a note to all readers

I no longer will continue to update this blog. I have started a new one over here: http://inkwellmusings.blogspot.com. I will be posting literary-themed posts over there, or you can drop by my personal blog at http://xanga.com/The_Inkwell.

God bless!!

Theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven

The young man stands beneath the rays of the hot sun, staring up at the crowds of people. His face is white, he trembles slightly, but he swallows down his terrible fear. Suddenly, a roar breaks the silence. The crowd gasps excitedly and the man falls to his knees, praying. Again, the roars of wild beasts echo in the stillness of the afternoon and there is a creaking as a gate is raised. His companions gather around the kneeling man, some also kneeling, others singing hymns softly. The crowd hurls cries down upon these prisoners: on the young man and his companions. And then the beasts are let out.

Many early Christians faced the terrors of martyrdom: cruel deaths by fire, crucifixion, the sword, and wild beasts. Eusebius, born around 260 AD, was one of the most famous Christian historians and penned the great Church History. In this magnificent record of the early church, Eusebius recounts the horrific tales of countless martyrs: Christians who voluntarily suffered death for refusing to renounce their belief in Christ.

In these accounts, Eusebius focuses on the remarkable bravery and confidence the Christians had in the face of gruesome torture. This courage, faithfulness, and physical strength could have come nowhere but from God himself. In one instance, he writes about one of these martyrs, saying: “Sanctus too endured all cruelty with superhuman courage …. His body was a witness to his torment: it was all one wound, mangled and shorn of human shape, but Christ, suffering in that body, vanquished the Adversary and showed that there is nothing to fear where the Father’s love is and nothing to wound where Christ’s glory is.” Eusebius showed that God never forsook the Christians, supplying them with an extraordinary bravery and vigor, and never giving them more than they could bear.

In the midst of their torture and their dying, the Christian’s continued to praise God, often witnessing to their captors. They went to their death joyful and proud. In the account of the horrible martyrdom of Blandina, Eusebius writes, “Last of all, the blessed Blandina, like a noble mother who had comforted her children and sent them on triumphantly to the king, rejoiced at her own departure as if invited to a wedding feast.”

Many of these Christians must have wondered why they had to die. Were there deaths in vain? But, out of such terrible suffering and persecution, God used them to bring countless others to the faith. Many of the pagans who witnessed the martyrs’ deaths were converted as were many former Christians who had fallen away. “Through them a majority of those who had lapsed were reborn, learned to confess Christ, and went to the tribunal to be interrogated by the governor again …. There were also outsiders who had never had a trace of faith or fear of God and blasphemed the Way by their conduct—sons of perdition—but all the rest were added to the church.”

God will never forsake His people. God can use even the most horrific of circumstances for good, as He did when He brought so many more Christians to the faith through the terrible persecutions of His people. As He said in Mathew, “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”

The martyrs’ deaths can encourage Christians to stand firm in their faith and trust in God.

The young man looks up, thoughts wildly rushing through his head. He can see the beasts coming closer, casting their large dark shadows on the floor of the arena. Sweat stands out on his forehead. But then a clear calm strain falls upon his ears. It is one of his companions singing. He looks up, listens quietly, and then rising slowly to his feet, he too begins to sing. His companion smiles, and extends a hand to help him, whispering as the beasts draw nearer, “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

A Conversation in a Library

We recently asked the renowned bibliognost Mr. Humphrey Darby to write a small thought piece for our publication. We knew that all our readers would be most eager to read such a work and we also knew that Mr. Darby would be more than eager to write it. He accepted. We were thrilled.

We therefore present to you:

A Conversation in a Library

“You are what?” I asked in a half apologetic, half shocked voice. I gazed at him over my gold rimmed spectacles.
He checked himself, wondering if he should repeat those words, wondering how I would take them.
“No, really, what did you say?” I pressed him eagerly. “You said it in such a whisper I could barely understand you.”
“Well,” he began coolly and paused. Then he lowered his voice, “I am a biblioklept.”
I almost said “what!” again, but I realized that wouldn’t have been very polite at all, so I merely stared at him and formed my lips as if to say, “oh?”
And then he laughed, in a low voice of course since we were seated in a library, but the laugh seemed uncommonly harsh and bitter.
“Mr. Darby,” he continued, after he had sufficiently calmed himself, “Aren’t you a philosopher?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve never been called that.”
“Oh, but you are, my dear Mr. Darby. And most importantly I have learned that you own a title that many people long to have as their own.”
“And what is that?”
“Bibliognost, Mr. Darby. You are a bibliognost: you have a deep knowledge of books. And I have also learned that you know much about the readers of books.”
“Yes?”
“That is why I wish you to help me.”
The young man had flattered me. I pushed aside the book I had been reading and gazed at him with interest and curiosity.
(read more...)

