Saturday, September 18, 2021

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie

 The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie

(c) Copyright 2021 by Kathleen Spaltro.

All Rights Reserved.


Having reread Muriel Spark's short novel, I watched an adaptation for Scottish TV. Besides attending a stage production in Pitlochry, Scotland, in 1985, I have seen the famous film many times. While I enjoy Spark's fiction and find The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie intriguing, it is not my favorite Spark novel. I prefer and often reread with delight A Far Cry from Kensington as well as Loitering with Intent. Yet a discussion of the meaning of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is full of interest.

My husband and I just discussed the first two TV episodes. While we both find Jean Brodie fascinating, he intensely dislikes her, while I see her appeal, have a certain sympathy with her, but dislike what she does (rather than dislike her). We agree that she is histrionic and narcissistic with a ruthless need to shape weaker selves into what she wants them to be. The novel follows Miss Brodie's pupil Sandy into a future as a cloistered nun who writes a psychological treatise, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace. Jean Brodie marks Sandy for life because Sandy perceives in Miss Brodie the evil desire to use others regardless of their needs or their separate existence. In other words, Sandy's experience of Jean Brodie creates her perception of what human evil is.

Thinking about this some more, I would say that Jean Brodie lives entirely within her imagination. Governing both her political beliefs and her personal decisions, it triumphs over any sense of reality. That's what's wrong with her. Frederick Rolfe (the author and artist Baron Corvo), too, (according to a former friend) "had only the vaguest sense of realities." He once painted a depiction of a saint and others in which all the human figures had Rolfe's own features.

Romanticism, according to Isaiah Berlin, exalted subjective understanding over objective reason, the subjective experience over "real world" customs and rules and procedures. Berlin contended that fascism was/is Romanticism translated into politics.  "Fascism too is an inheritor of Romanticism," Berlin wrote in The Roots of Romanticism: "The hysterical self assertion and the nihilistic destruction of existing institutions because they confine the unlimited will, which is the only thing which counts for human beings; the superior person who crushes the inferior because his will is stronger, these are a direct inheritance — in an extremely garbled form, no doubt, but still an inheritance — from the Romantic movement; and this inheritance has played an extremely powerful part in our lives." 

A Romantic and an open admirer of 1930s Fascism, Jean Brodie disguises under her expression of teacherly devotion her unappeasable desire to subordinate her pupils to her will and imagination. As a superior being, she feels entitled to shape their lives. 

Our subjective perceptions need to be checked against some sort of objective criteria, however imperfect. Otherwise, what tells us whose subjective perceptions are accurate? There is no way to determine accuracy, and force/power rushes in to fill the gap. Jean Brodie admires the violence of fascism because she misunderstands it as strength.


Wednesday, July 28, 2021

Flannery O'Connor

 

Flannery O’Connor

 

(c) Copyright (2021) by Kathleen Spaltro 

All Rights Reserved.  

Greatly admiring Joseph Conrad, Flannery O’Connor  adopted his definition of art as “a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect.”  For her,  the invisible universe, or the reality of divinity, penetrated every facet of the visible universe and gave each facet its meaning.  According to O’Connor, fiction “should reinforce our sense of the supernatural by grounding it in concrete observable reality.” 


This central purpose of her writing has at least two consequences.  It explains her rendition in her brilliant short stories of a constantly recurring divine comedy:  most of her characters, when challenged to grow beyond their limited and self-centered perspectives, fail to respond to grace and, indeed, actively reject its moral imperative.   Dramatizing this rejection of the divine imperative, O’Connor’s sledgehammer prose style bludgeons the reader, who emerges from her stories both highly amused and deeply shocked.  No one can quickly forget stories like “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” “Good Country People,” “Parker’s Back,” “Everything That Rises Must Converge,” “The Enduring Chill,” or the utterly stunning “The Displaced Person.”


However, her reputation as a Roman Catholic author may seem to form a barrier between O’Connor and many readers.   So far from being naïve about this barrier, she knowingly and intentionally wrote, not primarily for a Catholic audience, but instead for a public that scorned her beliefs.   I myself think that a reader’s acceptance or rejection of Roman Catholic dogma is irrelevant to an enjoyment and appreciation of  O’Connor’s stories.  Anyone—atheist, agnostic, Christian, Jew, or other believer—who believes in a moral imperative and understands the moral struggles of human beings can understand O’Connor’s vivid dramatization of moral challenges.


