This is not a post. This is just a filler to substitute for a post.
The weather today turned out to be both rain and snow. Precipitation full of ambivalence. The radio advises me to take about twice the time I’d ordinarily plan for any travel tonight.
On the bright side, the flight is delayed. (No, it’s not on American. Bet the plane’s full of bumped American passengers, though.)
This has all the earmarks of a night in which I may not get to bed at all.
Be easy in your ceaseless care for me. I got my walk in tonight. It looks to be the only one I’ll get this week, but it’s something. The temperature was tolerable, if I bundled up, and enough sun filtered through the light clouds to give me a diaphanous shadow.
Tomorrow night it’s supposed to rain. In any case, I’ll be running to the airport to pick up Moloch and his wife, back from China.
Which means that it’s just possible, if I hear that traffic’s bad, that I’ll skip posting altogether.
Steel yourselves. I know you can survive it.
I promise I’m not going to review every Dean Koontz novel I read, as I go through them alphabetically.
But I’m going to review the really outstanding ones. And From the Corner of His Eye definitely qualifies.
I suppose it’s possible that Koontz could produce a better novel than this. I haven’t read them all yet. But at this point I can’t imagine a better one.
This is a big, sprawling book that covers a long period of time, kind of like those Victorian novels I’ve never read, by Thackeray and Trollope.
And it’s populated by a remarkable cast of quirky, fascinating characters worthy of Charles Dickens.
And it’s built on a Sci Fi/Supernatural premise, like… well, like a Dean Koontz book.
The blurb on the inside page of the paperback is misleading. It makes it sound as if this is the story of Bartholomew Lampion. Bartholomew is certainly a central character, but he’s a baby for half the book. The story is actually about a whole network of people, all bound together by the strange effects of a radio sermon called, “This Momentous Day.”
The story begins in January, 1965. First of all (though not first in the narrative), in Oregon, a narcissistic sociopath named Enoch Cain murders his beautiful, loving wife. The next day, in two places in California, two babies are born—a boy and a girl—in circumstances of extreme family tragedy. Nevertheless each child finds a loving home and shows early signs of being a prodigy.
But Enoch Cain is out there, and he has become aware that there’s a child who he believes is a danger to him. He grows obsessed with finding that child and killing him.
Cain is an interesting character. He’s evil and does horrible things that cause great pain to people the reader has come to care for. Nevertheless, Koontz treats him to a large degree as a comic figure (he explains his rationale for this through one of his characters in the course of the book). Cain thinks he’s a genius, a connoisseur, and God’s gift to women, but in fact he’s not particularly bright, likes only the things critics tell him to like, and most people who meet him find him rather creepy. He’s blissfully unaware of this. Also his suppressed conscience expresses itself forcefully in some painful and embarrassing physical reaction, every time he commits a murder.
As the plot works itself out, and all the characters come to know one another, we observe the working out of Koontz’ premise, that just as quantum physics and string theory tell us that every point in the universe is connected, so all people are connected, and all our actions have infinite consequences—and not only in our own universe.
I loved every page of this book. I don’t think I’ve ever read a novel this long (over 700 pages) before and wanted it to be longer. As the saying goes, I laughed; I cried.
There are strong Christian elements (along with some speculation which could serve as fodder for late night discussions).
From the Corner of His Eye gets my highest recommendation.
Update: Scratch tomorrow’s rain. We’re going to get snow.
If Nature is our Mother, our family is dysfunctional.
It’s spring, but the wrong kind. More April in Bergen than Paris.
The weekend was nice. The weekend was great. As I drove around, spending too much money on stuff I’d put off buying for too long, I actually had to roll my car window down a little, to cool off. It got up to about 70° (that’s about 20° for you Celsius types).
But yesterday and today have been cool and overcast, with some rain. “Cool” in this case means temps in the 40s, which would have seemed tropical a couple weeks back. So I’m being unreasonable. I admit it freely.