“Now, Mr. Darby, tell me if you know what a biblioklept is.”
“But of course I do: it is a person who steals books.”
“Exactly. And have you ever met one of these most wonderfully complex persons?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Have you ever wished to? Can you not say that you have longed to study their colorful characters? Their natures that drive them to steal books?”
“I do not know what your name is, young sir, but really you are a most perplexing individual. If you would really like to know, the thought had never entered my head.”
He looked disappointed at this. But then a smile crossed his face and he said in a pleasant voice, “Well, at least you must be very happy to have met one in such a chance encounter?”
I wished to humor him and so I nodded and agreed, “Quite right.”
“Ah, now that is fine!” and he folded his hands and rested his chin upon them and looked as if he meant to make a lecture upon this statement.
“Go on,” I encouraged.
“Well, you see, what I really want to know is why I steal books. I suddenly see a book lying here or there and a passion comes over me that I simply cannot control. Why do I steal books?”
I would have liked to have said, “My dear fellow, I have not the slightest idea,” and bowed out of the conversation altogether, but I knew that this wouldn’t have done at all. I therefore resigned myself to be patient and listen on.
“Well, let me see,” I said. “We are in a library right now. Tell me which book you should like to steal.”
He glanced at me and announced, “Why, that one that you have just put down.”
“This one?” I asked rather crossly. It did not seem right at all that you would ask someone for help and then casually announce you were going to steal his book.
“Oh, yes. I came over here for the express purpose of taking it. It was only when I noticed that you were the Mr. Darby that I thought better of it and wanted to speak with you.”
“And why did you wish to steal my book!”
“But, Mr. Darby, you were writing in it!”
This was true. My pencil lay beside the tome.
“Do you think of this stealing as such or as a sort of rescuing?” I asked.
“Well, I think of it as saving,” he said. “I cannot bear to see a book spoiled.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, it happens all the time. Only yesterday, I was walking in the park and the most irresponsible girl was sitting on the grass, scribbling all over a copy of Dante’s Inferno. I happened to know the girl. Actually, she is a friend of my sister’s, but I ran over and said ‘Hey there!’ and I am afraid I grabbed the book and ran off with it.”
“Did she follow you?”
“Oh, yes, of course she followed me! She didn’t lose me until I jumped into a taxi.”
“She must think you are insane.”
This did not seem to help the poor boy, so I tried to think of something philosophical to say.
“Have you ever heard of G. K. Chesterton?” I questioned.
“Oh, yes. I actually just stole a copy of his Orthodoxy from a bookstore that was using it as a doorstop.”
“A doorstop?” I asked incredulously. “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, I suppose, but did you ever read what he said about thieves?”
“Is it bad?”
“No. He wrote, ‘Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it.’ In your case, this property happens to be books.”
He looked up at me cheerfully. “Wonderful,” he said.
“Now,” I announced. “Don’t you think it would be better if instead of stealing, you paid these poor people for their books?”
“Paid them? Of course, I would never pay them. It would only further their horrible actions: make them worse biblioclasts. No indeed. For what would become of me? I would have to stop rescuing these books for I would not have the funds to pay for all of them.”
I stared at him; his face had turned red with indignation.
“Soon, it shall be more than one man against the world. I will train others under me. We will teach the readers of this world to respect the books that have been entrusted to them. Books that have not been respected shall disappear from under their very noses. Let this be a warning to all of you.”
He stopped his speech, got up, and bowed to me. Then whirled round as if he were going to leave, but thinking better of it, he sprang back, snatched my book from off the table, and dashed out of the library.
My word, what a fellow! And, yet, I have heard that the rate of book-thefts has risen tremendously in that county.

Thank you, Blogger!