Most of these characters who fail to respond to grace are Southern whites, usually evangelical Protestants but sometimes unbelievers.  Mrs. Turpin, a saved Christian in “Revelation,” is an exception.  She accepts the point of her own shattering experience:  that the spiritual pride of the righteous and the saved blinds them to their human puniness and inadequacy in the divine gaze.  In her vision of the saved on Judgment Day, “she could see by their shocked and altered faces that even their virtues were being burned away.”   For anyone seeking to interpret O’Connor,  “Revelation” provides a touchstone by portraying Mrs. Turpin’s brave and admirable self-encounter.

Thursday, June 17, 2021

Zora Neale Hurston

 

                          Zora Neale Hurston

                                        (c) Copyright (2021) by Kathleen Spaltro.

                                                              All Rights Reserved.     


I envy another reader who comes fresh and new to my favorite authors.  Every two years or so, I chuckle my way through all of Barbara Pym’s novels, and my familiarity with them only deepens my delight—yet, what fun it would be to read Pym again for the first time!  I feel that way as well about Zora Neale Hurston’s novels.  A stunning original, Hurston could boast of engaging charm and enormous appeal.  I simply like her—very, very much.

Her distinctive voice mesmerizes me as I read Jonah’s Gourd Vine or Their Eyes Were Watching God.  Besides her gift for narrative, her diction possesses an extraordinary verve.  Witness this description of a bereaved husband:  “He sought Lucy thru all struggles of sleep, mewing and crying like a lost child, but she was not.  He was really searching for a lost self and crying like the old witch with her shed skin shrunken by red pepper and salt, ‘Ole skin, doncher know me?’  But the skin was never to fit her again.”  Or note this description of a wife’s disillusionment:  “So gradually, she pressed her teeth together and learned to hush.  The spirit of the marriage left the bedroom and took to living in the parlor.  It was there to shake hands whenever company came to visit, but it never went back inside the bedroom again. . . . She wasn’t petal-open anymore with him.” 

Besides enjoying Hurston’s style, I find her choice and treatment of subject matter very interesting.  While she portrayed her parents’ marriage in Jonah’s Gourd Vine, Hurston depicted in Their Eyes Were Watching God the growth of a woman’s self-awareness and of her determination to realize fully her own dreams and destiny.  An appendage of the first two men in her life, Janie Starks dares to break away from safety and to love passionately.  Her daring leads to the gratification of self-fulfillment and to the knowledge of her own inner strength:  “The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall.  Here was peace.  She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net.  Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder.  So much of life in its meshes!  She called in her soul to come and see.”

Both Jonah’s Gourd Vine and Their Eyes Were Watching God dwell on African American characters interacting almost entirely with one another—a notable focus on African American society.  Hurston herself grew up in Eatonville, Florida, which in 1886 became the first incorporated community run by black people for black people.  Her father, a Baptist pastor, served three terms as Eatonville’s Mayor, and she returned to Eatonville many times in her adulthood.  An anthropologist trained by Franz Boas at Barnard College, Hurston sought out and preserved African American and West Indian folklore.  Her anthropological knowledge enriched her novels.  Reading her overpowering work is like touching a live wire.

The two Library of America volumes devoted to Hurston include four novels, short stories, anthropological studies, her autobiography, and nonfiction.  

Saturday, May 29, 2021

Edith Wharton

 

Edith Wharton

 

(c) Copyright (2021) by Kathleen Spaltro.

                                    All Rights Reserved.     

Many events have shown how difficult transatlantic communication can become and how deep a divide can exist between American and European values, attitudes, heritages, and experiences.  Henry James explored this territory in many novels and stories—such as The American, The Europeans, “Daisy Miller,” and The Portrait of a Lady.  His friend Edith Wharton likewise returned often to this topic, as the several volumes devoted to Wharton in the Library of America testify.  Like James, Wharton seemed especially fascinated by Americans who have become Europeanized.


Two such Europeanized Americans appear in Wharton’s  novel The Age of Innocence (1920) and her novella Madame de Treymes (1906).  Both women have married European men whose flagrant adultery has broken the marriages.   Disillusioned by their European lives and now attracted to American lovers, both women seek safety and security in American values and relationships, which they idealize.  Each considers the choice of divorce, which both European society and American society discourage.


