Tag Archives: bookreview

Aidan

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As I read through Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People I fell in love with a man named Aidan (died A.D. 651). What is it with these A guys?  Athanasius, Ambrose, Augustine, Aidan…  There are only two pages on his life (p.150-151 in Penguin Classics); but that is enough to win you to the winsome man who left the island of Iona to live in  Lindisfarne.  His life is marked by self-discipline and discretion.

Aiden was the most popular boy’s name in 2006.  I’ve decided that everytime I know a family who names their son Aiden I will include a photocopy of these two pages with a card of congratulations.  It is a lovely legacy.

Oh! OH! Wouldn’t Seamus [usually pronounced SHAY mus] and Aidan be lovely names for twin boys? 

~ ~ ~

Whether in town or country, he always travelled on foot unles compelled by necessity to ride;
and whatever people he met on his walks, whether high or low, he stopped and spoke to them. (p.150)

~ ~ ~

It is said that when King Oswald originally asked the Irish to send a bishop to teach the Faith of Christ to himself and his people, they sent him another man of a more austere disposition.  After some time, meeting with no success in his preaching to the English, who refused to listen to him, he returned home and reported to his superiors that he had been unable to achieve anything by teaching to the nation to whom they had sent him, because they were an ungovernable people of an obstinate and barbarous temperament.

The Irish fathers therefore held a great conference to decide on the wisest course of action; for while they regretted that the preacher whom they had sent had not been acceptable to the English, they still wished to meet their desire for salvation. 

Then Aidan, who was present at the conference, said to the priest whose efforts had been unsuccessful: ‘Brother, it seems to me that you were too severe on your ignorant hearers. You should have followed the practice of the Apostles, and begun by giving them the milk of simpler teaching, and gradually nourished them with the word of God until they were capable of greater perfection and able to follow the loftier precepts of Christ.’

At this the faces and eyes of all who were at the conference were turned towards him; and they paid close attention to all he said, and realized that here was a fit person to be made bishop and sent to instruct the ignorant and unbelieving, since he was particularly endowed with the grace of discretion, the mother of virtues.  They therefore consecrated him bishop, and sent him to preach.  Time was to show that Aidan was remarkable not only for discretion, but for the other virtues as well.  (p.151)

 

Howard Pyle & N.C. Wyeth

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Illustration from  Robin Hood and Little John
       by N.C. Wyeth, pupil of Howard Pyle

“No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally (and often far more) worth reading at the age of fifty–except, of course, books of information.  The only imaginative works we ought to grow out of are those which it would have been better not to have read at all.”    ~  C.S. Lewis

In the preface to Robin Hood, Howard Pyle gives us an upside-down Lemony Snicket warning:

“You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give
yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the
land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with innocent
laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you. Clap to the
leaves and go no farther than this, for I tell you plainly that if you
go farther you will be scandalized by seeing good, sober folks of real
history so frisk and caper in gay colors and motley that you would not
know them but for the names tagged to them.”

Was Robin Hood homeschooled?  Are not these good goals for our sons?
 

“She taught him to read and write,
to doff his cap without awkwardness,
and to answer directly and truthfully both lord and peasant.”

Perhaps Pyle is better known for his illustrating than his writing.  He left an immense legacy in the students he taught, referred to as  the “Brandywine School”: including N.C. Wyeth, Maxfield Parrish, and Jessie Wilcox Smith.  Reading Robin Hood has been a delight with a turn of phrase jumping off the page at regular intervals: 

They feasted royally, and clinked each other’s cups,
until the sun had ceased to print the pattern of the leaves
upon the forest carpet.

It was a day so brimful of quiet joy that the two friends lay flat on their backs,
gazing up at the scurrying clouds,
and neither caring to break the silence.

[He] boot-licked his way to favour.

…but she was delightfully disappointed.

…and the merry chatter of the people went abroad
like the hum of bees in a hive.

The winter dragged its weary length through the Sherwood Forest…

So away went the Sheriff …and cudgelled his brain
on the way home for some plan of action.

“Mine is a simple nature and I care not
for the fripperies and follies of court life.
Give me a good meal and cup of right brew,
health, and enough for the day, and I ask no more.”
~ Richard sighed. “You ask the greatest thing
in the world, brother–contentment.
It is not mine to give or to deny.
But ask your God for it, and if belike He grant it,
then ask it also in behalf of your King.”