Apologies to all of my readers eagerly awaiting a new entry. It shall be up shortly. Right now, however, I am lauding the praises of Blogger. It is truly the very best blogging software around. Not only is it free (money and banner wise) and easy to use and comes with a spell checker, but now you can also upload pictures...for free! Sorry, all, I just had to advertise. This new feature is too cool. :)

Readers of the Court Journal,

We have successfully moved the posts from our previous blog to our office here. Please enjoy yourself as you browse through our files! :)

To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all of the miseries of life.

- W. Somerset Maugham

Roverandom

"Once upon a time there was a little dog, and his name was Rover."

So begins Tolkien's whimsically delightful tale of a little dog who angers a magician and subsequently is turned into a toy. The story began in the summer of 1925, when Tolkien took his wife and three young boys (John, Michael, and Christopher) on a holiday to an Edwardian cottage in Filey, overlooking the beach and the sea.

Michael, at the time only about five years old, brought a little lead black and white toy dog, a toy he was extremely attached to, carrying it everywhere and hardly ever putting it down. However, in the events that followed a walk on the beach, Michael put the dog down for several minutes and then, though he searched everywhere, helped by his father and brother, the dog was gone, lost forever.

Roverandom was first told to Michael to explain his dog's disappearance and gradually grew in the telling, assuming the shape it now has.

I have enjoyed Tolkien's shorter stories very much (Leaf by Niggle, Farmer Giles of Ham, Smith of Wooten Major) and Roverandom is no exception. Many of these stories helped Tolkien grow in his confidence as a writer, they show his gradual shaping of ideas about fantasy, and, quite plainly, they are very well-written and enjoyable to read.

Roverandom is particularly delightful perhaps because it is meant to be a story for children and, therefore, has a certain innocence and charm to it. The imprint from books Tolkien read as a child lies clearly upon its pages. The sand fairy that helps Rover bears echoes back to E. Nesbit's Psammead of The Five Children and It.

The story is a beautiful tale with hidden references that will make those who can recognize them smile with delight. Tolkien skillfully weaves them into the tale: allusions to the aforementioned books by E. Nesbit, Lewis Carroll's stories, Gilbert and Sullivan, King Arthur and Merlin, the Man-in-the-Moon, and many others.

Roverandom is an enchanting tale for those who love Tolkien but wish to gain a respite from the Lord of the Rings or for those who want a brief introduction to this man's engaging literary style (it's a wonderful book for a child's introduction to Tolkien, a child not yet ready to tackle LOTR.) If you are a Tolkien fan, find this book and read it. I am sure you shall enjoy it.

Fahrenheit 451

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury is an intellectually gripping read. It was first published in a shorter version under the title "The Fireman" in a magazine called Galaxy Science Fiction. It was then published as a book three years later by Del Rey books in 1953. It is approximately 165 pages long. The 50th anniversary edition appears to be the best copy, because it contains not only the afterword and coda, but also a special interview with Ray Bradbury about his book.

The central character is a fireman, Guy Montag. However, in the fictional futuristic society, where the story is set, firemen do not stop fires. Instead, they start them: burning books and the houses they were concealed in. Guy Montag, however, knows that there is something wrong with this. He is not happy. He feels all alone. He has been brought up in a society that scorns thinking and even outlaws reading. But now he wonders: what's so bad about books that I must burn them?

This novel is a chronicle or narrative, because it is set in our world. Still, I find Bradbury’s ability to weave futuristic inventions into a world of our own quite remarkable, for these ‘inventions’ appear neither impractical nor unrealistic. This makes the story more believable, and, at the same time, gives it a chilling futuristic outlook. Bradbury is able to describe Montag's innermost emotions and thoughts, and all the psychological details. He doesn’t need to portray what the people are wearing, or what they are eating, or what their houses are like. The story isn’t about that. It’s about an attack on and a devouring of the culture. It’s about the annihilating of a person’s individuality and thought processes. The other descriptions are merely reflections of Montag’s mind. The huge, intimidating, blaring, TV walls in the living room portray his confused and intimidated thoughts on whether his beliefs are correct.

Throughout the book, Montag is continually confronted by people that question his initial beliefs. A seventeen year old girl, living the most primitive lifestyle without televisions, etc., is happy and at peace, while Montag is not.

