The men I am most indebted to philosophically are: C.S. Lewis, Cornelius Van Til, J.R.R. Tolkien, John Calvin, Richard Weaver, the early Rushdoony, Augustine, John Knox, Gary North, J.I. Packer, Francis Schaeffer, G.K. Chesterton, Paul Johnson, John Stott, Christopher Dawson, H.L. Mencken, William Buckley, David Wells, R.L. Dabney, E. Michael Jones, P.G. Wodehouse, Greg Bahnsen, and Peter Leithart. And after a diet of such books for twenty-six years, I have to say that reading an emergent book by Brian McLaren is like watching a six-year-old do card tricks.
Meditation on art, by a philistine
Our friend S. D. Smith, over at his blog, meditates profoundly (I think) on the question of limits in art. I agree with him entirely.
In fact, if I had to define art, I think my definition would be something like this— “Art is an endeavor in which an artisan uses some physical medium with sufficient skill that the medium seems to disappear, and something greater than the medium is communicated.” Art is a synergy between artist, material and audience.
That’s what so many modern artists don’t seem to understand. They’ve accepted a subjective definition of art, one that says that art is all about the artist’s subjective feelings and his expression of them—in any form whatever. There are no absolute values. Hang a urinal on a wall? What right do you (philistine that you are) to say it’s not art? Compose a concerto that consists of a period of total silence? It expresses my feelings in ways that you peasants will never comprehend, so it’s art. Lapdancing? If you don’t understand it, don’t judge it.
The true artist struggles with his medium, entering into it intimately, so that he can make it do things nobody ever thought it could. A painting that looks like a photograph—or like a dream. A sculpture that looks like a living being—only the way living beings ought to be, not the way they are in our experience A song that reaches into the listener’s soul and brings up his deepest aspirations and sorrows, so that he weeps just as if he’d just lost—or gained–the love of his life.
Lewis and Tolkien called it “subcreation.” They could call it that because they believed in a Creator. Today’s artists, by and large, don’t believe in a Creator; they believe in accidents. So all they can do is try to re-create accidents.
They do believe in one absolute, universally applicable, value, though—that the public is obligated to pay for their art.
Where Are the Conservatives?
Science writer Erick Vance asks why conservatives aren’t in favor of or proposing solutions to deal with climate change. Isn’t it an issue right up their alley? Conversation ensued.
Save Us from the Critics
A.N. Wilson says he can tell Sherlock Holmes was a homosexual drug-addict, even if Conan Doyle didn’t know it. Can we agree that fictional characters are not as constant as live people? So an author might reimagine his character in a way different than originally written, making arguments that “this guy was really . . . ” irrelevant. (via Book Trib)
The Guns of Two-Space, by Dave Grossman and Bob Hudson
The Guns of Two-Space (available here, either as an e-book or a print-on-demand) is the sequel to The Two-Space War, by Dave Grossman and Leo Frankowski, which I recently reviewed). Alas, Lt. Col. Grossman lost his friend in science fiction publishing when Jim Baen of Baen Books died, and this volume (written with a different co-author and privately published), although excellent in many ways, does suffer for want of a professional editor.
The Two-Space War told how Lt. Thomas Melville assumed command of his ship’s crew on the death of his captain, and captured an enemy ship which he named the Fang. Through inspired leadership and flexibility in adopting new weapons and strategies, he managed to thwart (or at least delay) an attempt by the evil Guldur Empire to conquer planets friendly to earth and humans. Acclaimed as a hero and a savior by alien governments, Melville was less appreciated by the appeasement-minded Westerness (human) government, and at the end of the book was dispatched to patrol and deliver mail between the most distant colony planets. Continue reading The Guns of Two-Space, by Dave Grossman and Bob Hudson
The Year of the Warrior reviewed
Christian Science Fiction writer Brandon Barr has posted a glowing, nay, fulsome review of The Year of the Warrior at his blog here.
Thanks to Brandon. As Mark Twain once said (I think, in some form roughly similar to what I type here), “I can live three months on a good compliment.”
Olsen letter #3
[Tonight, the next Ole Olsen letter, one of the shorter ones. Letter 1 is here; 2a here; and 2b here. I know nothing about the life of the author’s father, my great-great-great grandfather (whose name was also Ole Olsen), except that he once sailed on a merchant voyage to China.]