Listening to Beowulf

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The first eight years of our marriage were years sans television.  We did a lot more listening than watching in those days. Friday nights would find us laying on the floor in the dark and listening to radio drama.  PBS audio broadcasts of Star Wars and BBC dramas swept us into other galaxies. 

I was reminded of those evenings this week when an audio version of Beowulf arrived in the mail.  I’ve only read one translation, Seamus Heaney’s, and thrilled in his grasp of the greatness of language.  [I’d love to have another son, so I could name him Seamus (SHAY mus)].  We will soon re-read Beowulf and Lynne gave me the idea of listening to this epic.  The great Nobel prize winner reads his translation with his native Irish brogue. 

We sat down and listened to one section, submitting our whole attention to the poem.  My husband, who was not familiar with any part of the story, was captivated and stirred by the language.  So even if you don’t know this classic, you will delight in hearing it.  The muscular potency of Heaney’s translation is unrivaled in the world of literature.  Anglo-Saxon poetry stressed alliteration (matching sounds at the beginning of words) instead of rhyme (matching sounds at the end of words).  Heaney brings this across in his glorious translation:

                              Suddenly then
the God-cursed brute was creating havoc:
greedy and grim, he grabbed thirty men
from their resting places and rushed to his lair,
flushed up and inflamed from the raid,
blundering back with the butchered corpses.  (p. 11)

                                Oh, cursed is he
who in time of trouble has to thrust his soul
in the fire’s embrace, forfeiting help;
he has nowhere to turn.  But blessed is he
who after death can approach the Lord
and find friendship in the Father’s embrace. (p.15)

The DVD Beowulf and Grendel is available at Amazon.  It may or may not be worth watching.  At any rate, it ought to be a crime to watch the DVD without having read (visual or audio) the book. But this audio book could very well be one of the best listening events of the year. 

Even better: combine two senses by reading along while listening.         

One of my favorite lines:

He is hasped and hooped and hirpling with pain, limping and looped in it.  (p.65)

Dr. Thorne

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Discovering a new favorite author is one of the joys of the reading life.  It’s like receiving a box of chocolates which should last several weeks, but tastes so good that it is rapidly disappearing. 

Trollope is my chocolate.

The locus of the first two books in Trollope’s Barset Chronicles, The Warden and Barchester Towers, is a cathedral city. The conflicts of diocesan appointments, the juxtaposition of humble clerics with self-serving ecclesiastical climbers, and the quest of three very different men to marry a wealthy widow carry the narrative along. 

The setting in Dr. Thorne is out in the countryside where landed gentry struggle to maintain the purity of their class connections and suffer from want of money.  To this strata of society every potential marriage is evaluated by the ability of the person marrying into the family to provide either increased prestige or an infusion of cash.  One phrase surfaces repeatedly:  “Frank must marry money.”   Unfortunately, the woman Frank loves does not have money; therein resides the conflict to be resolved.

Opposite the gentry are the merchants, manufacturers and professionals who insist they are equal in dignity to the Earls, Counts and Baronets.   Wealth is a passport into the aristocracy, but a man like Dr. Thorne holds stubbornly to his right to enter into the society of anyone regardless of  his own birth or wealth.  Class consciousness is everywhere in this novel.

Trollope writes with humor, grace and insight.  His portrayal of the ebb and flow of an alcoholic written in 1858 rings true today.  Little gems like this pop up:

Even in those bitterest days God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb.

The expectation of some people that doctors should work only from altruistic motivation made me laugh aloud:

It would have behoved him, as a physician, had he had the feelings of a physician under his hat, to have regarded his own pursuits in a purely philosophical spirit, and to have taken any gain which might have accrued as a accidental adjunct to his station in life.

The Victorian Web is a good resource to learn more about Trollope.  Contributors include P.D. James, Antonia Fraser, Paul Johnson, Maeve Binchy, and Louis Auchincloss.   P.D. James has written an introduction to Dr. Thorne here.