When Montag becomes too curious and begins hiding books in his house, however, dangers thicken and he becomes a hunted man.

Fahrenheit 451 is an exciting read. There are many truths in its pages that throw a shadow on our own culture today in America for not many people today will just sit down and read or talk. In Bradbury's world, you weren't allowed. But the government didn’t start outlawing books. The people first turned away from them.

Ray Bradbury has created quite a striking novel.

Childhood Classics

I've always loved Edith Nesbit's writing. Five Children and It happened to be one of my favorite books growing up.

Several days ago, I picked up this book again, wondering if it would stand the test of time. Too many books that I have loved as a child, have lost their magic when I read them again when I was older.

Five Children and It withstood the test. I think I enjoyed it even more during the second read.

Why? I love Edith Nesbit's writing; I have always loved her style. Most of her books are not about magic and yet the very words have a very magical feel. I love the way she paints her characters, focusing more on the way they react to different circumstances than what they look like. I also love the way this book is dated by the children's speech and Nesbit's references to things during that era.

The books seem very real and yet not very real at all. Anthea, Jane, Robert, and Cyril would seem very real in the setting of the book, and if we ever happened upon such a setting (which for the reader seems rather doubtful), we would expect to see them tramping off to one place or another. But here in our own surroundings, it would be the oddest thing to bump into them.

I love this book because it reminds the reader how children think and act. They aren't perfect: they fight, they make mistakes, they make trouble (usually unintentionally), and, yet, they appear, like most young children, innocent little things intent only on having fun.

Of Edith Nesbit, Roger Lancelyn Green writes:

The trouble with most grown-up people is that, although they may remember some of the things they did when they were children, they cannot remember what it felt like to do them, nor how they thought about them at the time. The other end of the trouble is that although many of us can think of the most wonderful imaginary adventures when we are children, we never know then how to pick and choose and arrange our own stories, nor to write them down in such a way that they can mean to other people even one tenth of what they mean to us. E. Nesbit is one of the very few writers who had the right sort of memory. Also, in many ways, she never really grew up; at least, she had an amazing power of forgetting that she was grown-up.... [And] she proves herself to be among those few really great writers who have found the secret path into that wonderland of the imagination of which we have all had glimpses -- and for which we are for ever seeking.

Five Children and It is a rare beautiful treat for the imagination. It is about four children who discover a strange creature called a sand-fairy, or (as Nesbit names it) a Psammead. The sand-fairy must grant the children one wish a day, wishes which prove to bring the children more bad than good experiences and land them numerous times into trouble. However, everything is worked out in the end.

With such an engaging storyline, this book will captivate both young readers and old. Or, if you are not the fantasy type, read The Treasure Seekers about the Bastable children and then read the opening to The Magician's Nephew by C. S. Lewis (it mentions the Bastables). Being both an Edith Nesbit and a C. S. Lewis fan, I was thrilled with that line in MN.

Someday you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.

-C. S. Lewis

Phantom! (finding imagery in Phantom of the Opera)

The Opera Ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants, or the concierge. No, he existed in flesh and blood, though he assumed all the outward characteristics of a real phantom, that is to say, a shade.

—The Phantom of the Opera, Gaston Leroux

The other night I finished one of the most enchanting novels ever written: The Phantom of the Opera. I believe this book deserves a place next to such other famous French works as Les Miserables. The copy I borrowed from the library was a Barnes and Noble Classics edition, so this review refers to that translation. (I especially enjoyed this translation. It had an excellent foreword and interesting information on Sherlock Holmes and the Phantom. The only drawbacks were several typos throughout its pages.) 

The very idea of the book is thrilling. I admit that before I read it, I knew very little about the story and plot. My knowledge existed around posters seen when I was little in post offices and other such places, advertising an adaption at local colleges. I never saw any of these adaptions, but the name Phantom of the Opera was enough. The words "phantom" and "opera," so beautifully combined, conjure up thoughts of mystery, romance, enchantment, as well as fear and a foreboding of something evil.

And those words aptly describe the emotions of this gothic novel.

Gaston Leroux was born on a train journey on May 6th, 1868, in Paris. He writes: "It was by pure chance I was born in Paris. It was actually between trains--my parents were on a journey to my mother's house in Normandy." This odd birth suited the "fascinating and exciting" character of Leroux.

