January 15, 2008
"Harry Potter, wrong model of a hero, Vatican newspaper says"
(Jimmy Akin)
That's the headline of THIS STORY BY CATHOLIC NEWS AGENCY.
I’m no Harry Potter fan, but it appears that Catholic News Agency has severely misled its readers on this story.
By saying that L’Osservatore Romano published a piece criticizing Harry Potter, they convey the impression that this is the official Vatican position.
In actuality, what L’Osservatore Romano published was a debate between pro-Potter and anti-Potter writers, which conveys an entirely different impression about the newspaper’s (and the Vatican’s) position.
Catholic News Agency mentioned only one half of the debate.
Catholic News Service, by contrast, mentions both.
GET THE (OTHER SIDE OF THE) STORY.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (59)
November 29, 2007
Philip Pullman Is A Liar
(Jimmy Akin)
Or, if you want to quibble about the word "lie," he is a dishonest man.
Here's why:
Pullman is the author of the His Dark Materials trilogy, which is overtly anti-Christian and the first volume of which has been made into a movie titled The Golden Compass. Naturally, the Catholic League and its head Bill Donohue are warning parents against it, and Pullman is quoted as saying the following:
"To regard it as this Donohue man has said - that I'm a militant atheist, and my intention is to convert people - how the hell does he know that?" he said, in an interview with Newsweek magazine.
First, note that what we have here is a vehement non-denial denial. Pullman isn't denying that he's a militant atheist with the intention to convert people (at least in this quote; he may have made an actual denial elsewhere, in which case he's a flat-out liar). He's vehemently questioning how one would know that in order to convey the impression that he is not a militant atheist out to convert people and that he's indignant at the statement that he is one.
Because it's a non-denial denial, one can quibble over whether it constitutes a lie, just like one can quibble over whether various non-denial denials issued by the Nixon White House (or other White Houses) were technically lies, but the clear intent here is to deceive.
But let's answer Pullman's question: How "the hell" does Bill Donohue know that Pullman is a militant atheist out to convert people?
Because Pullman himself has said so!
In an interview published in the Washington Post (Feb. 19, 2001), he stated:
“’I'm trying to undermine the basis of Christian belief,’ says Pullman. ‘Mr. Lewis [C.S. Lewis, author of The Chronicles of Narnia] would think I was doing the Devil's work.’”
Similarly, in an interview published in the Sydney Morning Herald (Dec. 13, 2003), Pullman stated:
“I've been surprised by how little criticism I've got. Harry Potter's been taking all the flak. I'm a great fan of J.K. Rowling, but the people—mainly from America's Bible Belt—who complain that Harry Potter promotes Satanism or witchcraft obviously haven't got enough in their lives. Meanwhile, I've been flying under the radar, saying things that are far more subversive than anything poor old Harry has said. My books are about killing God.”
And indeed they are. In the end, the heroes of the novels actually kill God.
So Pullman is simply being dishonest when he vehemently questions how anyone could know that he is a militant atheist out to convert people. He himself has made it abundantly clear in press interviews.
This kind of transparent disingenuity really makes Pullman come across as a small and pathetic individual.
For all the protestations atheists typically make about embracing truth rather than a fairy tale, it seems Mr. Pullman leaves something to be desired in the truth department.
And why not?
If, on his view, we're just walking bags of chemicals then why shouldn't the bag of chemicals that is Philip Pullman not spout any string of syllables needed in order to maximize its bank account and the amount of power it has to command pleasurable sensory feedback?
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (247)
July 22, 2007
The Economics of Magic
(Jimmy Akin)
I am not a fan of the Harry Potter novels. I know lots of people who are, including people who are serious Catholics, but I'm uncomfortable with them for a variety of reasons.
While they're not going to turn every kid who reads them into a practitioner of Wicca, at least some kids will be influenced by the novels into exploring the occult. That's a risk that is taken whenever magic is explored in fiction. Lord of the Rings did the same thing.
The thing about literature (fiction or non-fiction) is that somebody in the audience is always going to go off in some crazy direction based on what they read.
Want proof?
Let's take a very well-known piece of literature . . . the best-selling book in human history, in fact: The Bible.
Has anybody gone off in a crazy direction after reading that?
Well, let's see . . . Marcion, Sabellius, Montanus, Tertullian, Arius, . . . uh, the list might get a little long, so let's move on.
Authors can't let the fact that somebody in the audience is going to go nuts based on what they write stop them from writing. If they did, we wouldn't have the Bible. But authors can craft their work in a way that tries to minimize potential harmful effects, and I have sympathy for those who think that J.K. Rowling didn't do as good a job of this in writing the Harry Potter series as J.R.R. Tolkien did in the Lord of the Rings.
And the fact is that the vast majority of kids who read Harry Potter are not going to turn into neopagans, so I can't tell people that it's morally impermissible for any child to read them.
There is another reason I'm uncomfortable with them: I just don't like the way they're written.
Now, you know what they say about disputing about tastes, and if Harry Potter is something that you really enjoy and that doesn't challenge your faith then good for you. But I think that Rowling did not do a good job in several respects literarily, and here's why.
I read the first novel back when there was a huge controversy about it and whether it was healthy for children, and from the opening pages I found myself not liking it. The reason is that Rowling is just too ham fisted in how she sets the plot in motion.
Harry Potter--the character, not the book series--is the most important boy in the magical world, yet he doesn't know it.
Until chapter two. (Or whatever.)
Then, as soon as he's introduced into the magical world, he's suddently the center of attention, people are fawning all over him, privilege is lavished upon him, and a glorious new future is handed to him on a silver platter.
Too. Much. Wish. Fulfillment.
This is bad plotting. Harry Potter is catapulted out of ordinary life to the apex of magical society virtually instantaneously. There may be lots of interesting concepts that Rowling uses as tinsel to sparkle up her world--and this is what I think people really find attractive about the books (the tinsel, not the substance)--but you don't slather on the wish fulfillment in this way.
Not unless you're writing fan fic.
If you really want to have somebody be the most important boy in the world, you let this fact emerge piecemeal, a bit at a time, with the character paying his dues as his true identity becomes clear.
If you want to see that plot done right,
BTW, I recently gave this book to Steve and Janet Ray and they loved it.
