Spawn of Mars
Blog of Fictioneer David Skinner
When Only Corruption Is AuthenticThe "True" Self, Revealed
Saturday, July 29, 2006 9:44 pm
There is a conceit that most of day-to-day life is a lie and, underneath it all, seething darkly, lives the truth. Thus, when a good man says or does something bad, we thereby learn what he is "really" like. But have we so learned? Bad acts or words are bad precisely because they present a failure; they signal a corruption. The man who, especially when drunk, does or says disreputable things has not lost his mask; he has succumbed to his corruption. When he is sober and does and says reputable things, he is not being a hypocrite nor a traitor to his "authentic" self; he is rising above the sins to which we are all subject. Our authentic selves are the uncorrupted, sinless selves, what we would have been had not the Fall occurred. No matter the terrible thoughts that beset a man, they do not represent him truly, unless he pertinaciously and characteristically indulges them. A man's character, after all, is what he wills of himself. When his will is crippled, especially by drink, his character has been set aside and he fails himself. It is a shame, really, that when someone is kind to us one moment and unkind the next, we think the kindness was false and the unkindness true. It is uncharitable, really, to allow a bad act to trump a good. Yes, a single bad act, absent repentance, can be decisive; but only absent repentance. Isn't that what God has told us, after all?
A Bee Contemplates BuzzingThe Definition of High Art
Sunday, January 8, 2006 8:46 pm
Despite having been a writer for decades now and having had the unsurprising and frequent inclination, as a producer of art, to contemplate the nature of art, it was many years until I realized something that I think is very true.
Let me begin by stating the obvious: All works are not substantially equal. However much the academics might want to de-privilege the canon, there remains a qualitative difference between high art and low art. This, to be sure, is not news. If you think I am merely about to scoff at academics who overpraise hip-hop or graffiti, you would be wrong. Such academics, however much they perdure, have been adequately ridiculed already. My question is only this: Given the obvious fact that some art is high and some low, what is it, in the end, that distinguishes high from low? And my answer is this:
Depth of information.
This is not entirely my idea. I heard a man use "information content" to explain, in passing, why concert music is higher than popular music. But I believe "information content" — or, as I prefer to put it, "depth of information" — applies to all art and is, indeed, sufficient to distinguish high from low. Notice I am not saying "distinguish good from bad." "Good" is an aesthetic judgment, valid enough but not enough to make a work high. And "bad" does not mean a work is not high. "Information" applies, obviously, to content, but perhaps not as obviously to form. That is, a work of high art is presented in a form that itself invites contemplation and rational elucidation. A work of high art is elaborate in content and form. Its information is deep.
That may seem to be a truism, but what I am trying to get across is that "deeply informed" is the complete definition of high art. Yes, of course, we would argue about what constitutes "deep." But by defining high art as "deeply informed" we don't become sunk in questions of aesthetics or culture — or origins. Thus even masters can produce low art — art that is well-made, enjoyable, memorable; yet for all that, lacking depth and therefore not high. Just because it's Mozart doesn't mean it's higher than Metallica.
And, as an added bonus, my succinct definition finally makes it clear to me why so much art that is supposedly high has always struck me as anything but. With my definition in hand, one can finally banish the freeloaders from the house of high art. For example, like him or not, value him or not, Pollock is not high art, because there is nothing elaborate or deeply informed about his work. Nothing intrinsic, that is. You can read all you want into Pollock's paint spills; they're still just spills. Deep information cannot be imputed to the work but must subsist in the work for the work to be truly high.
Eternity With Love HandlesGod's Gonna Resurrect This?
Monday, August 1, 2005 1:54 am
It's right there in the Nicene Creed: "I expect the resurrection of the dead." On the final day we will each arise as Christ arose and be restored to our bodies, no matter how dispersed our flesh might be among the elements of the Earth. To be sure, on that day our bodies will be uncorrupted and imperishable, glorious bodies like the glorious body of Christ; but I've always wondered: What will those bodies
look like?