Horror expert Peter Haining describes Leroux as "a big, florid man who dressed colourfully and sported a gold pince-nez. He was also a man of prodigious energy, with a quick, inventive mind and a dry sense of humour. He was motivated by a strong sense of resolve and adventure was his byword."

Leroux's literary accomplishments fill sixty novels. Haining writes: "A great many of them are rich with events quite obviously drawn from his own experience -- even incidents that actually happened to him -- and all are engrossingly plotted with fine characterization."

Unfortunately, many of these novels have long been out of print and Leroux's beautiful and engaging works have been forgotten as has Leroux himself. When we think of Phantom of the Opera, rarely does Leroux come to mind. Usually we only think of the versions immortalized by the stage and film.

However, Phantom of the Opera is a beautiful work, relying heavily on Christian themes and will be an instant favorite of readers of the horror/gothic genre.

The gothic novel is really an English genre created during the 1700's by the forerunner of Gothic romances, Horace Walpole, with his novel, The Castle of Otranto. Obsessed with the medieval, Walpole, according to the Wikipedia encyclopedia, "originally claimed [his writing] was a real medieval romance he had discovered and republished. Thus was born the gothic novel's association with fake documentation to increase its effect."

However, Ann Radcliffe is the one truly remembered for the genre and who made it acceptable reading for the general public. Walpole's novel had been labeled a romance, a genre in that day believed to be unfit for children and social taste. Radcliffe also created the gothic villain

which developed into the Byronic hero. Unlike Walpole's, her novels were best-sellers and virtually everyone in English society was reading them. Radcliffe created a craze and had many imitators; the results were parodied in Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey by setting up the atmosphere of doom and sweeping it away with hearty common sense and normalcy. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein [written in] 1818 is undoubtedly the greatest literary triumph of the gothic novel in this its classical period.

The gothic genre basically involves an overarching feel of horror or terror. This is why many literary critics use the term to embrace the entire horror genre. The word gothic has ultimately been connected to the "dark and horrific" and the emotions of the genre include "terror, mystery, the supernatural, doom, death, decay, old buildings with ghosts in them, madness, hereditary curses, and so on."

Those who have read Phantom of the Opera or have seen a version reproduced on stage or film will certainly see echoes of Phantom in these attributes.

But what is Phantom? Why have so many people been enchanted by this story? Why does it continue to have such undying fame?

Phantom quite simply is a love story. It is also a story of jealousy, hate, evil, beauty, ugliness, fear, contentment, and death.

The story almost completely takes place in the great Paris Opera House. Haining describes a person's emotions on visiting this majestic place: "The overwhelming feeling is, indeed, of entering a world of timeless grandeur mixed with an air of almost imponderable mystery."

The book primarily concerns itself with three characters: the phantom, Christine Daae, a singer, and Raoul (the Vicompte De Chagny).

But the story is really about the Phantom, the "Opera Ghost," a mysterious figure who lives underneath the Opera House and haunts its labyrinth of passages and the singers and musicians as well.

For several months there had been nothing discussed at the Opera but this ghost in dress-cloths who stalked about the building, from top to bottom, like a shadow, who spoke to nobody, to whom nobody dared speak and who vanished as soon as he was seen, no one knowing how or where. As became a real ghost, he made no noise in walking .... All the girls pretended to have met this supernatural being more or less often. And those who laughed the loudest were not the most at ease .... Had anyone met with a fall, or suffered a practical joke at the hands of one of the other girls, or lost a powder-puff, it was at once put down to the ghost, the Opera ghost.

The story begins on the night the managers Debienne and Poligny resign from the Opera House, leaving it in the care of the new managers Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin (the latter offer fine comedy relief). A gala performance is held and something quite extraordinary occurs.

But the real triumph was reserved for Christine Daae, who had begun by singing a few passages from Romeo and Juliet. It was the first time that the young artist sang in this work of Gounod, which had been revived at the Opera Comique long after its first production at the old Theatre Lyrique by Mme Carvalho. Those who heard her say that her voice, in these passages, was seraphic; but this was nothing to the superhuman notes that she gave forth in the prison scene and the final trio in Faust, which she sang in the place of La Carlotta, who was ill. No one had ever heard or seen anything like it.