Others have also commented on the ham fisted way Rowling writes--in fact the piece I'm about to link even uses the term "ham fisted."
It's a piece by an economics reporter who looks at the bad economics in the book--and she doesn't mean money. She means the magical economy:
If magic is too powerful then the characters will be omnipotent gods, and there won't be a plot. Magic must have rules and limits in order to leave the author enough room to tell a story. In economic terms, there must be scarcity: magical power must be a finite resource.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (451)
March 22, 2007
By Their Lives of Judas You Shall Know Them
(Jimmy Akin)
CNS is reporting:
Curiosity about the New Testament figure of Judas and a feeling that his reputation as the worst sinner in history "isn't fair, isn't right" led British novelist Jeffrey Archer to attempt a new version of the story.
Archer, presenting "The Gospel According to Judas by Benjamin Iscariot" at a March 20 press conference in Rome, said he is a practicing Anglican who wanted his new book to be backed up by solid biblical scholarship.
So he convinced Father Francis J. Moloney, provincial of the Salesians in Australia and a former president of the Catholic Biblical Association of America, to collaborate.
Now, I don't have a problem with someone writing a book called "The Gospel According to Judas" or writing novels about Judas or about Judas's perceptions of Christ. I don't even have a problem with someone who wants to present Judas as something other than the worst sinner in history--something that the Church doesn't teach that he was. One could hold that Judas had diminished culpability for his sins and that someone else in history had a higher degree of culpability.
But I do have a problem with this:
Archer's main thesis is that Judas tried to prevent Jesus' arrest and execution by enlisting the help of a scribe to get Jesus out of Jerusalem and back to Galilee where the Romans supposedly would ignore him.
In the end, the scribe betrays Judas, which means Judas unwittingly betrays Jesus.
Both Archer and Father Moloney doubt that Judas committed suicide, a story recounted only in the Gospel of St. Matthew.
The Benjamin Iscariot in Archer's title is Judas' fictitious son, who -- years after the death of Jesus -- finds his father living in an ascetic community near the Dead Sea. His father reluctantly gives his version of what happened to Jesus and the son writes it down.
I'm sorry, but this is unacceptable on two grounds. First, it flatly contradicts the biblical accounts of Judas' death. It would be one thing if the author made it clear that he was not writing about our universe and that he was dealing with a parallel Judas and what happened to him, but that's not the case. The author and Fr. Moloney both cast doubt on the inspired text as it applies to our universe. This is an unacceptable misrepresentation of the facts of history. It's not a case of them proposing a novel or unexpected way to harmonize the accounts of Judas's death; it's them flatly rejecting the biblical accounts.
Second, the author has fallen into the perennial trap of trying to exonerate Judas. That's not the same thing as portraying him in a way that nuances his character and motives. It's not the same thing as just saying "He may not have been the worst sinner in history." It's flatly rejecting the betrayal that Judas performed. On this account, Judas didn't betray Jesus; he was himself betrayed.
Sorry, but that's not going to cut it. Not if we're being asked to entertain what might have been the case with the Judas in our universe.
I don't know what it is with authors (and filmmakers) who want to rehabilitate Judas in this fashion.
But I suspect it's this: They themselves have an uneasy conscience.
They themselves feel that they have betrayed Christ (as have we all by our sins), but rather than throw themselves on Christ's mercy and accepting his grace, they want to rationalize or excuse their sins and so--using the character of Judas as a psychological surrogate for themselves--they rationalize and excuse his in fictional form.
The underlying psychological message they're trying to give themselves is: Hey, if Judas didn't really betray Christ--if he was a tragic victim of circumstance--then that's what I am, too. I haven't really betrayed him. I'm just a victim of fate, too, and I'm not really responsible for what I've done.
By their lives of Judas you shall know them.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (66)
February 05, 2007
Atlas Shrugged
(Jimmy Akin)
A reader writes:
Hey Jimmy, any thoughts on "Atlas Shrugged"? I've yet to read it, but I'm wondering if it makes any good points, and was also curious what the bad ones might be. A friend has forced me to read it, so I thought it'd be best to get your thoughts first. Thanks!
Well, I can't generally offer thoughts on works of fiction like Atlas Shrugged, and most have both good and bad points, but in this case I do happen to know something about the work and its author, Ayn Rand.
Ayn Rand was a 20th century immigrant to the US who advocated a particular philosophical system that she dubbed "Objectivism," because of its supposedly objective viewpoint.
This viewpoint has significant resonances with the Libertarian political movement, and advocates of Objectivism tend to be Libertarian politically (though not all Libertarians are Objectivists). This means that they tend to be economically liberal (in the historic sense--i.e., in favor of laissez-faire capitalism) while being socially liberal as well (e.g., not opposing abortion or homosexuality).
Objectivism tends to support a form of individualism that leaves open to the individual certain forms of freedom that Catholic theology would hold are immoral (e.g., it sometimes exalts selfishness as a virtue). It also tends to be strongly anti-religious.
While I have not read a great deal of Ayn Rand's works (though I have read some), I can report that she uses her fiction--such as Anthem, The Fountainhead, and Atlas Shrugged--as vehicles for her philosophical thought.
I can also report that she is not taken seriously as a philosopher by real, academic philosophers.
I suggest looking into the following online articles from Wikipedia for more info:
* AYN RAND
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (86)
January 11, 2007
A Soul In A Bottle
(Jimmy Akin)
Back when JA.O published Three Days To Never: The Interview, one of the questions Tim Powers was asked was whether we'd have to wait another five years for his next novel.
He said, "I hope not! No, no, definitely not."
And the man was as good as his word!
I just got his latest book, A Soul in a Bottle, and read it in one sitting!
Okay, if you want to be persnickety, it's not a novel, it's a novella, but that's close enough for me, and it comes in a gorgeous hardbound edition with copious illustrations by well-known fantasy artist J. K. Potter (no relation to Harry Potter or J. K. Rowling--so far as I know!).
It's a little hard to describe the book without giving away story elements that you'll want to let unfold in front of you, but here's how I described it in the entry for my aStore:
Powers' latest. A mysterious woman. A secret sonnet. A dire warning. A forbidden romance. A *big* decision.
Easy access to the Powersverse for those who have never ventured into it.