Christ looked like the Jesus at 33 — that is, the Jesus at the time of His death. If I died right now, would I be resurrected with a bald spot and love handles? Insofar as these things are a function of corruption, I suppose the answer would be no; but what, then, does that mean? Do I suddenly become the trim and virile, fit and vigorous man I am not? Do I become what I would have been, had I been born in Eden? I am sure that some theologians have pondered this; but I haven't read them. I don't think the Magisterium has an opinion, since the particular details of the general resurrection have not been given to the Church.
So if you don't mind, I will offer a little speculation.
An important clue, I think, is in the Eucharist. The glorious Body of Christ is there as the host; yet there are — obviously — no bodily attributes whatsoever. In other words, a resurrected and glorious body need not manifest itself in an expected way. The body is as real, distinct, and unique to each of us as are the reason, soul, and will. On the last day we will be given, again and truly, the bodies we had at death. But the notion that Heaven will be filled with infants, children, teenagers, and adults young and old seems absurd, somehow.
What will be returned to us, I think, is the substance of our bodies. In body we will be substantially as we were, just as a consecrated host is substantially the Body of Christ. Which is not to say we will be formless. We will surely have some form. Some default form, if you will. Yes, Christ can appear as 33-year-old man, just as Mary can appear as a very young woman, despite having raised a 33-year-old and lived long past his death; but what if they, and eventually we, default to something else? Say, to children? I'm not just being sentimental. I'm not getting all Hallmark on you. I'm serious. I suspect that in Heaven we will be children.
This hardly proves anything, but I'm especially guided by the following:And Jesus, calling unto him a little child, set him in the midst of them. And said: Amen I say to you, unless you be converted, and become as little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Matt. 18:2-3
And they brought to him young children, that he might touch them. And the disciples rebuked them that brought them. Whom when Jesus saw, he was much displeased and saith to them: Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God. Amen I say to you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall not enter into it. Mark 10:13-15
I know that Jesus was not being literal in these passages. His point, quite different from mine, was that we must be like little children if we expect to enter the Kingdom of God. Still, I find these words highly suggestive. It seems so right that Heaven would be filled not merely with childlike people but with actual children. Of such is the kingdom of God. And then there's this:For in the resurrection they shall neither marry nor be married, but shall be as the angels of God in heaven. Matt. 22:30
It's not so surprising that there would be no marriage in Heaven. After all, what is marriage for? Apart from providing for the best upbringing of children, marriage contains and sanctifies the act that produces those children. Since no more people will be created — let alone born and raised — after the end of the world, marriage will have no purpose. Sex will have no purpose. There will be no sex in Heaven. Unless you're an angry jihadi, I think you'd agree.
Well, what sort of human is it, who has no need or capacity for sex? A child, of course. Yes indeed, I am only speculating, and perhaps ill-informedly; but I really think that on the last day we will be resurrected as children.
Marriage Isn't a Lark, After AllThe Carter Family Gets Incendiary!
Monday, May 30, 2005 6:49 pm
When I was a teenager and I started to read Great Literature, I read Dostoevsky's
Crime and Punishment. You know what struck me then more than anything else? That a book written in the 1860s should be about an
axe murderer. My miseducation to that point had not prepared me for the idea that past ages might
just know a thing or two about horrible, sad, or sordid things — and, more to the point, that past ages might be unafraid to talk about them.
Mankind has been doing the same blasted thing for thousands of years. Yet it is an annoying conceit of
this era that, until now, man has been naive about his own circumstances. Because civilization once
aspired to better circumstances and once
celebrated ideals, it is supposed that civilization was once ignorant of all our shortcomings and squalor. In fact,
our civilization has simply despaired of ideals.
I was watching PBS a week or two ago. Normally I don't care much for PBS. It is, after all, the television station that believes the history of America — of every blessed little thing in America — is fundamentally the history of The Oppression of the Black Man. You can be watching a show about the development of the hot dog and PBS will manage to remind you that in America before the 1960s black people were not even allowed to eat hot dogs! — or some darn thing. PBS insidiously dwells on the bad. Talk about despairing.