What amazing change has overtaken Christine who "six months ago sang like a carrion-crow"? How is her triumph possible?

The answer lies in her mysterious mentor: a voice without a body that visits her in her dressing room and teaches her in the art of music. She believes he is the angel of music.

As the story unfolds, we soon learn the many secrets of this phantom. We also learn that he is in love with Christine. So desperately in love with her, in fact, that he kidnaps her and makes her a prisoner in his underground mansion.

But Raoul, who has loved Christine since he was a child, is jealous of this phantom. And the phantom is even more jealous of Raoul for he knows that it is Raoul that Christine truly loves.

Such is the basic plot which I am sure many of you are familiar with.

Phantom of the Opera is not an allegory, but it does highlight many Christian themes and it brings up many interesting topics for discussion.

It appears that Leroux was a Catholic for spiritual topics are mentioned in several passages, especially concerned with Catholic traditions. Christine originally believes the phantom was the angel of music that her father promised to send to her when he died.

The Angel of Music played a part in all Daddy Daae's tales; and he maintained that every great musician, every great artist received a visit from the Angel at least once in his life .... And then his eyes lit up as he said: 'You will hear him one day, my child! When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you!'

In a particularly moving moment when Raoul tries to rescue Christine and realizes that there is nothing he can do to save her, he falls on his knees and starts praying.

As I mentioned previously, Phantom is not necessarily an allegory, but it draws heavily on Christian themes, which many great books do.

Raoul is the Christ-like figure, the hero, while Phantom may be paralleled to a Devil-like figure, the "bad guy."

Raoul will willingly die for Christine. He worries about her safety, even when she rejects him for the phantom.

After reflecting over the book when I had finished it, I formed an interesting analogy. (Please note that I am not saying that Leroux meant this in his writing.) Let us say that Raoul represents Christianity, the religion Christine has known since birth. But when she grows up, she forsakes him for the beauty of the opera, for the fame, for the finery. The phantom comes, tempting her, helping her to become all she ever dreamed of. Soon she learns that this life, however, that this angel (who turns out to be more like a devil), leaves her empty, lifeless, hopeless, and afraid (especially when he traps her beneath the Opera House (which might almost symbolize Hell). At last, after much sorrow and pain, on the top of the Opera House (almost symbolic of Heaven), she gives her heart back to Raoul in an extremely touching scene. However, the story can not truly be resolved until the phantom is defeated.

The story also reminded me of C. S. Lewis' enchanting tale Till We Have Faces. Those who have read this work will recall its contrasts between beauty and ugliness, selfish and selfless love.

Phantom awakens these themes as well. There is no doubt that the phantom is ugly (they call him a corpse, because he has a terrible skin deformity from birth) and Raoul is particularly handsome. But the theme of selfish and selfless love is heavily used also.

The phantom only wants Christine for his own desires. He wants her only so that she will love him. Raoul, on the other hand, although he wishes Christine to love him, is only concerned for her safety and doesn't care if she marries him as long as she is happy. In the end, the phantom learns this selfless love, even though it costs him his life.

This is another major theme in the tale: death and rebirth. Consider this passage from Raoul's visit to the churchyard.

But, suddenly, as he turned behind the apse, he was struck by the dazzling note of the flowers that sighed upon the granite tombstones, straggled over the white ground and made fragrant all the frozen corner of the Breton winter. They were marvelous red roses that had blossomed in the morning, in the snow, giving a glimpse of life among the dead, for death was all around him.

I will never forget the ending of Wuthering Heights, one of the most stirring endings to a novel I have ever read. Phantom reminded me strongly of Wuthering Heights. In Phantom, Erik (the phantom) dies but Raoul and Christine have each other and live on. In Wuthering Heights, Heathcliff (the villain of the story) dies and Catherine and Hareton (the two lovers) live on. Notice their singularly similar endings.

I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: the middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar Linton's only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff's still bare.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.

And Phantom's.

I have prayed over his mortal remains, that God might show him mercy notwithstanding his crimes .... It was Erik's skeleton .... The skeleton was lying near the little well, in the place where the Angel of Music first held Christine Daae fainting in his trembling arms, on the night when he carried her down to the cellars of the Opera-house .... I saw that the skeleton of the Opera ghost is no ordinary skeleton and that its proper place is in the archives of the National Academy of Music.