It has all the elements you'd expect from Tim Powers' work--a startling eye for realism and a real-world setting, mixed with elements of the fantastic. It has ghosts--or at least a ghost--a character whose death sets the plot in motion. And it has the usual thematic elements of alcohol, tobacco, and firearms (they have a whole government agency just to deal with Tim Powers novels!).
Despite what you might suspect, the title does not refer to a soul that is literally in a bottle. That's a metaphor. What it refers to is something you'll have to read the story to find out.
I don't want to give too much away about the story--in fact, I'd advise you not to read the dust jacket or the publisher's description--because the less you know going in, the more you'll enjoy it as Powers starts weaving his spell.
I will say this, though: Like Powers' works in general, it's refreshingly free from the kind of crud that clutters up many novels. There's no sex scenes or blood and gore in it, for example. Instead, he gives us a tale that does not preach but sets up and then pays off a profound moral issue, with a forceful (and interestingly theological) stinger at the end.
I suspect that if you sample Tim Powers' Soul in a Bottle, you'll want to taste his other works as well, so . . .
CHECK 'EM OUT!
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (45)
January 02, 2007
Science Fiction As Literature
(Jimmy Akin)
CHT to the reader down yonder who linked to a discussion in First Things in which Fr. NeuhausJoseph Bottum (CHT to readers for the correction) raises the question of science fiction as literature. Commening on a post at the Volokh Conspiracy, he writes:
There exists an intellectual defense of science fiction, but what’s interesting is that the query produced a hundred comments and, as near as I can tell, not one of them attempts the intellectual defense. What they pursue, instead, is a systematic assault on the notion of literature.
You can’t discount the American horror of appearing to be snob: Ordinary readers like science fiction, and we’re all just regular folk, after all. But what’s curious is the deployment of postmodern tropes: Some years ago, literature professors (of the MLA persuasion, anyway) turned against the whole idea of literature, the Volokh Conspiracy commenters note. So if even trained literary critics are unable to say what qualifies as literature, why can’t science fiction be literature?
There’s something a little odd in the use of this line by a group of lawyers and law professors who are known for their rejection of the postmodern turn in their own profession of law. Still, as an anti-intellectual argumentative strategy, it’s pretty smart: You get to deny that there is any specialized knowledge necessary for determining literature (“even the trained people don’t know what it is”), and at the same time you get to appeal to the authority of those specialists to promote your favorite reading.
But smart ain’t the same as intellectual. As I say, there is an intellectual defense of some genre writing. But—believing, as I did, that lawyers tend toward being natural intellectuals—I would have preferred to see the discussion begin with the acknowledgement that Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, and Goethe produced literature. Now, does any science fiction stand near them?
As someone with pre-postmodern sympathies on a host of issues, I find myself sympathizing with Bottum when he looks askance at postmodern attempts to simply deconstruct the idea of literature. He's quite right that Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, and Goethe composed works that deserve unique commendation.
However, as a philosopher of the analytic tradition, I am also sensitive to the difficulties in defining what counts as literature, as well as the subjective difficulty of assessing what meets the criteria that could be proposed.
Unfortunately, Bottum plays his cards close to his vest and does not propose a definition for literature. He simply offers us a list of individuals he holds as having produced literature and asks us whether any works of science fiction "stand near them."
I can't divine what standards our good divine might employ in assessing that question, but my initial inclination is to answer "Ask me again in five hundred years."
The list of luminaries Bottum cites is so stellar and so hallowed by centuries (except for Goethe) that one would have to display remarkable temerity to identify a recent science fiction author as a "new Homer" or a "new Virgil" or a "new Shakespeare" or even a "new Goethe."
By pointing to the cream of the literary crop--instead of literature of more modest means--Bottum has set the standard remarkably high, and diminished the ability of others to give him an answer. It would be easier if he identified 20th century figures who he regards as authors of literature, but by picking only authors whose works have stood the test of time, he makes it hard to offer comparisons with works that have not yet been subjected to the test of time.
We are thus without either a definition or a list of contemporary authors of literature, to which contemporary science fiction authors might be compared.
Having said that, I think that it is quite clear that science fiction--as well as genre fiction in general--can count as literature, however literature is defined. As evidence, I would offer the very list of literary luminaries that Bottum cites. Every one of them is known for producing works of literature that, if they were published today for the first time, would count as genre fiction.
Homer's Iliad and Odyssey would both count as works of fantasy literature. So would Virgil's Aeneid. So would the Divine Comedy. So would multiple plays by Shakespeare (Hamlet is a ghost story, Macbeth has witches, The Tempest is built around a wizard, and let's not even go into the fantasy elements in A Midsummer Night's Dream). Faust would also be classified as fantasy based on its subject matter.
So literature obviously does not exclude the fantastic, which is central to science fiction. Indeed, fantasy is often classed together with science fiction, but if one were to insist that the two categories must be distinguished such that science fiction must involve science or the future rather than the supernatural then it still seems there are works of science fiction that are clearly literature.
I won't go so far as to proclaim a new Homer, but it strikes me that Mary Shelly's Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus and George Orwell's 1984 both stand sufficiently near the works of the authors Bottum mentions to count as literature. Frankenstein, in particular, is well along in the process of standing the test of time and is likely to be with us five hundred years from now, quite possibly on an equal footing with Faust.
I'd also agree with the commenter who wrote:
Those who believe SF isn't literature should read A Canticle for Lebowitz or the work of Gene Wolfe or Tim Powers, not to mention Tolkien.
It thus strikes me as possible to cite clear examples of science fiction that counts as literature, even given the vague guidance Bottum has offered us regarding what belongs in that class.
I am intrigued by Bottum's statement that "There exists an intellectual defense of science fiction," which he later speaks of as if there is only one intellectual defense ("not one of them attempts the intellectual defense"). I am a bit perplexed by the fact that he does not seem willing to extend the same to genre fiction in general, saying that "there is an intellectual defense of some genre writing."
Unfortunately, Bottum is even more coy about what this defense might be than he is regarding what counts as literature.
Once again, I will not attempt to divine the mind of the divine, but I will offer the following thoughts:
1) If the inclusion of futuristic technology or situations is a sufficient condition for a work to count as science fiction, then it seems immediately apparent that science fiction can be literature for the simple reason that there will be literature in the future.