Hawthorne’s quote on Trollope mirrors my thoughts:

“Have you ever read the novels of Anthony Trollope? They precisely suit
my taste; solid, substantial, written on strength of beef and through
inspiration of ale, and just as real as if some giant had hewn a great
lump out of the earth and put it under a glass case, with all its
inhabitants going about their daily business, and not suspecting that
they were made a show of.”

Barchester Towers

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My beloved Latin teacher thought I would enjoy reading Anthony Trollope.  Since he and his wife have a 100% record for recommending good books, I perked up and began looking.  My rural library had one offering (on tape) of Anthony Trollope and a huge selection of Joanna Trollope (a descendant of AT’s).  I listened to An Old Man’s Love with great enjoyment. Next, I logged on to Librivox and listened to The Warden, the first of his six Barset Chronicles. 

Barchester Towers is the second book in the Barset Chronicles.  Happily, I purchased this book and could make it my own by marking it up.  I like Trollope better than Dickens, and I like Dickens very much.  Trollope, like Dickens, employs descriptive names:  Mr. Slope for an oily clergyman,  Dr. Fillgrave,  Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful,  Dr. and Mrs. Proudie.  Trollope doesn’t surpass Jane Austen, but then who does?

Trollope inserts authorial comments, breaking the rule I pounded into my students: “Don’t write about your writing.”  Some critics (Henry James and W. H. Auden) found this very off-putting; it made me chuckle.  Trollope writes about everyday, ordinary life with grace and perception. What I particularly appreciate is that his bad characters are not entirely evil; his protagonists have failures. And the humor!  Wry observations are crammed with humor.  The best thing is to give you some samples:

The venom of the chaplain’s harangue had worked into his blood, and sapped the life of his sweet contentment.  p.114

Considering how much we are all given to discuss the characters of others, and discuss them often not in the strictest spirit of charity, it is singular how little we are inclinded to think that others can speak ill-naturedly of us, and how angry and hurt we are when proof reaches us that they have done so.  It is hardly too much to say that we all of us occasionally speak of our dearest friends in a manner in which those dearest friends would very little like to hear themselves mentioned; and that we nevertheless expect that our dearest freinds shall invariably speak of us as though they were blind to all our faults, but keenly alive to every shade of our virtues.   p. 185

Mr. Arabin declared that the morning light at any rate was perfect, and deprecated any interference with the lime trees.  And then they took a stroll out among the trim parterres, and Mr. Arabin explained to Mrs. Bold the difference between a naiad and a dryad, and dilated on vases and the shapes of urns.  Miss Thorne busied herself among her pansies; and her brother, finding it quite impracticable to give anything of a peculiarly Sunday tone to the conversation, abandoned the attempt, and had it out with the archdeacon about the Bristol guano.  p. 220

Mrs. Quiverful did not mention the purpose of her business, nor did the farmer alloy his kindness by any unseemly questions.    p. 237

He wished to be what he called “safe” with all those whom he had admitted to the penetralia of his house and heart […] His feelings towards his friends were, that while they stuck to him he would stick to them; that he would work with them shoulder to shoulder; that he would be faithful to the faithful.  He knew nothing of that beautiful love which can be true to a false friend.    p. 269

By seven [a.m.] she was dressed and down.  Miss Thorne knew nothing of the modern luxury of déshabilles.  She would as soon have thought of appearing before her brother without her stockings as without her stays; and Miss Thorne’s stays were no trifle.  p. 346

He [Mr Slope] longed in his heart to be preaching at her.  ‘Twas thus that he was ordinarily avenged of sinning mortal men and women. Could he at once have ascended his Sunday rostrum and fulminated at her such denunciations as his spirit delighted in, his bosom would have been greatly eased.  p. 399

The Greatest English Classic

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If you love the Bible, you love English literature, and you adore words this would be a good book to read. 

I remember a conversation with a friend – a cynic, agnostic/atheist (he couldn’t decide), and a curmudgeon who couldn’t help but be lovable in his crankiness.  We worked together and often got sidetracked discussing our philosophies, viewpoints, etc.  We were opposites on so many issues; but we respected one another and usually had a cracking good time while we debated.  Finally, for efficiency, we restricted theology to Thursdays. 

Once, out of the blue, he asked, “Do you read the Bible every day, [insert last name]?”  

I squirmed and replied, “Well, I try to, but I have varying levels of consistency.” 