And then at the end of the book we are confronted with a question. Can we pity the phantom after all he has done? Can one pity a murderer (the phantom is a murderer when an important plot twist is revealed)? It is hard, especially since the phantom never seems to confess that what he did was wrong. He blames it on his childhood, a childhood filled with abuse and devoid of love. Can we pity the phantom? This is what Leroux asks.

Shall we pity him? Shall we curse him? He asked only to be 'some one,' like everybody else. But he was too ugly! ... He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and in the end he had to content himself with a cellar. Surely we may pity the Opera Ghost!

Rediscovering George MacDonald (Part I)

Then the Old Man of the Earth stooped over the floor of the cave, raised a huge stone from it, and left it leaning. It disclosed a great hole that went plumb-down.
"That is the way," he said.
"But there are no stairs."
"You must throw yourself in. There is no other way."

I am glad I did not type up this entry yesterday; I am afraid that I would not have done MacDonald justice. I had finished reading The Golden Key, and it had left me with a feeling I cannot describe. The story seemed to intertwine all the stories I had ever read, and, yet, it was so unlike anything I had ever read. I tried to make sense of the story; I tried to interpret the different parts as one interprets an allegory, but it doesn't appear that MacDonald wanted the story to be an allegory at all.

I'm sorry if this all seems rather muddled, but I'm simply attempting to jot down my thoughts, and MacDonald is a muddling author because he blends the real and the "fairy tale" quite well.

First, let me start with my initial impression of MacDonald. I discovered his work at a young age--the age where you pick up a book merely for the pleasure of reading, the age where you don't think about symbolisms or allegorical pictures, the age where you don't even make note of the author you are reading. I started with The Princess and the Goblin. For one reason or another (which I can not remember now, although I think it had to do with the goblins), I never finished the book. Later on, I attempted At the Back of the North Wind. I must admit that I was rather fascinated with this book, though I thought at times that the characters were rather cruel. Unfortunately, although I regret it now, I never finished this book either.

But MacDonald was not lost. I do not believe I paid him enough credit (authors whose literary style could not have compared with him had their books begun and finished, while I merely started MacDonald's). But that was not true of all MacDonald's books, especially one in particular. A certain book entitled The Light Princess had found its way onto my bookshelf. The books on my bookshelf were collected in no particular order and were not collected because they were favorites of mine. They "found their way" there as many books do when there are books lying about the house. No doubt, it had been picked up in a bookstore or in a library book sale or in another such place. However, books on my bookshelf were read repeatedly. Since they were so near, I could pick them up easily any day when I wanted to read a book.

And, so, I do believe The Light Princess must have been read countless times, and I don't think I ever noted the author. It didn't really matter, though. I enjoyed the story as I was not looking for hidden meanings and images. I read it as a fairy tale is meant to be read. It isn't real and involves beings that aren't real either. I do remember, though, that I found MacDonald's characters somewhat cruel at times, impersonal, and cold. At the same time, I enjoyed the story. A floating princess is a strange and yet beautiful idea, isn't it? At the same time, it is harsh. Without the weight of gravity, the light princess can not experience sadness, sorrow, and most importantly love. She only finds this when a prince loves her enough (loves her even though she is cruel and does not love him), loves her enough to die for her.

So, now, I start to hear of MacDonald again. Mr. Callihan told me that my writing reminded him of MacDonald's style. And, perhaps, my readings of The Light Princess influenced me. Then, as I was researching Tolkien for a column I am writing, I found that MacDonald was one of Tolkien's favorite authors. I told myself that I simply must rediscover MacDonald.

Yesterday, following the Old Man of the Earth's wise words, I "threw myself in." I started with The Golden Key; I came away rather...I can not find the right word to describe my feelings of the book. I thought that the story was very strange; some of the parts were beautiful, but others seemed cold. What did the story mean, for it must have a meaning? What is the golden key? It reminded me of the allegory of the cave, especially since Tangle and Mossy were trying to reach the "country whence the shadows fall." Was it a picture of that allegory? In those terms, it seems to be a little bit clearer.