Still, when you don't have cable, as I do not, you sometimes have to settle for PBS. Besides, there is some interesting stuff to watch, now and again. Must give PBS its due. Just recently I watched an American Experience special about the Carter Family. I had known nothing about the Carter Family before then. As a TV special it was fair enough; but it did compel me to start streaming some of their music. Boy, it's good. I've even bought a CD.
The Carter Family, back in the late 1920s, more or less founded recorded country music. Most of their work was arrangements of old folk songs, gathered from among the people. Thus many of the songs are probably very old indeed. One I particularly like is Single Girl, Married Girl. I haven't been able to find out how old this one is — I mean, how much older than its recording by the Carters in 1928.Single girl, single girl, going dressed fine,
Oh she's going dressed fine.
Married girl, married girl, she wears just any kind,
Oh she wears just any kind.
Single girl, single girl, she goes to the store and buys,
Oh she goes to the store and buys.
Married girl, married girl, she rocks the cradle and cries,
Oh she rocks the cradle and cries.
Single girl, single girl, going where she please,
Oh she's going where she please.
Married girl, married girl, a baby on her knees,
Oh a baby on her knees.
The contrast between the single and married girls is bluntly made. Sure, it's a cynical song; but it works. It was the Carter Family's first big hit.
Now, as the PBS special plays this song in the backgound, the following luminaries speak.Barry Mazor: That was pretty potent stuff then as it is now for a woman from the city let alone from the country to be singing about. "By the way, this marriage thing is no bed of roses," this was pretty incendiary stuff.
Gillian Welch: As a single woman singing it, it always seemed like a little bit of a taunt, you know a compassionate taunt, you know to be flaunting your freedom.
Mary Bufwack: Sarah didn't want to go out and sing songs. Sarah didn't want to go down and record music, but it brought money into the family coffers and that was what, was her obligation was to do.
Oh, please. By the way, this marriage thing is no bed of roses. Yeah, Barry. No one until then had even an inkling about the difficulty of marriage. Why, goodness, had people only realized how hard marriage could be, they might have — I dunno — written a folk song about it, or something. They might, indeed, have responded enthusiastically to a popular recording of such a folk song. Or something. Incendiary? Hardly. It was confirmational. The sort of thing that makes you smile wryly or nod your head sadly. Did Single Girl, Married Girl bring about some sort of revolution? Ah, yes: the great Marriage Implosion of 1928... Barry only wishes it had. Barry and his ilk relish the demolishing of ideals — and a happy marriage is the preeminent ideal.
Gillian Welch is welcome to her spin on Single Girl — that is, she may well regard it, when she sings it, as a taunt of the single girl against the married. Frankly, though, I think it is more effective and likely as a lament of the married girl. Even then, I don't think it somehow demonstrates that being single is superior to being married. A married girl who longs to dress well, go to the store and buy, and go wherever she pleases, and who thinks of her marriage as drab clothes, drudgery, and burdensome babies, is simply trapped in adolescence. When Mary Bufwack clucks about how poor Sarah Carter simply felt obligated to record these songs, she implies that marriage is without obligation; that Sarah, by fulfilling her obligations, is pitiable rather than noble. I suppose Sarah should have been dressing fine and going where she pleased — especially shopping — instead of caring for her impoverished family.
Oh, foul marriage, that compels women to grow up and work hard for their children!
"Unholy and Evil"When the Culture Could Be Honest
Monday, May 16, 2005 2:16 am
Beware! Spoilers follow.I was watching
The Godfather: Part II the other day. I had not seen it in many years. I knew how the story would go; I was prepared for the powerful scenes. I had not, however, remembered the dialogue as such — and I was struck by what Kay says
about her abortion.
Recall she has come to tell Michael she is leaving with the children. She no longer loves him and can no longer bear being the wife of the Godfather. He thinks that she is unhappy about recently losing a baby; he has been told it was a miscarriage. He says to her, "I know you blame me for losing the baby." And she replies:Oh, Michael, you are blind. It wasn't a miscarriage — it was an abortion. An abortion, Michael. Just like our marriage is an abortion. Something that's unholy — and evil. I didn't want your son, Michael. I wouldn't bring another one of your sons into this world. It was an abortion, Michael. It was a son — a son — and I had it killed because this must all end.