“You read the King James Version?” he continued.

“Uh, no.  Readability–vocabulary–not the best choice.”  We often telescoped our sentences when we talked.

“You’re flat wrong, Carol.  You ought to be reading the King James Version.  You will develop an ear for strong, muscular words, for poetry, for cadence, for language if you read the KJV.”

Isn’t it funny that, twenty years later, we now agree on that one?  I’m not an “exclusive KJV” Christian, but I really am enjoying reading through it. 

Cleland McAfee’s The Greatest English Classic (1912) tells the story of translations before the KJV, the making of the KJV, and why it is a classic.  He then outlines the influence the KJV has had on literature and history.

“The Bible is a book-making book.  It is literature which provokes literature.” (p.130)

This interested me:  He divided English literature since the making of the KJV (began 1604) into these groups:
          1. Jacobean Period (Milton, Bunyan, Dryden, Addison, Pope)
          2. Georgian Period (Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, Scott, Wordsworth)
          3. Victorian Age (Arnold, Browning, Carlyle, Dickens, Eliot, Kingsby, Macauly, Ruskin, Stevenson,                         Swinburne, Tennyson, Thackery)
          4.  American Writers (Franklin, Poe, Irving, Bryant, Curtis, Emerson, Hawthorne, Holmes, Lowell,                             Longfellow, Thoreau, Whittier)
 
Remember: this book was written in 1912.  Do you notice who is missing from the list?  Miss Jane!! HELLO!!  And I am heartbroken to tell you I didn’t copy the quote about Austen, so I shall have to paraphrase:

       ~ Austen doesn’t have any lasting influence on the flow of English literature. ~

So that’s what he thought back then.  There was enough other good stuff to atone for this grievous offence, but I did contemplate throwing the book against the wall for one moment.

“There has come about a “decay of literary allusions,” as one of our papers editorially says.  In much of our writing, either the transient or the permanent, men can no longer risk easy reference to classical literature. ” (p. 270)

“The tendency of language is always to become vague, since we are lazy in the use of it.  We use one word in various ways, and a pet one for many ideas.” (p.102)

I gleaned several names of authors I’d like to explore from this book (John Ruskin, Maria Edgeworth, Thomas Grey).  I was also reminded of favorite passages I’ve read in the past that I’d like to revisit (from Eliot, Dickens and Tennyson).

Imitation of Christ

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Thomas à Kempis’s classic The Imitation of Christ has been a slow read for me.  It’s that kind of book.  I read a quote from this contemporary version by William Griffin and the fresh, dancing language drew me in even more than the devotional thoughts. 

There is much to be praised about both the original and the translation.  I did find myself arguing with the book on many of the pages.  I don’t believe that we are just passing time here on earth and waiting for life in heaven to fulfill us, that we should despise this life.  Just as often, though, the words hit their mark and resonated.  I received a great benefit from the constant reminders to examine motives, deny myself, and take up my cross.  I will pick this book up often in the future.   Its design makes it perfect for short readings.

Griffin’s clever phrases captured and delighted me.  Here are some samples:

Toad I must be, O Lord, and toad I must remain.  Why? Because I toed the mark and failed.  Of course, I could have toadied up to You, Lord God of all amphibians, but even in this I failed.

Grace and Charity have this way of clearing the floor of cranks and releasing all the warmths of the soul.

If you think of yourself as an ant, and really despise your antics, and don’t antagonize others, and prefer to be squished under foot than crowned king of the world–then that’s something to be truly proud of.

Drown me in Love, my Lord, that I may learn how smooth and swimming it is to love.

Yes, consolation’s a good thing, but not all consolations are good. We’re succored by some, but suckered by others.

Dust up and empty out that place within, and don’t leave behind any fur balls.  Strip bare your soul, and purify your heart first; then you’ll have some time to see how sweet the Lord is.

My pedagogy?  Well, I’m the Logos, and so I don’t need a lot of logorrhea to make My points.

What Devout hogging the fireplace doesn’t feel his bottom growing warm!  You’re the Fount, the splish and the splash! You’re the Flame, the cackle, and the crackle…You’re the Pipe of wine that flows freely; that’s to say, the Heavenly Cask containing the graces and consolations.  At least for others if not for me.  But if I’m not allowed to drink from the butt, I’ll die of thirst.  Perhaps the tap’s in the off position.  There’d still be some drippage, some droppage.  I could survive on that.  Anything to slake my thirst, make my fever subside.