I don't know that there will be another Homer or Shakespeare--their positions in the Western Canon have to do not only with the quality of their works but also with their place in the histories of the languages in which they wrote--but I suspect we will have future Goethes. In fact, I suspect we get several Goethes every century, it just takes time to recognize them.
If we then contemplate the first Goethe of the twenty-second century, writing in 2107, then even if he writes fiction that is purely realistic in terms of his own day, it will include elements that make it science fiction by our standards. This is true whether technology advances or not, whether we are living in a utopia or a dystopia or not, or whether we are living in a world that has slid back into barbarism.
This reveals to us the difference between subject matter (genre) and literary quality.
2) "Genre" and "literature" are two separate categories, just as "plot" and "literature" are two separate categories. There is no such thing as a literary plot; literature can use any plot. And there is no such thing as a literary genre; literature can be written in any genre.
Genre has to do with the subject matter that is found in a story. The Odyssey counts as fantasy because it has Odysseus going from island to island meeting fantastic beings and beset by gods. If you keep the exact same plot, with the same episodes and scenes, but change the details so that he's going from planet to planet meeting fantastic beings and beset by aliens then the genre becomes science fiction.
Whether something counts as literature is not principally a judgment about subject matter. It is largely a judgment about quality. Nothing counts as literature if it is of poor quality. To be literature, it has to be good.
Some might want to stop there and say that the difference between literature and ordinary writing is simply the distinctive quality of literature. If it's really, really good, it's lit. Otherwise, not. But others might want to add other criteria.
Discerning what those criteria might be is difficult. One does not want to merely endorse the preferences or prejudices of a particular age, and so one must look across time--from Homer to Shakespeare to Goethe--and ask what indisputable works of literature have in common.
The differences between the works are vast. The Iliad does not read at all like The Sorrows of Young Werther, but a plausible criterion would be that works of literature engage the human condition in a particularly insightful way. This, indeed, may be the difference between literature and ordinary writing.
An ordinary comedy might be well-crafted and funny, and an ordinary romance might be well-crafted and entertaining, but Shakespeare's comedies and romances go beyond that and allow us greater insight into the human condition.
That, incidentally, is what Frankenstein and 1984 do. Frankenstein isn't just a creature story, and 1984 isn't just a speculation on what life might be like thirty-six years after George Orwell wrote it.
If we accept the definition of literature as writing of high quality that is particularly insightful on the human condition (and I have no way of knowing if Bottum would accept this definition) the it seems clear that works of any genre can count as literature because there is no subject matter that of its nature prevents an author from writing well or displaying insight into the human condition.
It doesn't matter whether the story is about a romance or the solving of a crime or the prosecution of a legal case or the efforts of a doctor to save lives or someone living in the Old West or someone living in the future. Unless you are prepared to say that there are no insights to be had on the condition of people in such situations then you must be prepared to say that such stories can tell us things about the human condition and thus potentially serve as literature.
Even something as "frivolous" as comedy can do that (note Shakespeare's comedies), since humor is part of the human condition.
3) To apply the foregoing insight specifically to science fiction, it has often been pointed out that by using fantastic themes and situations, science fiction writers are able to hold up a unique mirror to the human condition and illuminate it from a different angle.
If you've got the ability to create life from non-living matter, as Dr. Frankenstein did, or if you can envision the playing out of social trends decades into the future, as George Orwell did, then you can throw light on aspects of the human condition that are hard to bring out in the confines of purely realistic literature.
The same applies if you put humans in a very different situation than the one they commonly find themselves in today. This can happen, for example, if you put them on another planet, or imagine them meeting another intelligent race. Or you might chuck the humans entirely and just think about what an alien race would be like and how it might be similar to and different from humanity.
In all of these ways, science fiction can hold up a mirror to mankind that let's us look at its condition from a new angle.
4) Even more fundamentally, the senses of wonder and dread are themselves part of human nature, and science fiction allows us to express and explore these. It was wonder and dread that fired the ancient imagination and led to the creation of the gods and monsters of the classical age, as we find them in the Iliad and the Odyssey and the Aeneid. It was wonder and dread that led Shakespeare to put ghosts and witches and wizards in his stories. And it was wonder and dread that led Goethe to give literary form to a bargain with the devil.
What generates wonder and dread in us changes from age to age, and thus we find somewhat different elements of the fantastic in the writings of Homer and Shakespeare and Goethe. Today many find feelings of wonder and dread conjured in them by contemplating the science and technology that life thrusts upon us, or the thought of what the future will bring and how it will be different from today, or what other kinds of life may exist in God's creation.
In contemplating all of these, we express a fundamental aspect of the human condition and exercise the gift of reason that God gave us, and despite the sniffing of those who are so in love with realistic fiction that they have lost the sense of preternatural wonder and dread, they can indeed find their place in human literature.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (55)
November 14, 2006
Literary Stomach In A Bowl
(Jimmy Akin)
This is just wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG!!!
I was horrified a while back when I was in a bookstore and saw on the shelf that there was an actual crossover novel between Star Trek: The Next Generation and the X-Men.
UGH!!!
This is the literary equivalent of KFC's Infamous Stomach-In-A-Bowls!
I have nothing against Next Gen.
I have nothing against X-Men.
But I don't want them jumbled together like this!
Yes, I know, in fits of unmitigated geeky uncoolness, fans of various series have produced reams and reams of fanfic doing franchise mashups like this.
That's why God created the Internet.
How else would young teenagers explore the question of whether Worf or Wolverine would win a fight?
(I'm guessing that's a prominent scene early in the book . . . and I'm guessing that they manage to fight each other to a draw . . . big surprise.)
But to have one of these things escape from the wild and actually make it into print . . . WHAT WERE THE RIGHTS-HOLDERS THINKING???
Particularly the rights holders for the Star Trek franchise. It strikes me that this stands to cheapen their brand more than Marvel Comics'.
Perhaps it was to indulge Michael Jan Friedman, who apparently writes many of the Star Trek novels and may be an X-Men fan on the side.
I don't mind commercial tie-in literature based on popular media franchises. The stories in these series are usually non-canonical (though not in Babylon 5 or Firefly). People enjoy them, and I respect that.