My motives, however, are honorable. I want to go out and take my evening walks. And in my present health condition, still dragging the corpse of the flu around behind me, I refuse to tempt fate by walking in a chill breeze. Especially if it’s drizzling.
And I’ve come to the conclusion that working out on my ski machine in the basement actually causes me to get sick. Maybe there’s mold in the air down there.
Or maybe I’m just sick of the ski machine.
In any case, I watch for the sun as the watchman on the city wall waits for the dawn.
I’m sure that’s a biblical citation, but I can’t find it in my Cruden’s.
I bet I could find it if the sun was shining.
Charlton Heston’s great ordeal ended on Saturday. Our condolences to family and friends. There must be some relief in the knowledge that he’s found rest at last, and there’s no shame in that. They’ve had plenty of time to say goodbye. Now is the time to commemorate an admirable life and a body of work that will live as long as our civilization is remembered.
Alas, I’ll never get the chance to see him play Sigfod Oski in the film version of Wolf Time, as I once dreamed.
“The Ten Commandments” was the first movie I ever saw in a theater (our family had seen “Around the World in Eighty Days” a while before that, but in a drive-in). My folks had to warn Moloch and me not to tell Grandma Walker we’d gone, because she didn’t approve of movies. Biblical movies didn’t make it any better—rather worse; they were a kind of blasphemy.
My major memories of that experience were the quality of the music (I’d never heard anything like it before), and the shots of the red clouds on Mount Sinai.
Later, my mom took Moloch and me (and maybe Baal, I’m not sure) to see “Ben Hur.” So I think I can say I saw both movies in their first runs. In actual theaters.
One of my favorite novelists, Stephen Hunter (who’s also film critic for The Washington Post) wrote an appreciation (hat tip: Powerline). I have to say I have a higher opinion of Heston’s movies, particularly of “The Ten Commandments” than he does.
I’m not one of those who watch TTC every year when they broadcast it on TV, but I did watch it again a couple years back. I recognized a certain stilted, pageant-like quality in the production, but I was also impressed with the way the screenplay (and Heston’s performance) delivered a faith lesson through Moses’ story. First you have the hot-shot young prince who thinks he can change the world with a single, dramatic action. When this fails, and he becomes a refugee, he thinks he’s learned his lesson. A small life and small goals are plenty for him now.
Then the burning bush appears, and he’s faced with the challenge of doing God’s work in God’s way. We feel his fear, his self-doubt and see how much hard work faith is. The powerful way Moses comes through in the end, looking just like Michelangelo’s sculpture (minus the horns) doesn’t diminish the fact that he’s earned his confidence through a series of very hard lessons.
I think it goes without saying that there’s no actor out there today the least bit like Charlton Heston. If they had the audacity to remake “Commandments” or “Ben Hur” today, they’d inevitably have to cast someone with a shorter shadow. But then the moviemakers would make the part smaller too. In the 21st Century, we look for heroes who make us feel better by comparison, not heroes who make us want to be greater than we are.
Tonight, another insight from the bottomless, fetid pit of my wisdom.
I think of this insight as my own, but that’s probably just the result of ignorance. Likely thousands of real theologians said it before I did.
But I never read it in their books. I worked it out with my own tiny, smooth-surfaced brain.
So I think of it as my own.
Is there any saying that’s brought more comfort to sinners than this: “If you had been the only sinner in the world, Jesus would have died to save you”?
I suppose it’s a cliché, but I like it. It speaks to me.
And yet it always bothered me. Because it didn’t seem to actually rise from any biblical text. And I don’t take anything as absolute truth that isn’t either found in Scripture or plainly derived from a clear reading of Scripture.
And then I figured it out. Luke 15:3-7: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?”
And just down the page, Luke 15:8-10: “Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Does she not light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?”
The point of these parables is not (I believe), as some will think, that everyone will be saved. The point is the concern of the Searcher for each individual who is lost.