Wow. "Unholy." "Evil." "Killed." Seriously, could you expect such honesty out of Hollywood today? There are no qualifications in Kay's words; no seeking of "common ground;" no tortured philosophical rationalizations about the beginnings of life or of personhood or of humanity. She doesn't say that it was an agonizing decision for her; she calls the act unholy and evil. She says not that she had a fetus removed but that she had her son killed.
The modern screenwriter could never write such words, not unless he was ironically placing them in the mouth of some twisted religious right-winger. There is too much at stake in the culture of death to allow the truth to be spoken so clearly. The worst part, actually, is that the modern screenwriter wouldn't even think of abortion as "unholy" and "evil." Unholy? Evil? Such regressive concepts! Few pro-aborts even admit that an abortion is a killing. How enlightened we are! Abortion, however unpleasant, is just a procedure, now. You know what? This scene would have been a wee bit less dramatic if Kay had just been exercising her inalienable woman's right to control her own reproduction. Gosh, Michael wouldn't even have had much cause to get angry with her.
How wonderfully far we have come.
Jane Austen Tells ItLooks Like She Skipped Creative Writing 101
Sunday, October 10, 2004 7:30 pm
As I will surely say again, I object to creative-writing classes. I object to the notion that there is anything to be taught. To learn, perhaps, from accomplished example; but to be taught abstractly from contrived example?
I especially object to the notion that there are any rules of writing. Rules of language, yes, of grammar, of standard usage; but
not of writing. "Rules" of writing tend only to mislead novices. The goal is good writing and, truly, good writing is discerned in the unique event. If a story works, it works. One can see patterns in good writing, I
suppose; or better yet, patterns in
bad writing; but the distillation of "rules" is misguided.
If you have taken any instruction at all on writing creatively, you have surely heard this hoary "rule": Show, don't tell. This can be interpreted different ways. Usually it means: Don't report the facts; dramatize them. Not "She was angry" but "She cursed and pounded the wall." Which may or may not serve your story... Most of the time, however, this causes some terribly overwrought writing. What, after all, is so bad about saying "She was angry"? What is the point of the word angry if I'm to hesitate using it? While it is true that writing is not language, writing should not also be an abandonment of language. Angry exists because it is useful. Whether or not it should be used depends not on a silly "rule" but on the context of the passage and the intent of the author.
I realize that even advocates of show, don't tell would not dispute the importance of context and intent; nor would they, out of hand, reject a simple "She was angry." But their "rule" is therefore not a rule. It is, at best, a suggestion not to fail to be vivid. And even then, who's to say that drab is never appropriate?
One particularly pernicious application of show, don't tell affects larger narrative: It is that one must not "summarize" the action of a story. One should, rather, depict as much as one can. "Immerse your reader!" Well, yes, immersion is pretty much the goal; but telling can be as effective as showing, after all. Indeed, isn't it called "story-telling"? One can draw a reader in without depicting anything — at least, not in a dramatic sense. Drama is only necessary in theater.
I was particularly reminded of this as I was reading Mansfield Park.
Fanny Price, our heroine, has been living with her cousins at Mansfield Park. They are now in their late teens and early twenties. She has feelings of love for her cousin Edmund, her only real ally in the household. Now, while Fanny's uncle is gone from England, two socially vivacious visitors come to Mansfield Park: Mary and Henry Crawford. Amidst the other upheavals the Crawfords bring, the young men and women decide to put on a play — mostly for their own amusement. Fanny has misgivings about the Crawfords and about this play. She is nonetheless pulled into the preparations.
While she is helping Mary with her part, Edmund arrives to ask for Fanny's help with his part. As it was, Fanny had been playing Edmund's part against Mary's; now with Edmund himself on hand, he (instead of Fanny) rehearses with Mary. Here is the passage from Volume I, Chapter xviii.They must now rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her shrank — she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes more than enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it again that very day.