Fanny’s and Ellen’s predicaments cause their American lovers to experience to the depths the powerful differences and similarities between European and American points of view.  Ellen’s lover Newland Archer, in advocating for her not to return to her Polish husband, also realizes the entrenched resistance of American society to the dissolution of Ellen’s wretched marriage and its deep disapproval of his own adulterous feelings for her. 


In portraying Archer’s passion for Ellen and Durham’s for Fanny,  as well as the eventual fate of both these women, Wharton outlined both differing and similar societal attitudes towards sexual irregularities, marriage as a passionate relationship between lovers, marriage as the bedrock of family life, and women as sexual beings, wives, and mothers.  


The Age of Innocence in particular dwells on the tension between the desire for a passionate life (and its attendant disgrace) and the pull towards the assumption of one’s duty to parents, spouses, and children (and its attendant denial of one’s deepest self).  It presents in a remarkably complex way both the dullness of duty and its moral superiority, both the fascination and depth of passion and its selfishness.  

Monday, May 24, 2021

Sarah Orne Jewett

 

Sarah Orne Jewett

 

(c) Copyright (2021) by Kathleen Spaltro.

All Rights Reserved.

 

A summer visitor to a seaside country town in New England, although she essentially remains an outsider, slowly becomes absorbed into the web of smalltown coastal life.  Her narration loosely strings together sketches of people and places, their unity provided by her own presence and the common locale.  This serves as the framework of the most memorable novels and stories reprinted in the Library of America Sarah Orne Jewett volume:  Deephaven, The Country of the Pointed Firs, and “Dunnet Landing Stories.”

The two novels and the stories all possess the charm of a sepia photograph come suddenly to life.  If the family legend retold by your elders entertains you and an episodic, plotless structure doesn’t bother you, Jewett will give you as much pleasure as she has given me.  As Helen, the narrator of Deephaven, comments, “It is wonderful, the romance and tragedy and adventure which one may find in a quiet old-fashioned country town, though to heartily enjoy the every-day life one must care to study life and character, and must find pleasure in thought and observation of simple things, and have an instinctive, delicious interest in what to other eyes is unflavored dulness.”

Read the best first—The Country of the Pointed Firs (1896); then enjoy its slighter but similar predecessor Deephaven (1877); lastly, savor your reunion with Country of the Pointed Firs characters in “Dunnet Landing Stories” (late 1890s).   Helen and Kate, the young ladies who visit Deephaven, prefigure the unnamed narrator of the Dunnet Landing novel and stories.  While Helen and Kate befriend Mrs. Kew, who lives with her husband in the Deephaven lighthouse, the older writer who visits Dunnet Landing befriends her landlady, Mrs. Todd,  the town herbalist who works closely with its country doctor. 

At least as interesting as the portrayals of the local characters are the depictions of Mrs. Todd’s herbs and the medicinal use she makes of them in doctoring the townsfolk.  She tells stories, too, of dead but not forgotten friends, like “poor Joanna,” jilted a month before her wedding day and impelled by melancholy to seclude herself on thirty-acre Shell-heap Island until she died.  Mrs. Todd also tells her lodger about “The Queen’s Twin,” a local woman born in the  same hour as Queen Victoria and about “The Foreigner,” a Frenchwoman married to a local captain and marooned by his death in the misery of local hostility and incomprehension—a pathetic and deeply moving tale.

 

 

Friday, September 28, 2018

J.F. Powers, Masterful Short Story Writer of the Middle West


Perfection of the Life or of the Work?:
James Farl Powers, Illinois Writer

(c) Copyright by Kathleen Spaltro (2018)
All Rights Reserved

              One of the greatest masters of the American short story—unknown to most American readers but well-known to his peers as "a writer's writer"—J.F. Powers was born in Jacksonville, raised in Rockford, Quincy, and Chicago. The Library of Congress subject headings for his Collected Stories denote Powers's recurrent topics: Middle West—Religious life and customs—Fiction; Middle West—Social life and customs—Fiction; Catholics—Fiction; Clergy—Fiction. Powers's stories and two novels mostly portrayed Roman Catholic American priests and their relationships with one another. For Powers, as for Anthony Trollope in his Barsetshire series about Church of England clergy in the cathedral city of Barchester, this is a humorous subject. Perhaps you don't think so? You are wrong. Trollope and Powers both make me laugh out loud in their depiction of the interpersonal relationships of clergy in very hierarchical churches. Powers masterfully portrays irritation, boredom, fear, toadying, and other assorted very human behaviors as men interact with other men who may be in the same profession but whom they don't like much.
Clerical Conflict
              Likewise, the interpersonal conflicts between Church of England clergymen of varying ranks constitute most of the plot of Anthony Trollope's delightful novel Barchester Towers, one of the 47 novels Trollope wrote in the time he spared from his very busy 33 years as a civil servant in the British postal service. Another novel in the series, The Last Chronicle of Barset, concerns a very poor and learned clergyman, Josiah Crawley, who stands accused of stealing a cheque. At once neurotic and noble, annoying and impressive, Crawley is a complex, self-defeating, obstinate, yet brave and dignified man. While I love Trollope's Barchester Towers as a comic masterpiece, I can see that The Last Chronicle of Barset surpasses even Barchester Towers as a great novel of portraiture: "No one ever on seeing Mr. Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man."