Who’s the sort of person grace will occasionally grace? The one who pulls his intention up to God with a simple heart as his only winch and hoists himself out of the slough of self-love.

This Boy’s Life

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I enjoy  reading a well-written memoir.  I’ll pass on the smarmy ghostwritten celeb autobiography and I’ll skip the snarky exposé.  Just walk on by, as my brother says.  I picked up This Boy’s Life at a huge book sale because, frankly, the cover drew me in.  I didn’t know the author but his name sounded to me like some obscure 18th century writer.  Silly me, they didn’t have cars in the 18th century.

I read the first two pages and was completely drawn in.  With Amazon’s Search Inside feature you can read them. I highly recommend that you do.  This is the story of a boy whose father is absent, whose step-father is abusive, and whose mother is trying to make the best of a grim life.  That should make for a sympathetic reading; however, I didn’t like Toby/Jack much at all. 

He is a habitual liar, a fighter, a shoplifter, a sneak–well, you get the idea.  He didn’t do drugs because they weren’t available and he didn’t “do” girls.  He managed to find many other avenues full of trouble. I wondered as I read, how we could know we’re getting the truth from the adult when the boy lied all. the. time.  I listened to an interview on Wired for Books and that very question was raised.  Tobias Wolff’s reply was that if he wanted to lie in writing the book he would have cleaned up his childhood, would have presented himself in a rosier light.  He explained that one of the survival mechanisms he used was creating an alternate persona that in some degree he believed was a real person.  One of the most engaging episodes near the end of the book involves Wolff’s receiving a scholarship to attend a tony prep school in the east based entirely on transcripts and letters of recommendation that he himself wrote. 

The prose is pretty good.  I was regularly delighted by the vocabulary and his ability to pack so much meaning into so few words.  The analysis of his childhood choices and actions, the understanding of some of the undercurrent of his life is absorbing. Life was raw and he doesn’t smooth any edges.  This is a heartbreaking book, in the way Angela’s Ashes is a heartbreaking book. 

It was springtime.  The earth was spongy with melted snow, and on the warmest days, if you listened for it, you could hear a faint steady sibilance of evaporation, almost like a light rain.  The trees were hazy with new growth.  Bears had begun to appear on the glistening granite faces of the mountainsides above us; at lunchtime people came out onto their steps and watched them with upturned, benevolent faces.  My mother was with me again.

* * * * *

I declined to say I was a football star, but I did invent a swimming team for Concrete High.  The coach wrote a fine letter for me, and so did my teachers and the principal.  They didn’t gush.  They wrote plainly about a gifted, upright boy who had already in his own quiet way exhausted the resources of his school and community.  They had done what they could for him. Now they hoped that others would carry on the good work.                ~     ~     ~     ~         I wrote without heat or hyperbole, in the words my teachers would have used if they had known me as I knew myself.  These were their letters.  And on the boy who lived in their letters, the splendid phantom who carried all my hopes, it seemed to me I saw, at last, my own face. 

 

How to Teach by Bronson Alcott

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Bronson Alcott’s Maxims on Education

GENERAL MAXIMS: By which to regulate the instructor’s practice in instruction

1. To teach, with a sense of accountableness to the profession
2. To teach, with reference to eternity
3. To teach, as an agent of the Great Instructor
4. To teach, depending on the Divine Blessings for success
5. To teach, as the former of Character, and the promoter of the collective happiness of Man.

These are the first five of 58 maxims that were found in Bronson Alcott’s Journals.  I bought a calligraphied copy on my visit to the Orchard House and it is hanging on my wall.  From time to time I will post groups of five for your perusal.  While I differ with Mr. Alcott’s transcendentalism, veganism, and other things, I am sure, there is so much to be gleaned from these maxims. 

That reminds me about a book: Fruitlands, Louisa May Alcott Made Perfect by Gloria Whelan.  This book was a howler!  It is a fictionalized account of the Alcott’s experiment with transcendentalism and a vegan lifestyle.  What is so funny in the book is Louisa’s two diaries: One for public consumption which parrots the thoughts she is supposed to have.  The other, private diary reveals her true thoughts.  Whether she meant to or not, Whelan exposes the fallacies of the philosophy behind the utopian experiment.  If I were the mother of a nine year old girl, I would read this book together, or together separately, and discuss it.  There are many things to ponder.