Now consider my point: Between They must now rehearse together and At last the scene was over are 182 words in maybe a dozen clauses constituting six sentences. The rehearsal is over within the course of a longish paragraph. Keep in mind: In the play Mary is secretly in love with Edmund. In real life Mary is eyeing Edmund; Edmund is dazzled by Mary; and Fanny is infatuated with Edmund and unsure of Mary. My oh my: Such potential for explosive drama! The back and forth one could depict! All the showing one could do! Yet Austen disposes of it all in six sentences. Six sentences of telling.
Austen does not show that Fanny becomes agitated; Austen just says: "...and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, [Fanny] had once closed the page and turned away..." That's it. Fanny was agitated. Austen tells you Fanny was agitated. You're not immersed in any action; at best, bits of action are briefly acknowledged. Edmund entreats; Mary cannot refuse; Fanny is made an observer. Fanny shrinks from criticizing. She forgets herself; becomes agitated; closes the page. They impute weariness to her. The end! Austen's summary is far more evocative than mine but nonetheless a summary.
A telling, my friends; not a showing. This passage immersed me in Fanny's predicament — yet I was given not a single line of dialogue and only a few discontinuous stage directions. No one, it seems, ever told Jane Austen that show, don't tell was the means to great writing; and we have only benefited from Austen's ignorance.
Marriage, Once Upon a TimeA Screwball Comedy Hints at Better Days
Saturday, July 10, 2004 2:51 am
In very old movies a married couple is usually seen to sleep separately, husband in one twin bed and wife in the other. Nowadays we snicker at this — and rightly so. Though the motive to this contrivance may have been modesty, the effect of it is prudery. The marriage bed, after all, is the
proper place for sex. By showing one bed we would affirm what is right; by showing twin beds, on the other hand, we clumsily imply that sex has no fit role in a good clean world.
Sometimes, however, an old movie can be not prudish but simply naive, and naive in a way that does affirm what is right. Case in point: My Favorite Wife. This movie, having been made in 1940, does have that silly nonsense with the twin beds; but it also has a particularly wonderful moment of sense.
Nick is married to Ellen. One day Ellen is lost in a shipwreck. Seven years later, Nick has her declared legally dead so he can remarry. The very day that he remarries, Ellen — who has been recently rescued from an island — comes home. She learns from her mother-in-law that Nick has remarried and that he has gone away on his honeymoon. Ellen resolves to go after Nick. Her mother-in-law asks: "What are you going to do?" Ellen answers: "Well, I don't know, but I hope I'm not too late."
"Not too late"? Huh? What can she mean? Nick has already met, dated, wooed, and married another woman. Wouldn't it seem rather too late already? What does Ellen hope to do?
Why, what else? She hopes to get there before the marriage is consummated.
See, once upon a time, it was understood that sex sealed a marriage bond. Not as the icing on the cake, mind you, but as an unprecedented act that literally made husband and wife one flesh. Until sex had occurred, the marriage was — as the term had it — unconsummated. Incomplete. And so, if Ellen gets there before Nick and the new wife have sex, then the new marriage will not be sealed. Of course there will be some messy legal things to take care of, but in a certain sense nothing irrevocable will have happened.
Ellen presumes that Nick and his new wife have not had sex yet. Of course in 1940 people had sex outside of marriage; but Ellen implicitly accepts the ideal of chastity. More to the point, she implicitly accepts the ideal that sex is a significant component not of love but of marriage — an almost legalistic component. That is: sex has a role outside of pleasure. Ellen is not preaching to us; she is merely acting on a common understanding — a common understanding that has, of course, been destroyed in past decades.
Now, I'm not saying that everyone in 1940 was a saint when it came to marriage, nor that everyone understood marriage as it was scrupulously defined in, say, the Catechism. Please! But need I say it? In 1940 society had standards. However sinful the audience may have really been, they would not have been even momentarily confused when Ellen said "I hope I'm not too late." They would have understood; whereas I, in 2004, must decode her statement as if I were some cultural archeologist.