              Trollope holds his own with the greatest of novelists writing in English. A minor genius who plumbed the same topics, Frederick Rolfe ("Baron Corvo") might provide another context within which to assess Powers. Although expelled from two seminaries, Rolfe insisted that he had a vocation to the Roman Catholic priesthood. In his novel Hadrian VII—an astonishingly prophetic forecast of  the modern papacy, Rolfe portrays himself as George Arthur Rose, whose vocation was denied and then spectacularly, if belatedly, recognized. After 20 years of frustration, prelates come to apologize to Rose, and not long afterwards his persistent quest of his vocation gains attention in a blocked papal conclave that then selects Rose to be Pope. The newly elected Hadrian VII expresses his view that "The clergy are more than less human; and they certainly are not even the pick of humanity": "They mean well: but their whole aim and object seems to be to serve God by conciliating Mammon." Rolfe shares this central theme with both Trollope and Powers. Trying to serve God by conciliating Mammon is the theme of many of Powers's stories, as well as of his first novel, Morte d'Urban, and his long-delayed second novel, Wheat That Springeth Green.

              Trollope was financially successful, industrious, and pragmatic. Rolfe was unsuccessful, industrious, and impractical. Powers was unsuccessful, spasmodically industrious, and impractical. All three focused their fiction on the lives and careers of clergymen. Trollope made a solid financial success of his novels about infighting among clergy:  "I never saw anything like you clergymen," says  a female character, the daughter, wife, and sister-in-law of  a warden, a canon, and an archdeacon, "you are always thinking of fighting each other." Powers's choice of subject matter does not really seem to explain his financial difficulties, which were not eased even by winning the National Book Award in 1963 for Morte d'Urban. Nor does choice of topic seem to explain Rolfe's financial failure. 
 Perfectionism
              Temperament seems a more likely culprit—in Rolfe's case, paranoia coupled with a thoroughly narcissistic sense of entitlement:  "I have not a friend in the world to help me.… even though the quality and quantity of my work are admired, and predictions daily are made of the brilliant commercial success which will attend my stuff sooner or later, no one ever yet has conceived the idea of investing money in me to keep me alive to do more work and win that commercial success." Actually, many people kindly tried to help Rolfe, but "Rolfe saw himself as a permanently picturesque figure oppressed by a circle of enemies jealous of his talents or exhibiting their own meanness. It was his compensation for the maddening sense of failure, for his poverty, for his inability to dominate circumstances as he desired."

              While Trollope had a temperament that aided him to success, Rolfe alienated even his friends—partly because (according to a former friend)  he "had only the vaguest sense of realities." "He had so many gifts, and industry above all; but what he had to sell found no price in the market-place," his biographer A.J.A. Symons concluded. "His brilliant books, expressed in prose as exquisite as the hand and as brightly coloured as the inks with which it was written, brought him trivial sums and no security…. Behind his fury and lack of financial scruple, behind his inconvenient insistence on the artist’s right to live at the expense of others, behind the excesses into which his repressed nature tempted him, there remains an intense soul which maintained its faith, and expressed its aspirations in many excellent words and works."