In other words, if I had been the only sinner in the world, Jesus would have died to save me.
My apologies to everybody who came up with this first (probably in preaching on Luke 15).
But it’s a comfort to me.
Have a good weekend.
I’ve got to note that it got up to about 55° (13° C.) today, and it was just lovely.
Considering the way I’ve been griping, I felt I ought to mention that.
More today on the “Body and Soul” topic. I wanted to say more yesterday, but I thoughtfully chose not to throw a huge post at you all at once.
When I said that the doctrine of the Incarnation is the center of my theology, I felt awkward. I don’t think there’s actually any competition for “The Number One Christian Doctrine,” because Christian doctrine is like a Chinese puzzle—it all fits together in a particular way, and if you miss one piece, the whole thing doesn’t work.
But it seems to me that the doctrine of the Incarnation occupies a special place. When the Apostle John wrote, “This is how you recognize the Spirit of God: Every spirit that acknowledges that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God, but every spirit that does not acknowledge Jesus is not from God” (1 John 4:2-3), he gave us a puzzle that’s troubled many of us. “Aren’t there heresies that say that Jesus came in the flesh?” we ask. Well, yes, but I think I glimpse John’s point afar off.
In general, historically, the great heresies have gotten this particular doctrine wrong. They either overspiritualize or underspiritualize the nature of Christ. They either say He wasn’t fully human, or they call Him just a great prophet. The doctrine of the Incarnation seems to be (to mix metaphors) the fulcrum on which Christian doctrine balances, the touchstone that tells you whether the gold is pure or not.
And the human heart testifies to this by responding to the concept of incarnation on a profound level.
What is it that moves us when we look at that beautiful new car in the showroom? That wonderful new house we want? It’s more than just, “This car will get me from place to place really fast,” or “This house will be a comfortable place for my family to live.” It’s a feeling that in this car or this house we’ll find something new, something fresh, something that will satisfy us on an profoundly existential level. Something that will make our lives more joyous and meaningful.
We’re looking for a physical thing that satisfies a spiritual hunger.
This is especially true in the arenas of sex and love. I’ve been watching several Noir films recently, and I’ve come to the conclusion that (with certain exceptions) I don’t like them much. The classic Noir (this isn’t always true) tells the story of a fairly ordinary mug who gets the opportunity to make a big financial score and win a beautiful dame’s love. All that’s demanded of him is his soul. He has to make a little moral compromise. Usually just a small one at the start. But it leads him down the road to murder and his own death.
Well, what’s this mug doing? He’s trying to find his spiritual aspirations incarnate in the dame.
This, as any theologian could tell him, is an attempt to get the benefits of the Incarnation without submitting to the true Incarnate One. (That’s why most Noir films are essentially moral. I may not like them much, but I’ll admit they’re generally moralistic stories.)
And the reason the stories are almost always tragic is because all people, even movie people, understand that real happiness can’t be found where we think it’s found.
This is the tragedy of human life, and one of those places where human tragedy can be an opening for the gospel. In the words of Augustine, “Thou hast made us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.”
So Senator Harry Reid thinks the Federal Income Tax is a voluntary contribution.
This isn’t really surprising, when you think about it. The Left has its own definition of voluntarism. The Left’s vision of society has always looked a lot like a Soviet propaganda movie. The call goes out for the proletariat to make some sacrifice for the common good, and the people happily drop their individual concerns and march off to do whatever job the Politburo says they should do. And if the authorities have to use guns to get some of them to fall in line, well, it’s for their own good, and therefore voluntary in the deepest, truest sense.
Even prisoners in the gulag were officially described as volunteers.
I got a new computer at work recently, and I just updated the screen saver.
I opted to use that “3D Text” saver that displays some words specified by you, in shiny metallic 3-D form, rotating in the dark. I typed in Norwegian words—“Ordet Blev Kjød,” which comes from John 1:14: “The Word became flesh.” I can understand that it might seem questionable to some if I say that this verse is the center of my theology (happily, it’s also the motto of the school I work for), but I think this doctrine—the Incarnation—is kind of the foundation on which all the rest of Christian theology rests. If you don’t get this one right, you’ll probably wander into all kinds of heresies.