I don't mind fanfic. I don't read it, but I don't mind that it's out there. In fact, a lot of the stories told in world history have been the equivalent of fanfic--non-professional storytellers doing their own take on popular stories. I don't know how many folks sitting around the fire have spun their own tales about Gilgamesh or Ahikar or Odysseus or Jason or Aeneas any of the other heroes of literature. All that's fine and part of the human experience--a testimony to human creativity.
I don't even mind crossovers, as long as they're well done. I would not mind, for example, reading a novel in which Dracula met some other 19th century literary character, like Sherlock Holmes or the Invisible Man. (In fact, Alan Moore did a whole comic book series based on that idea, though I haven't read it.)
But there has to be a "fit" between the two things you're crossing over--at least if you're intending to play the story for something other than laughs. Sure, Bambi meets Godzilla can give you a chuckle, but I really wouldn't want to read a serious detective story in which Sherlock Holmes solves crimes alongside characters from Beatrix Potter's universe.
And that's the problem here.
The X-Men inhabit a comic book universe that plays by comic book rules, where only the slightest gesture is made toward real-world science and physics and character development and Star Trek . . . uh . . . well . . . um . . . nevermind.
I just hope they don't make a movie out of this thing.
How would you tell Captain Picard and Professor X apart?
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (73)
September 21, 2006
Three Days To Never: The Other Interviews
(Jimmy Akin)
Recently I had the great pleasure of reading Tim Powers' latest novel,
Three Days To Never.
I also had the great pleasure of hosting an interview with the man himself, right here on JA.O.
But in looking around, I found a couple of additional interviews he did about the book, and I'd thought I'd pass them along for readers who are Tim Powers fans or who should be Tim Powers fans (which would be everybody).
Both of these interviews are conducted by people who know science fiction better than I.
THE FIRST IS WITH THE GOOD FOLKS AT SCIFI.COM
and
THE SECOND WAS CONDUCTED BY SCIENCE FICTION AUTHOR JOHN SHIRLEY.
I was pleased to see how much different material is brought out by the three interviews. Tim got asked questions that were different enough that each gives him a chance to say new and interesting things about the book, and about his writing in general, so I hope y'all'll check 'em out.
Oh, and don't forget to
OR GET HIS OTHER BOOKS IF YOU'VE ALREADY GOT THIS ONE.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (3)
September 08, 2006
Three Days To Never: The Interview
(Jimmy Akin)
Tim Powers’ new novel, Three Days To Never (3DTN), is a supernatural thriller about spies, magic, science, religion, and the secret history of the 20th century. Set in 1987 during that year’s famed three-day New Age “Harmonic Convergence,” the story involves Albert Einstein, Charlie Chaplin, Israeli intelligence, remote viewers, the Qabbalah, the nature of time, identity, and free will--and an unsuspecting English teacher from San Bernardino and his young daughter.
The author has graciously consented to give JimmyAkin.Org an exclusive interview about his new book.
* * *
JA.O: Authors usually dread the
question “Where do you get your ideas?” so I won’t ask that, but
I’d like to ask about the starting point for 3DTN. Where did the germ
of this novel come from? What was the first thing that you decided about
it? Did you want to write about a specific theme, a specific moment,
a specific character, a specific concept?
Tim Powers: Actually it all started simply by me being curious about why Einstein's hair is white in all photographs after 1928. Biographies note that he had something like a heart attack at that time, in the Swiss Alps, but I was in my writer-paranoid mode, so I wasn't buying the heart-attack story.
I suppose anybody's biography would yield the sort of clues I look for to base a story on -- I bet I could find them in a biography of Louisa May Alcott, or Beatrix Potter! -- but I was pleased to find that Einstein's life was particularly full of odd bits. He really did devote years to working on some kind of "maschinchen," little machine, which apparently in real life came to nothing, and he did go to a séance with Charlie Chaplin, and he did leave California forever on the day of the big Long Beach earthquake, for instance.
I always simply note lots of interesting bits and then try to figure out what sort of story they appear to be part of -- as opposed to having a story in mind in advance and then looking for substantiation for it. And so when I found that Einstein was devoted to the state of Israel, for instance, and donated lots of his papers to a university there, I just noted that Israel would probably figure in the story. That led me to the Qabbalah and the Mossad, and then they led me on to lots of other colorful stuff.
* * *
I know that your stories
are heavily researched. How did you go about researching this one?
Well, I read a good dozen biographies of Einstein! Underlining and cross-referencing and making customized indexes on the flyleaves! (I always wind up wrecking my research books.) And I read heaps too on Qabbalah, and the history of Israel, and Charlie Chaplin, and old Hollywood, as the Einstein biographies pointed toward these things.
And since the story's action was mostly taking place within an hour's drive of where I live, my wife and I were able (as usually we're not) to go to the places I was writing about, and take pictures and wander around and make notes. Since I usually can't go to the places I set my stories in, I insist that it's not necessary -- but just between you and me, it is a help!
* * *
3DTN involves
the Israeli intelligence service, the Mossad. How did you go about researching
them, and how close are the intelligence methods shown in the story
to the ones the Mossad used in the 1980s? Are you at liberty to tell
us or would you have to kill me and my blog readers if you said?
The actual Mossad is more efficient than the fictional agents I put in the book -- but moderately inefficient characters are more useful in fiction and more interesting, I think, to read about. But the background and methods I give them are accurate for the 1980s, assuming my research books were accurate. I read Victor Ostrovsky's By Way of Deception , and Gordon Thomas's Gideon's Spies, and Israel's Secret Wars by Black and Morris, and several more. Taken altogether they probably gave me a plausible picture of the Mossad in the '80s, and plausibility is more crucial than strict accuracy. (And as you note, precise accuracy in espionage matters might be dangerous!)
* * *
When I read your stories, I’m often surprised to find out that things I thought you made up actually came from real history. For example, in 3DTN there is an occult group with ties to the Nazi Regime that I thought you likely made up (though we know the Nazis were interested in the occult). There is also a long-lost Charlie Chaplin film that I suspected was an invention of yours. Yet when I checked online, I found both of these were real. Are there other things buried in the novel that the reader might be surprised to find came from history?