              Trollope was financially successful, as well artistically prolific and notoriously industrious. Lacking the commercial success won by Trollope, Rolfe resembled Trollope in unceasing industry. Unlike Rolfe, Powers was intermittently industrious. Like Rolfe, Powers "had only the vaguest sense of realities." His daughter Jane commented,  "he was so hopelessly impractical."
              Comparing Rolfe with Powers pinpoints a crucial difference: while both were unsuccessful financially, Powers was often unproductive and time-wasting. His perfectionism seems to have seeded his persistent procrastination, which tried his long-suffering wife's patience as Betty Powers stabilized the family's finances during their long marriage (1946–1988) while maintaining a belief in his genius. "Are we to make him into just another man who will die, his body rot, his possessions be dispersed, and his immortality all in heaven?," Betty Powers asked her journal. "God does intend there to be man-made beauty on earth. We are to make order of it all. Order and art." In his last conversation with his dying wife,  his eldest child, Katherine A. Powers, has revealed,  "Jim said he spent that time telling her how sorry he was for giving her such a hard life and no home. He never really recovered from her death…."
              Powers's intermittent industriousness, his habits of procrastinating and wasting time, may have resulted in part from a perfectionism born of the very motive that impelled him:  his sense of vocation. As Katherine A. Powers has remembered, "For him, art was as much a spiritual vocation as the priesthood--a more exalted one even….But art, by contrast to the priesthood, allowed no compromise.... My father, however, felt that daily life could only be a distraction from his calling. Tragically, in the years that he struggled to write Wheat, he was often lost in a wilderness of petty detail and procrastination, wasting hours repairing and polishing his shoes, rubbing emollients into his leather-bound books, battling bats, mice, and squirrels in the house, and gophers under the sun; caulking windows, spackling cracks and holes, gluing, taping, and tapping in tacks." Believing that art was his God-given vocation may have so heightened his anxieties and standards to a breaking point that this belief (which sometimes generated perfect stories) often paralyzed artistic creation in the name of perfection.
Artistic Vocation
              This could seem like (and sometimes was) laziness or narcissism but was often self-paralysis probably worsened by recurrent financial failure. A 1959 diary entry by Powers notes, "I now see our whole married life as a search for a home, and every child making the need more pressing and the prospects less likely... I hope this will be the last harvest I will reap of the failure of Betty to educate her parents and others in the meaning of her calling and mine (as writers, artists) and the few prerogatives attending same." Powers had warned his future bride in 1945, "The jobs I had, in bookstores and the rest, were never honest. Not for me. Should a giraffe have to dig dandelions or a worm fly a kite?"
              Often refusing to turn from his writing to more renumerative work, Powers also often refused to write. Thus, his and Betty Powers's belief in his vocation entwined to create  what Katherine Powers called "the black comedy of children, five all told, great poverty, bad luck, and balked creativity." Her other comments plainly set out the human cost of living with his genius: "Growing up in this family is not something I would care to do again. There was so much uncertainty, so much desperation about money, and so very little restraint on my parents' part in letting their children know how precarious our existence was."
              This prolonged procrastination is hard to defend, given that Powers also often refused offers of paid work and allowed his family to subsist on the generosity of others. Rolfe, who starved in spectacular fashion during his last years in Venice, at least was a childless bachelor. Bernard Shaw pinpointed this failure of parental responsibility: "As long as a man has a right to risk his life or his livelihood for his ideas he needs only courage and conviction to make his integrity unassailable. But he forfeits that right when he marries….Women, for the sake of their children and parents, submit to slaveries and prostitutions that no unattached women would endure."
              Although distinguished by the deep respect of more famous authors for his eminence as a short-story writer, Powers never achieved much commercial success. Were the residential instability and the unceasing financial stress on his wife and children, as well as on Powers himself, inherent in his stubborn devotion to writing as his God-given vocation, or were his personal characteristics at fault as he chose the perfection of his work over the perfection of his life? Powers did indeed choose perfection of his work over perfection of his life. Only his wife and five children have the right to forgive or excuse that choice. At the same time, as a minor American writer with great gifts, Powers became a major practitioner of the short story in such brilliant pieces as "The Forks," "The Valiant Woman," and "Prince of Darkness." Unlike fellow American masters of the short story Flannery O'Connor and John Cheever, Powers also wrote readable, well-executed novels.

              I enjoy his comic sense of the discrepancy between religious vocation and the realities of the lives of secular priests. I respect his deep faith, which advocated a pacifism that sent him to prison for being a conscientious objector. I just wish that the human cost to his family of his vocation had not been so great.

The intellect of man is forced to choose
Perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse
.

—William Butler Yeats

For Further Reading

The Stories of J.F. Powers, Morte d'Urban,  and Wheat That Springeth Green [with an introduction by Katherine A. Powers] are available from New York Review Books. Anthony Trollope's Barchester Towers and The Last Chronicle of Barset are available in many editions.