I was looking at that phrase, spinning on my screen yesterday, and it just struck me how wonderful it is.
Every human being (as far as I can tell) experiences (at least at some point) transcendent longings. We yearn for a greater meaning, a higher beauty, a purer love than this world can offer.
And yet we generally find ourselves mired in lower things. Our aspiration for meaning turns into just making a living. Our dream of beauty becomes fashion and affluence. Our hope of love becomes either mere sex or one or more disappointing, unsatisfying relationships.
Humans have traditionally dealt with this problem by either denying the spiritual (materialism) or denying the physical (eastern spirituality).
Christianity deals with it by boldly proclaiming that in Christ, the two things become one. In Christ, because of His incarnation and the things He did in His incarnation, we can have our cake and eat it too, so to speak. We can have spiritual meaning in the physical world, and physical satisfaction in spiritual things.
I think that’s really good news.
In honor of April Fools’ Day, I offer the following excerpt from P. G. Wodehouse (who did fools better than anyone). It’s from the story “Jeeves Exerts the Old Cerebellum” in the collection, The Inimitable Jeeves, and was chosen purely at random out of the rich treasure trove that is Wodehouse:
I don’t know if you know that sort of feeling you get on these days round about the end of April and the beginning of May, when the sky’s a light blue, with cotton-wool clouds, and there’s a bit of a breeze blowing from the west? Kind of uplifted feeling. Romantic, if you know what I mean…. So that it was a bit of an anti-climax when I merely ran into young Bingo Little, looking perfectly foul in a crimson satin tie decorated with horseshoes.
‘Hallo, Bertie,’ said Bingo.
‘My God, man!’ I gargled. ‘The cravat! The gent’s neckwear! Why? For what reason?’
“Oh, the tie?’ He blushed. ‘I—er—I was given it.’
He seemed embarrassed, so I dropped the subject. We toddled along a bit, and sat down on a couple of chairs by the Serpentine.
‘Jeeves tells me you want to talk to me about something,’ I said.
‘Eh?’ said Bingo, with a start. ‘Oh yes, yes. Yes.’
I waited for him to unleash the topic of the day, but he didn’t seem to want to get going. Conversation languished. He stared straight ahead of him in a glassy sort of manner.
‘I say, Bertie,’ he said, after a pause of about an hour and a quarter.
‘Hallo!’
‘Do you like the name Mabel?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t think there’s a kind of music in the word, like the wind rustling gently through the tree-tops?’
‘No.’
He seemed disappointed for a moment; then cheered up.
‘Of course, you wouldn’t. You always were a fat-headed worm without any soul, weren’t you?’
‘Just as you say. Who is she? Tell me all.’
Tags: P.G. Wodehouse, humor, Bertie Wooster, April Fools Day, literary, Jeeves
According to Proverbs 22:13, the sluggard says, “There is a lion in the streets.”
Well, my sluggard credentials are impeccable, and I saw a lion in the streets today. Not a big lion. Not an Aslan. Not even the MGM lion. Kind of a wimpy lion, actually, sort of a Bert Lahr lion. But a nuisance nevertheless.
The lion I mean is that famous simile lion, the one that March goes out like. We got about three inches of snow today, and we expect another couple inches overnight. This wasn’t a raging snowstorm. More of a snow-globe snow, and the temperatures were so warm that it all slushed up on hitting the pavement, so it didn’t even interfere much with the drive home (though the morning drive may be interesting).
But the white carpet covers the grass, and we’re tired of it all.
Today, a historical story from my family history.
No, I tell a lie. It’s not the history of my family, except tangentially. It’s the history of the farm I grew up on.