Eusebius – A Story of Restoration

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Eusebius of Caesarea

Unless you’re among theology wonks, church history isn’t bound to start a stimulating discussion at the coffee klatch.  My teenaged son and I are reading the Great Books as outlined by Veritas Press’ Omnibus II.  The first book we are studying, out of the blocks, is The Church History by Eusebius of Caesarea (c.265 – c.339).  Why? As Christianity spread from the Middle East to areas throughout Europe and beyond it effected the culture, the music, the art, the literature of all those lands.  Studying Western Civ inevitably involves studying the imprint of Christianity on the culture. 

What has surprised me is how much I’ve enjoyed what I’ve read so far.  Even more, how much my son has enjoyed it.  The dinner table talk usually involves said son recapping the day’s reading and discussion to his dad.  “Did you know…?”  is a common  introduction. 

Eusebius quotes Clement of Alexandria: a wonderful story about the apostle John, sort of a reverse prodigal son, and well worth your time.  My little grandson’s favorite book at our house is The Lost Sheep.  Someday I will read this account of a lost sheep to him. Do you remember another time when John ran as fast as he could? This was the week’s teaching highlight.

Listen to a story that is not a story but a true account of John the apostle preserved in memory. After the tyrant’s death, he returned from the island of Patmos to Ephesus and used to go, when asked, to the neighboring Gentile districts to appoint bishops, reconcile churches, or ordain someone designated by the Spirit.  Arriving at a city near by [Smyrna], he settled disputes among the brethren and then, noticing a spirited youth of superior physique and handsome appearance, commended him to the appointed bishop with the words: “I leave this young man in your keeping, with Christ as my witness.”

When John returned to Ephesus, the churchman brought home the youth entrusted to his care, raised him, and finally baptized him.  After this he relaxed his oversight, having put the seal of the Lord on him as the perfect safeguard.  But some idle and dissolute youths corrupted him with lavish entertainment and then took him with them when they went out at night at night to commit robbery or worse crimes.  Soon he joined them and, like a stallion taking the bit in mouth, he dashed off the straight road and down the precipice.  Renouncing God’s salvation, he went from petty offenses to major crimes and formed the young renegades into a gang of bandits with himself as chief, surpassing them all in violence and bloody cruelty.

Time passed, and John paid another visit.  When he had finished his mission, John said, “Come now, Bishop, return the deposit that Christ and I left in your keeping with the church as witness.” At first the bishop was dumbfounded, thinking that he was being dunned for funds he had never received.  But John said, “I am asking for the young man and his soul.”

“He is dead,” groaned the old man, in tears.

“How did he die?”

“He is dead to God.  He turned out vile and debauched: an outlaw.  Now he is in the mountains, not the church, with an armed gang of men like himself.”

The apostle tore his clothing, beat his head, and groaned, “A fine guardian I left for our brother’s soul! But get me a horse and someone to show me the way.” He rode off from the church, just as he was.  When he arrived at the hideout and was seized by the outlaws’ sentries, he shouted, “This is what I have come for: take me to the leader!” When John approached and the young leader recognized him, he turned and fled in shame.  But John ran after him as hard as he could, forgetting his age, and calling out, “Why are you running away from me, child — from your own father, unarmed and old?  Pity me, child, don’t fear me! I will give account to Christ for you and, if necessary, glady suffer death and give my life for yours as the Lord suffered death for us.  Stop! Believe! Christ sent me.”

The young man stopped, stared at the ground, threw down his weapons, and wept bitterly.  Flinging his arms around the old man, he begged forgiveness, baptized a second time with his own tears but keeping his right hand hidden [as unworthy of forgiveness for all the bloodshed it caused].  John, however, assured him that he had found forgiveness for him from the Savior.  He prayed, knelt down, and kissed that right hand as being cleansed through repentance.  Then he led him back and did not leave him until–through prayer, fasting, and instruction–he had restored him to the church: a great example of true repentance and regeneration, the trophy of a visible resurrection.