Powers, Katherine A. (Ed.). Suitable Accommodations, An Autobiographical Story of Family Life:  The Letters of J.F. Powers, 1942–1963. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013.

Rolfe, Frederick (Frederick Baron Corvo). Hadrian VII. New York:  Dover, 1969. Reprint of 1904 edition.

Scoble, Robert. The Corvo Cult:  The History of an Obsession. London:  Strange Attractor Press, 2014.

Symons, A.J.A. The Quest for Corvo. New York: Macmillan, 1934.



Capsule Biography of J.F. Powers

              Born in Jacksonville, Illinois on 8 July 1917. [Father (James A.), also born in Jacksonville in 1883, worked for many years as a manager for Swift and Company in Jacksonville, Rockford, and Quincy, Illinois.] In the late 1920s, attended St. Peter's School in Rockford, taught by Sisters of Loretto. From 1931-34, attended Quincy College Academy in Quincy, taught by Franciscans. In the mid-1930s, moved to Chicago—sold books at Marshall Field's, drove a Packard as a chauffeur. In the late 1930s, attended evening classes at  Northwestern University's Chicago campus, including a writing seminar taught by Bergen Evans. By 1940, employed as a Research Assistant for the Works Progress Administration's Illinois Historical Records Survey. Sold books at Brentano's but was fired for refusing to buy war bonds. As a writer for Catholic Worker, agreed with Dorothy Day's pacifism and was arrested in 1943 for not appearing for induction. Eventually sentenced to three years in prison and served 13 months in Sandstone, Minnesota, before parole in late 1944.Worked as hospital orderly (St. Joseph's Hospital) in St. Paul as a condition of early release. Briefly taught at St. John's University, Collegeville, Minnesota in 1947 (after 1975, was Regents Professor of English and writer-in-residence at St. John’s University/College of St. Benedict until 1993), at Marquette University, in Milwaukee, 1949-51; at University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, 1956-57; at Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts, 1965-66. Awarded American Academy grant, 1948; Guggenheim fellowship, 1948; Rockefeller fellowships, 1954, 1957, 1967; National Book Award, 1963. Lived with his wife in 20 residences in the United States and Ireland. Died in 1999.
              Illinois addresses included Jacksonville, 1917, 812 Grove Street. 1920, 119 East Morton Avenue. 1924, 503 S. Prairie. Rockford, 1926, 1111 Grant Avenue. 1927, 947 N. Church. 1928, 2305 N. Court. 1929, 1811 Melrose. 1930, 1910 Douglas Street. Quincy, 1930, 1658 1/2 Jersey Street. 1931, 730 N. 24th Street. Chicago, 1940, 4453 N. Paulina.

Monday, April 16, 2018

Martin Scorsese's "Silence"


Martin Scorsese's Silence

 Kathleen Spaltro.

(c) Copyright (2018) by

All Rights Reserved.

Movies are often good, sometimes great, but rarely are films true masterpieces. Even more rarely is a film both a cinematic and a spiritual masterpiece. I wanted to watch Martin Scorsese's Silence (2016) again precisely because my first viewing had impressed me so much.

This truly amazing film comes from a director who once studied for the priesthood and whose sensibility has always remained deeply and authentically religious.

Silence masterfully renders human doubt, sadness, mercy, and devotion in an echo chamber in which unceasing human noise cannot conceal the silence of God while people suffer torment and persecution.

Einstein said something that illuminates this film: "God is subtle, but He is not cruel."

The film is subtle and leaves itself open to interpretation from many points of view. A Christian may feel as disturbed and moved by it as an atheist may feel. It imposes no doctrine, but it suggests a great deal.

The film asks, "Why is God silent?" But then it questions the assumptions underlying the question. It asks, "Is God silent?" It asks, "What is God?"

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

The Perennial Appeal of Communes




The Perennial Appeal of Communes

Kathleen Spaltro

(c) Copyright (2018).  All Rights Reserved. 

Baby Boomers like myself associate communes with the hippies of the Sixties and Seventies, but the appeal of the commune actually has attracted people for many centuries. A recent book about social experiments conducted in Illinois estimated that, in the 300 years that ended in 1964, visionaries established 516 "intentional communities" in North America. Of the 120 American communes begun between 1800 and 1850, 24 succeeded; these pre-Civil War societies usually were religious and Christian.