Ours was a small farm, even by the standards of those days. 160 acres. This wasn’t unusual. A lot of people fed their families on 160 acres back then. But nobody would have called it a big farm.
Much of the information I’ll share in this piece come from an essay that was written by my great-aunt Ordella, who wrote it up for a bicentennial newspaper contest in 1976.
Our farm, in Kenyon township southwest of the town of Kenyon, Minnesota, was homesteaded by some people named Clark. It had been originally granted by the government to a man named Wade Wellman, for Civil War service (I assume that he was no relation to Manly Wade Wellman, the fantasy author, because the geography’s wrong). The original title record is a little confused, but it appears that a man named Pease operated a stagecoach way station on the property, perhaps in partnership with Clark. There was a house and an inn there, on the southwest corner of the property, on a road we always called “the old Sioux Line Road.” My dad’s cousin James wrote a history of his own neighboring farm a few years back, and tried to figure out where that name for the road came from. Nobody who ever knew seemed to be alive anymore. There doesn’t appear to be any connection to the Soo Line Railroad.
In 1916, my great-grandfather bought both these farms and moved his family up from Iowa. Everyone thought he’d been cheated on the land, because much of it (especially on the farm where I grew up) was swamp. But Great Grandpa Walker had learned about drainage tile in Iowa, and he turned it into productive acreage (characteristically he bought “overbaked” tile, essentially factory seconds, at a discount). I know this makes him an environmental criminal, but back then they valued arable land over ducks.
Anyway, Aunt Ordella says that one of the old settlers went to Great Grandpa one day and asked if he’d uncovered any human bones in his digging or plowing.
According to local tradition, he explained, two strangers had arrived at the station one night, on the way east from California. Supposedly one of the strangers disappeared and could not be found when the stage left in the morning. It was rumored that he’d been carrying a large sum of money, and that the other stranger may have murdered him for it and hid the body.
But Great Grandpa never found anything. Neither did my grandfather or my dad.
I’ve also heard a story that Jesse James and his gang stopped there on their way to Northfield to rob the bank, in a raid you’ve seen overdramatized in several movies.
I don’t believe that story. Half the farms in southeast Minnesota think the James boys stopped there.
If I understand Cousin James’ account, it was my Great Grandfather who decided to tear down the house at the old way station (re-using the lumber) and move the station building up to a new farmstead at the northeast corner of the property. This is the farmstead where I grew up, and it looked like this in an aerial photo taken before I was born: Continue reading The stage coach station
I’m told that our temperatures remain below average, but frankly I don’t care. It’s warmer than it was a week ago, and the snow is melting away. The sun shines in the windows, warming the house without recourse to natural gas. This is good.
Sherry at Semicolon has tagged Phil and me with a meme. This is a meme of eight, but it seems pretty much identical to the meme of six I did just a short while ago. Except that, you know, it’s got eight instead of six.
I can’t account for anyone’s desire to know more stuff about me. It seems to me I purvey that commodity pretty indiscriminately around here, and the supply exceeds the demand.
However, I don’t have any bright ideas of my own tonight, so here it is.
The Rules:
Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
My List:
1. I’m right-handed, but I generally mouse with my left hand. This is because I thought I was developing a repetitive motion problem a while back. Turns out it wasn’t the fault of the mouse, but of my sword exercises. Nevertheless, I figure it doesn’t hurt to cultivate ambidexterity. I understand it helps with rehab if you ever have a stroke, and judging by my family history, there’s a clot in there somewhere with my name on it.
2. I can wiggle my ears.
3. Contrary to the traditional mystique of the Suffering Artist, I find I’m far more creative when I’m happy.
4. Unfortunately, I’m almost never happy.
5. I’ve never gotten an ice cream headache.
6. I once voted for Al Gore in a primary, back when I was a Democrat.
7. My blood type is A Pos. The only place in the world where A Pos. blood is in the majority is Scandinavia.
8. I never tag other bloggers with memes. That would be too outgoing.