Actually a whole lot of it is real stuff -- Einstein's maschinchen for measuring faint voltages, his pal who assassinated the Austrian premier in 1916, the mid-movie interruption of the first screening of Chaplin's City Lights, the "kidnap" and ransom of Chaplin's dead body, for instances. This is a result of me getting my story almost ready-made by reading a whole lot of research stuff and noting the intriguing bits, which I then only have to fit together into a plot. It's much easier to just find all this than to make it up!
* * *
One of the things that I
find fascinating about your work is the way that you mix real life with
fantasy. Like many of your novels, 3DTN is set in modern times. This
is different than many fantasy novels, which are set in either the Middle
Ages or an imaginary period that is meant to be like the Middle Ages.
Personally, except in the case of someone like Tolkien, I often find
those stories coming across as flat or artificial. Is there a specific
reason why you weave magic around modern settings instead of going with
the traditional "sword and sorcery" type of fantasy? Is it
just a personal preference or do you think there are advantages to writing
magical tales set in the present day?
Well, I want to trick my readers into believing, while they're reading the book at least, that all this stuff is really happening, to real people. If I set it in that default-medieval world, with wizards and Dark Lords, readers would probably think, "Oh, an imaginary story!" and I don't want them noticing that it is, in fact, imaginary. So I put the magical stuff in alongside TVs and freeways and Marlboros, and hope that when the magical business starts up, it will seem to be as genuine as ... you know, the internet and streetlights and Big Macs.
Ideally my readers will develop a bit of reflexive mistrust of apparent, mundane reality! You really don't have to nudge readers very hard to elicit this. People say things like, "I'm not scared of ghosts, I'm scared of urban gangs and nuclear war," but if they're all alone in a house at night, and they hear a scraping sound down the hall, they don't think it's an urban gang member; for at least a moment or two they know it's a ghost.
* * *
Elements of your own life
are often mixed into your stories. Your characters often live in the
same town that you do, and incidents in the stories are often modeled
on things that happened to you. For example, in your story
“The Bible Repairman,” you have a character who accidentally set
afire a Jehovah’s Witness Bible, just as you once did. Can you tell
us some elements of your own life that found their way into 3DTN?
I think most writers use their own lives as the basic kit for their protagonists, to be altered as plot might require. It's easier! You know the (ideally mildly interesting) details of your own life pretty thoroughly, and so a protagonist based on yourself is going to have a history, and tastes, and even such flaws as you might be aware of having.
I don't have a daughter, and my wife fortunately is still alive! But Marrity's house is our house, and his furniture and books and cats and pickup truck are all ours. (Our pickup truck was a lot newer when he had it in '87 than it is now.) And I quit drinking some years ago, which I think might be a wise course for Marrity.
* * *
Last year you visited Israel
for a science fiction convention. Visiting Israel was a very powerful
experience for me, and I wonder how it affected you. What did you think
about your trip and did getting to go there influence 3DTN in any way?
Unfortunately my wife and I went to Israel after I had finished the book! I did manage to shove a few first-hand details about Tel Aviv into the book, at least. And the real-life Israel didn't contradict the Israel I had imagined -- I expected it to be a wonderful place, with admirable people, and it was certainly that.
And we did get to Jerusalem, several times! As Catholics, we found that was kind of comprehension overload -- the realization that God walked right here, and according to tradition touched this particular stone, and died right here, is just disorienting. You only begin to appreciate it later, in pieces.
We definitely want to go back. Ideally we'd go every year, with the tax excuse of attending the convention!
* * *
Your previous novel,
Declare, had significant Catholic themes in it, while 3DTN has significant
Jewish themes. Specifically, it has a magical system related to the
Qabbalah of Jewish mysticism. Why did you decide to go that way this
time? It’s not just that you're a huge Madonna fan or something is
it?
Well, no. What I generally do in my books, once I've got a situation
figured out, is look for the supernatural tradition most closely associated
with it -- so that with pirates in the Caribbean I used voodoo [in the novel On Stranger Tides--ja], and
with Arabs I used genies [in the novel Declare--ja]. Declare was fun, in that one of the
historical characters' uneasy fascination with Catholicism gave me an
excuse to present Catholicism as true. In this new book, I guess I present
Judaism as true! That Mossad character is a fairly orthodox Jew, and
isn't comfortable using Qabbalah.
And Judaism isn't alien to Catholics, of course -- I always figure that if Catholicism were somehow, per impossibile, proved wrong, I'd jump straight into Judaism.
* * *
One of the ways that you
ground your stories in real life is by weaving science and magic closely
together. It’s not uncommon in your stories to have quantum mechanical
explanations for magic, or ghosts explained as a partly electrical phenomena,
or devices that are part technology and part enchantment. Depending
on how it’s handled, I could see this either helping or hurting a
story. What have you found to be the benefits and
risks of closely juxtaposing science and magic?
One way it helps -- I hope! -- in soliciting reader credulity is that it shows magic impinging on, participating in, reality as we know it. After all, if you can see a thing, then it's reflecting light, and so it must have some physical properties! And I like to give magical phenomena a quantum or Newtonian or relativistic structure, just because those have internal consistency and I hope my magical stuff will therefore have a plausible consistency. I don't want readers to think that I'm free to make up any old magical effects at all.
The risk of this, of course, is that you'll make magic into just another technology -- pentagrams are effective up to such-and-such amount of stress, the effectiveness of magic spells diminishes as the square of the distance -- you risk losing the numinous, vertiginous qaulity which is really the whole point of magic. Real magic should be as scary as an earthquake, even if it's "good" magic.
* * *
H. P. Lovecraft felt strongly that a weird fiction story should be thoroughly grounded in reality and contain only a single supernatural element—the “wonder” at the heart of the story. Your approach is different: You strongly ground your stories in the real world but you weave in multiple supernatural elements. It’s like there is a whole magical subtext bubbling just under the surface of daily life. Do you think Lovecraft was too conservative about how much of the supernatural readers can accept or are there special challenges to pulling off the kind of thing that you do?
Well I suppose I'd claim that I'm only introducing one magical element, but that it's got lots of apparently-unconnected side effects! -- but that would probably be more glib than true.