Despite their varying agendas, whether religious or secular, communes have persuaded many people who have tired of conventional communities to enlist as obedient followers espousing a cause or ideal of individual behavior or societal organization. As a member of a contemporary commune in Dorset, England, has explained, "It suits people who want to change, and those who want to be among people. A lot of the people [at Osho Leela] have gone through life, got married and had kids, and are just not happy with life. Then they turn to something like this."

Saints?

I admire the idealism that motivates some members of communes to transcend the expectations of our highly individualistic society, and I find interesting the accounts of the organizational, interpersonal, economic, sexual, parental, and authority issues that challenge and sometimes destroy intentional communities. Sometimes the overriding motive is spiritual, and the people are noble, and I have always found saintly projects intriguing. The establishment of a monastic rule that governs a religious community, for example, creates one kind of intentional community.

But the more common fates of marriage, establishment of a nuclear family, and membership in one or more extended families sufficiently challenge most of us. Whether we succeed or falter as wives or husbands, parents, and adult children, we accept our society's norms. To reject these norms, to declare and act upon our dissatisfaction, requires more discernment and personal strength than we can easily muster. It may also require presumption and arrogance.

Our motives may be noble, or they may be merely self-serving. As Bernard Shaw wrote in 1913, "All movements which attack the existing state of society attract both the people who are not good enough for the world and the people for whom the world is not good enough." He had expressed this insight a decade earlier:  "The reformer for whom the world is not good enough finds himself shoulder to shoulder with him that is not good enough for the world." Shaw's friendly opponent in argument, G.K. Chesterton, agreed that the societal norms that we reject may well have a solid foundation in human nature:  "Tradition is the democracy of the dead."

Scoundrels?

Most of us are probably neither saints nor scoundrels, but perhaps the allure of experimental community attracts a preponderance of both saints and scoundrels. Sometimes, in the pursuit of individual and societal perfection, even saints may exhibit very unsaintly traits.

I thought of this when I visited a museum in Harvard, Massachusetts, that includes the Fruitlands farmhouse, a relic of the ill-fated commune founded in 1843 by Bronson Alcott. His much more famous daughter, Louisa, wrote a hilarious sendup of her father's commune, the short story "TranscendentalWild Oats." As a girl, Louisa was a cold, hungry, and involuntary participant.

Paul Elmer More's essay on Emerson included a section on the Fruitlands commune and Bronson Alcott. More crushingly explained Alcott's intention " to plant 'a love colony,' as their Eden was called, where the brotherhood of man should reign unpolluted by the lust of property, and by their illustrious example to aid 'entire human regeneration.' … The men of the colony were so absorbed in the contemplation of the mystery of holiness that the fruits of the field rather languished. As Alcott's daughter said, they 'were so busy discussing and defining great duties that they forgot to perform the small ones.' The barley crops somehow would not harvest themselves, so they were got in by the women while the masculine sages were wandering off in the amiable desire of 'aiding entire human regeneration.' Things grew worse and worse, until it came to a question of leaving or starving. It is very pretty to declare that the body is 'all sham'; but you can't feed it by shamming work."

Before Isaac Hecker founded the Paulist Fathers, he belonged to the Brook Farm (1841) and Fruitlands communes. More quoted Hecker in More's demolition of Bronson Alcott:  "by some unaccountable means the serpent seems to have crept into this Eden, as he did into the original experiment. The 'love colony' soon developed into a circle of disappointed, jealous, fault-finding men and women, who found it to their advantage to seek shelter from one another by scattering in the wicked world. This is one of Father Hecker's memoranda: 'Somebody once described Fruitlands as a place where Mr. Alcott looked benign and talked philosophy, while Mrs. Alcott and the children did all the work.' It is well to look benign, but another of the colonists wrote in a different vein. 'All the persons,' he complains, 'who have joined us during the summer have from some cause or other quitted, they say in consequence of Mr. Alcott's despotic manner, which he interprets as their not being equal to the Spirit's demands.' It looks a little as if these spiritual demands were not unaccompanied with spiritual pride; and pride, we remember, is sometimes said to have been the sin that broke up the original Eden."

It is well to remember that our attempts to transcend ourselves, to become perfect, may so strain our frail human nature that they create and reveal even more, and worse, imperfections. As the philosophy of the lamasery at Shangri-La is explained to a Western visitor, “If I could put it into a very few words, dear sir, I should say that our prevalent belief is in moderation. We inculcate the virtue of avoiding excesses of all kinds—even including, if you will pardon the paradox, excess of virtue itself.”