can, concentrating on my own strengths, and operating from the serenity and security of my comfort zone.  Yet, as Tolkien did, I also try to learn from those around me, those whose beliefs and actions sometimes clash with mine.  Only God (whatever you call Him, and however you define Him) is omnipotent.  He alone encompasses everything.  I, like J. R. R. Tolkien, am a limited mortal.  I may be more rock than rubber band, more brittle than elastic, but still, as a writer, and as a man, I yearn to stretch.

Dragon Dave

A Beautiful Mystery

In discussing Jupiter Project by Dr. Gregory Benford, I felt as if I stood upon solid ground.  By contrast, the first time I read through If the Stars are Gods by Gregory Benford and Gordon Eklund, I found myself sinking into sand, fighting to keep my head above the surface.  After a second read-through, this time taking careful notes, I managed to fight the quicksand’s pull.  Still, I cannot pull myself completely free: at best, my lower-legs are still buried below the surface.

Some stories are like that.  Perhaps the most famous case is the film version of Arthur C. Clarke’s story 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Unlike the Peter Hyams-directed sequel 2010, which set off with the purpose of answering questions (and which left you on much firmer footing), the original film seems to ask more questions than it answers.  Reactions to Kubrick’s film divide into three camps: 1) Those whom it utterly mystified; 2) Those who feel absolutely certain as to the meaning of the film; and 3) Those who have fought to gain a tenuous grasp upon its questions and themes, but for whom each time they watch the movie, they still experience a sense of mystery.  I find myself in the third category.

Awhile back, the leader of my reading group assigned the novel Descent Into Hell by Charles Williams.  Unlike his contemporaries C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, I initially found this writer’s prose more difficult to come to grips with.  Our group covered a chapter or two each week; I studiously reviewed previously-discussed chapters before each meeting.  Re-reading, combined with the group leader’s comments, began to suggest that a tremendous depth hid beneath the surface plot.  Perhaps Williams had interwoven themes and ideas within the novel like an engineer designing the numerous layers within a printed circuit board.  When I later tried to explain my “enhanced understanding” of the novel to John Clute, a great historian of the Science Fiction and Fantasy field (and someone who has a greater understanding of Williams’ work than I), he very kindly responded with no more than a bemused expression.

Similarly, when my book group was reading through some of Flannery O’Connor’s stories, I found myself locked in battle with the leader of the reading group.  I believed I perceived “the truth” behind the themes within the particular story, and had accurately divined the intent of the writer in her depiction of a peripheral character.  The leader then read from a letter in which O’Connor responded to a fan’s questions: I found my face grow progressively hotter as the writer divulged an intent with the work different than I had perceived, and revealed a marked distaste for a character I had felt sure she secretly admired.

If the Stars are Gods deals with numerous issues, and ponders daunting questions.  The novel is split up into several sections, and is a rewrite of an award-winning novelette.  (To further complicate matters, I studied the original hardcover version; the later paperback edition, which I am working through now, contains notable differences).  The novel deals with matters both scientific and spiritual.  Given that my understanding of the authors’ work is less than I would hope, I find myself reticent to discuss the novel.  I wonder if I am alone here, or if reactions to this novel are as varied as they are toward 2001: A Space Odyssey.  My hope is that, through writing down what I believe I understand, and musing on what I know I don’t, that my grasp on the story will grow a little firmer. 

If the Stars are Gods by Dr. Gregory Benford and Gordon Eklund sets before me a beautiful mystery, one that may well challenge me for years to come.