Yes, I think Lovecraft was too conservative. The thing we want to show the reader is that there's a whole world of unsuspected stuff going on -- when Leeuwenhoek first looked into his microscope, he didn't see just one weird new creature, but dozens of them! The unsuspected world will have its internal consistencies, its own possibilities and impossibilities, but it's gonna be intricate.
* * *
Albert Einstein figures
prominently in 3DTN and you go beyond the known facts of his life in
working him into the story’s background. Einstein is such an iconic
figure that many authors have felt the liberty to fictionalize his life
in books and movies, but just recently we've had a great deal of criticism
directed toward Dan Brown for his rewriting the facts of Jesus’ life
in The Da Vinci Code, and Jesus is
an even more iconic figure. A lot of people took offense at what Brown
did, but a lot don’t take offense at a fictional version of Einstein’s
life. How do you explain this and, in your view, how much liberty should
authors have when fictionalizing the lives of historical figures?
I think the main thing is to base your characterization on what's known of the real historical figure -- don't have him do things he never would have done. You can invent lots of unrecorded motivations for him, but he should react to those in character.
I like to think I presented Einstein as an admirable character, which he appears mostly to have been. I've portrayed some historical bad guys somewhat sympathetically -- Bugsy Siegel, for example [in the novel Last Call--ja] -- but I don't think readers mind that as much as going the other way, and portraying revered figures as villains. Brown portrayed Jesus as a fairly vague nonentity, but at least he didn't make Him a bad guy!
* * *
Despite the emphasis on reality, your stories often have striking elements of whimsy. For example, some of your characters have joke names—and joke names based on ecclesiastical Latin at that! In a couple of your novels there was a character named “Neal Obstadt” (nihil obstat; “nothing obstructs”) and in 3DTN there’s a woman going by the name “Libra Nosamalo” (libera nos a malo; “deliver us from evil”). Is there a risk of harming suspension of disbelief here or do you think that the payoff in humor is enough for those who’ll get the joke?
Well, I think there is a risk of harming suspension of disbelief, yes. I shouldn't do it! Anything that reminds the reader that he's just sitting in a chair holding a stack of papers all glued together at one edge, and not in the presence of the book's characters, is a mistake, even if it gets a laugh.
It could be worse! After all, Neal Obstadt may have picked that name because of its associations, and Libra Nosamalo explains that her parents had an odd sense of humor.
But the best sort of humor in a book is things that arise naturally from the action, things a reader can laugh at without stepping outside the story!
* * *
Compared to many contemporary
novels, yours are fairly clean. While they’re meant for adults, they
aren’t loaded up with sex scenes and they don’t celebrate sin. There
are cuss words and your characters definitely have things they’d need
to talk about in confession, but on a deeper level your books presuppose
a moral structure to the universe. As a Catholic, how do you find the
balance between showing the reality of man’s fallen condition and
glorifying evil the way we commonly see in the media?
Well, while I show people doing bad things -- even show the atractiveness of doing bad things! -- I like to think I show too that they work out badly, and that the characters would have been way better off not having done those things. Often a character wants to do the difficult right thing but keep a couple of pet sins too -- just little ones, they don't eat a lot or make much noise! And I hope I show that there's bad consequences of that. I always remember Lewis's statement in The Great Divorce, something like, "If we choose Heaven we will not be able to keep even the smallest and most intimate souvenirs of Hell."
This is really more craft than morality -- given, I suppose, my own beliefs. Sex-scenes, for example, I think are generally just bad craft. They usually feel to me like clumsy gear-changes, jolting the reader abruptly from one sort of fiction into another. Not smooth carpentry!
* * *
J. R. R. Tolkien’s works envision a world that differs from ours in a number of respects. Some things are “okay” in his world that would not be okay in ours (e.g., Gandalf’s use of magic). C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia are similar. When reading or watching science fiction and fantasy, I often imagine that I’m peeking in on a universe where God established different rules (which is certainly his right), but many people feel that there are limits to what authors should portray in this regard. A considerable number of Christians feel that J. K. Rowling crossed the line in her Harry Potter series and created a world that could tempt real-world children toward the occult. In your novels I’ve noticed that the more people chase after magic, the more they get burned by it. Where do you come down on this topic? Are there limits to how different an author should make the world he envisions? Does it depend on the audience? What are the boundaries?
I make magic a damaging thing for characters to mess with just because that feels logical and convincing to me. I'd be writing about a fake magic -- fake to me, anyway -- if I made it benevolent or even neutral.
But I wouldn't advise a writer who sees magic as a nice thing to try to change the way he deals with it! I don't think you can fake these things. I've known writers who try in their stories to endorse moral correctnesses they don't actually care about, or which they even feel to be invalid, just to make their work more palatable to perceived readers' tastes, and it never works. Your fiction is going to reflect what you actually believe and don't believe, and it'd be a mistake for Rowling, for example, to vilify magic just because people think it ought to be vilified. They may be right and she may be wrong, but it's her eyes we're looking through when we experience the story.
Joan Didion said that "art is hostile to ideology." Fiction can be educational and beneficial and improving, but that's not one of its jobs!
* * *
Your stories often begin after the death of an important character—frequently a female character whose death sets the plot in motion. Is this a consequence of writing stories that often involve ghosts, is it just a good place to begin stories, or is it a personal trademark?
I guess it's just a personal quirk! I really wasn't aware of it till you pointed it out. I guess it's a natural way to get into a dramatic situation -- the reader learns about this deleted person from seeing how the other characters react to her (generally her) sudden absence, and when a mystery becomes evident she's not there to explain it, and they've got to try to reconstruct what she secretly knew or what she was actually up to.
And yes, in stories of mine her ghost is likely to show up and have some comments!
* * *
Your stories often end with
the creation of new families by characters who aren’t initially part
of the same family. Is this a crypto pro-family statement that you’re
trying to get across, does it play a specific
dramatic function, or is it something that you just find interesting?
I suppose it plays a dramatic function, in that it's putting together a new orderliness, with optimistic promise, out of the ruins of what had been there before the story's catastrophes started. Like, "Things won't be the same, but they'll be nice in a different way." And I generally get fond of my characters, and I want them to have nice lives after the book's spotlight isn't on them anymore!
* * *
Your previous novel, Declare, came out in 2001 and 3DTN has come out in 2006. You’re not going to make us wait until 2011 for another Tim Powers novel are you?