Somewhat confused, my view of MacDonald hardened a little. I thought he was a strange author; I thought his characters were often cruel and odd; and I tried to find the allegorical image in The Golden Key, but did not spend very much time on it for I thought it might be better if I left it as a fairytale.

Then today I started Lilith. My opinion of MacDonald rose incredibly. I love this author. If only I had read Lilith sooner. The book doesn't seem like MacDonald at all. At least, Mr. Vane is a bit kinder, gentler, and more likeable than his other characters. I am quite glad that I have spent this time rediscovering MacDonald. He is fast becoming one of my favorite authors and all because of Lilith.

And, yet, I can't help wondering: why Lilith? A very strange name for a book, but the story is strange.

The Man Who Was Thursday

Introduction:

The other night I decided that instead of wasting my time on the computer--foruming, blogging, writing--I would sit down for several hours and read a book. It proved to be one of the most relaxing and intellectually stimulating and rewarding hours that I have spent in the last months. I realized that I had missed my books dearly; the computer can never match the pleasure and enjoyment that books bring to people. And, when one says that people in the past should be pitied because they did not possess the modern inventions of today (computers, telephone, television), just think: without those inventions, they were able to spend more time buried in their books. Of course, I'm not saying that computers are *bad.* I'm merely stating that sometimes they can become too addicting, and one can waste valuable time using them, when one could instead discover precious truths in books. :)

The Book:

The above book which I mentioned was written by G. K. Chesterton, an English journalist and author, famous for his Father Brown mysteries. Chesterton is praised for this book as well: The Man Who Was Thursday. The edition I obtained from the library was printed in large type and published by G. K. Hall Large Print Book Series.

Plot:

The book centers on a poet/philosopher, Gabriel Syme, who discovers a circle of dangerous anarchists, each named after a day of the week. As he becomes more deeply involved in the tangled web of mystery, murder, and terror, Chesterton is at his best: at times witty, at times serious, and at times quite frightening. Be warned: the book comes to quite a strange and sudden close, leaving the reader rather shocked and searching for conclusions to unanswered questions.

My thoughts:

I enjoyed this book immensely and highly recommend it. Chesterton's writing is very enjoyable to read. I would like to give more comments, but it would spoil the book for those who haven't read it, because each chapter builds on the mystery of the preceding one. Each page of this book is quotable.

Quotes:

Here is a selected assortment of passages and sentences from the book:

Opening lines:

"The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset."

----

"Even if the people were not "artists," the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face--that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat--that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others."

-----

"In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream."

-----

"Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. 'About this and this,' he cried; 'about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself--there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold.'"

-----

"'You have kept your word,' he said gently, with his face in shadow. 'You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it.'

'What do you mean?' cried the chaotic Gregory. 'What did I promise you?'

'A very entertaining evening,' said Syme, and he made a military salute with the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away. "

-----

"Yet the astonished Syme was able to realise that this ease was suddenly assumed; for there was a slight stumble outside the door, which showed that the departing detective had not minded the step. "

-----

"Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it."

-----

"The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all."

-----

"'We must have several word-signs,' said Syme seriously--'words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favorite word is 'coeval.' What's yours?'...'Lush', too,' said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, 'we must have 'lush'--word applied to grass, don't you know?'"

-----

"'Do you see this lantern?' cried Syme in a terrible voice. 'Do you see the cross carved on it, and the flame inside? You did not make it. You did not light it. Better men than you, men who could believe and obey, twisted the entrails of iron and preserved the legend of fire. There is not a street you walk on, there is not a thread you wear, that was not made as this lantern was, by denying your philosophy of dirt and rats. You can make nothing. You can only destroy. You will destroy mankind; you will destroy the world. Let that suffice you. Yet this one old Christian lantern you shall not destroy...'"

-----

"'Well, we smashed something,' said the Professor, with a faint smile. 'That's some comfort.'

'You're becoming an anarchist,' said Syme..."

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I think I shall end this here, although I could go on quoting. :) You can get a taste of the book online, here.

Welcome!

"For some mysterious reason the King had a great affection for hanging about in the Court Journal office, smoking a morning cigarette and looking over files..."

--G. K. Chesterton, The Napoleon of Notting Hill

Welcome to THE COURT JOURNAL!

A publication falling into the literary world...