Kvalevaag, the 12th December, 1892
Mr. Jan Hendrik Olsen,
Dear Son, with your wife and child,
After receiving recently your very welcome letter, with the accompanying contents which were a joy for us here at home, that all is well worth praising and thanking the Lord for, who holds His hand over us in every way, both for soul and body, and also provides us each day with all that we poor humans need for daily life. Ja, it is grace upon grace from our Lord that He is so good toward us poor sinful creeping things, who do nothing but what is against Him. Ja, Lord help us all to appreciate Him, that He is a good Father toward us, but I see that things have worked out poorly for me. I want to grumble against Him, that I always get too much suffering from Him. Oh, wretched man that I am, when and where will it be otherwise with me? The Lord knows. God help us all.
Also, as before, I can note for you children that the Lord, in His eternal grace and mercy, has borne us in His patient arms up to this day, granting us to remain in the day of grace thus far. Ja, that is a great thing the Lord has done for us, to bear with us a while longer here, we who are so disobedient toward Him as we are, ja, Lord help us.
Ja, so I , Father and Mother, tell you that we have managed to be up [and about] every day this year too. God be thanked for it. But it should perhaps also be said that we aren’t always equally energetic, especially Mother, but what can we do? We must go on here as long as we can keep moving, for I have no one to trade off with at my side; ja, that is how things have turned out for me. Ja, God knows that it is often hard for us to think of, that we in our old age should have it so hard and weary as we have it. Ja, ja, that is our lot, but God who sees and knows all, He has a way out for us too, when He thinks it good. Ja, His will is best. Continue reading Olsen letter #3
Screwtape in Chattanooga
I plan to see Max McLean’s production of The Screwtape Letters this weekend in Chattanooga. It should be terrific, probably even convicting.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald is one of Minnesota’s most famous sons, though it’s hard to imagine any author less typically Minnesotan. I once visited some people who lived in the town house he once occupied, on St. Paul’s toney Summit Avenue.
Anyway, Robert J. Avrech, one of the consistently most interesting writers at Big Hollywood, posts about Fitzgerald’s sojourn in Hollywood today. Although he doesn’t agree entirely, he quotes the opinion of one of Fitzgerald’s friends, John Lee Mahin, who blamed at least part of the author’s implosion on political pressures from the film community’s burgeoning Communist movement.
His work was condemned, they said, and he believed them. He denounced himself even more harshly than his judges, accusing his work of being trivial and superficial.
“He actually told me he’s ashamed of The Great Gatsby,” John fairly snarled. “Those cursed Do-gooders… they’ve got him believing his work isn’t worth a tinkers damn just because he wasn’t waving a banner or marching in a picket line. They’ve destroyed him, as sure as God made little apples.”
Jeepers creepers, where’d they put the peepers?
Joe Carter, over at First Things, blogs about an interesting trend in current book cover design—pictures of women with the eyes cut off.
In spite of one commenter who thinks it’s just a way to focus on… a different feature, I think there’s something more complex going on here.
Mystery is a very compelling quality, in men and women. I think there are still mystery men in our cultural world, but the mystery woman seems to have pretty much disappeared. Any woman who isn’t “in your face,” “letting it all hang out” is looked on as some kind of throwback to the Victorian era. Female movie stars used to keep their private lives private (the studios often made up entirely fictional biographies for them). They never showed up in public without make-up, and dressed to the nines. The mystery, the “glamor” (which comes from an Irish word meaning “a magical power to deceive”) was a major part of their allure. For most female stars today, a nude scene is a rite of passage, and their affairs and break-ups are conducted in front of a battery of cameras.
Where are the women on the book covers looking? Are their expressions quizzical, or frightened, or knowing, or arrogant? The mystery is intriguing. It draws you in. I’d be willing to wager psychologists suggested this design element, to get readers to think, unconsciously, “There’s mystery here. I must buy this book to find out what it is.”
I wonder if eye contact means as much to normal people as it does to me. Because of my shyness disorder, making eye contact is very difficult for me. I avoid it. (I expect some people think me dishonest because of it, which I regret.) I have to make a distinct effort to make eye contact. When I meet someone’s gaze, I feel almost as if I’d been shocked, as if a spark has been struck. And I feel vulnerable, as if I’d opened my door to a stranger. Even if the person is someone I know and have no reason to distrust.
The up side is, I live a life full of mystery.