I hope not! No, no, definitely not. This one was slowed down by me teaching two high school classes and one or two college classes every semester, and I'm going to cut back on that, I swear.
* * *
ORDER THREE DAYS TO NEVER--OR OTHER WORKS BY TIM POWERS--FROM JIMMY AKIN'S STORE.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (45)
September 04, 2006
Three Days To Never
(Jimmy Akin)
I finished Tim Powers' new book, Three Days To Never, and I really liked it!
The story centers on a mild mannered English teacher (patterned after Tim himself) and his young daughter. The year is 1987, and the New Age "Harmonic Convergence" of that year is underway. The New Agers come in for a good bit of ribbing from various characters in the novel but--unbeknownst to anybody, including the New Agers themselves--the event causes a slight disruption of world affairs in a hidden, unseen way.
While that's happening in the background, the English teacher and his daughter are trying to make sense out of a family tragedy: The teacher's creepy grandmother has just died, leaving him a creepy and mysterious message about what she did and what can be found in the "Kaleidoscope shed" out back of her house.
Y'know, the kind of shed where you carve your initials into the wooden wall and then later they aren't there?
When they enter the shed, the teacher and his daughter find that the grandmother used the shed to hold TV, a VCR, a video cassette of Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, and a plaster block with the hand and footprints of Charlie Chaplin, which she stole from in front of Hollywood's Chinese Theater. What do they have in common? What was she using them for? Why does the teacher's long-lost father show up after so many years? How does Albert Einstein fit into all this? Why is the Israeli intelligence service--the Mossad--so interested in what's happening? How about the rival group that used to have ties to Hitler? Or the blind assassin? And what about all those babies lying in the snow, waving their arms and legs for a few seconds before they mysteriously vanish?
To find out the answers to these questions, you'll have to
(Incidentally, you'll note that I've linked to a page in my new store, where you can buy other of Tim's books, as well as other fine quality works.)
I found that the book was a very quick and enjoyable read for me. The plot proceeds at a swift pace, and there are nice elements of humor and irony as we proceed to keep a sense of whimsy in what is, essentially, a supernatural spy thriller.
Once I got past some of the major plot point (which I won't spoil here), I found the book contained a very powerful statement about free will. I found myself liking and appreciating the characters, even the ones who weren't on the right side (some of them, anyway), and about at least some points in the novel, I found myself contemplating, "Just how much of this goes on in real life?"
So: This book is enthusiastically recommended! Don't miss it!
Now a few notes:
1) For those who have already read it, please keep the spoilers to a minimum in the combox. We don't want to give away any of the big surprises (none of which I've touched) and spoil people's fun.
2) Content advisory: Infrequent occurrence of a few cuss words and
one scene where a woman thinks back about her sexual history, but no
on-screen activity.
3) Stay tuned, because later this week I'll be running an interview that Tim Powers graciously consented to give exclusively to the readers of JA.O!
4) Since I'm putting this up on Labor Day, it'll be my only post for the day. Order the book and then go have fun!
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (17)
August 17, 2006
In The Mail
(Jimmy Akin)
Back in November 2004 there was a lot of talk about the division of the U.S. into clear zones of "red" and "blue" states leading to secession. The talk was tongue-in-cheek, of course, but it was occurring in significantly different social circles.
We talked about that on the blog here, here, and here.
The last of those is a link to a post I did about some folks at the SF (Speculative Fiction) Readers Forum who were talking about the idea of blue state secession--who also linked our discussion here on the blog--and darn if they didn't go and do something about it.
Mind you, they didn't start a secessionist movement (as far as I know), but being speculative fiction enthusiasts, they went and wrote a book of short stories exploring the possibility.
Since we'd linked them before, the editor sent me a review copy, and I just got it in the mail.
I'll let y'all know what I think once I've had a chance to read a few of the stories. I'm guessing that they'll tend to have a more bluestate perspective on things in the main, but that won't (or shouldn't) prevent them from being well-written, interesting stories. (If it does, I'll let y'all know.)
In the meantime,
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (35)
August 09, 2006
In The Mail
(Jimmy Akin)
I'm reading Tim Powers' new novel, Three Days to Never.
This is his first new novel in five years, the previous one being Declare (2001), so its release is an occasion among Tim Powers fans.
Whereas Declare was heavily Catholic themed, this one is more Jewish-themed and involves a secret history spy story involving time travel and ghosts and dybbuks.
So far, I'm enjoying it very much. Powersis his usual, hyperinventive self, and I'll offer my comments after I've had a chance to finish it.
In the meantime, you can
READ A REVIEW OF IT BY JOHN SHIRLEY.
Here's a taste:
Tim Powers is his own genre. There are a few other novelists who write urban fantasy — de Lint and Gaiman, perhaps one or two others who attempt to bind physics and metaphysics, the spy novel with the novel of the fantastic, but none who move us with such proficiency, such deceptive ease from the gritty to the transcendent; who so excel at making us feel we too, if we follow directions, can travel effortlessly from three dimensions, to four, to five.
Currently there are two editions of the book in print. One, an ordinary hardback
There is also a special edition (pictured above) that has cool illustrations and that comes with a chapbook of sonnets written by one of the characters in the novel.
Enjoy!
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July 25, 2006
Weeeeelllllllll. . . . Isn't That "Special"
(Jimmy Akin)
EXCERPTS:
Meet Kathleen McGowan, novelist and self-proclaimed descendant of a union between Jesus and Mary Magdalene. McGowan, who says she is from the "sacred bloodline" Brown made famous in his mega-selling novel [The Da Vinci Code].
[A]mong believers are her powerful literary agent and the editors at New York publisher Simon & Schuster, who are throwing their weight behind her autobiographical religious thriller The Expected One, out July 25, with a sizable first printing of 250,000 copies.
"Everyone's going to think I'm on The Da Vinci Code bandwagon, but I'm not," says McGowan, who began working on her book in 1989. The Da Vinci Code was published in 2003.
McGowan originally self-published her novel last year and it sold only 2,500 copies.
Simon & Schuster is spending $275,000 to promote The Expected One and is sending the author on a cross-country tour beginning Aug. 3 in Los Angeles.
Trish Todd, editor in chief at Touchstone, a division of Simon & Schuster . . . says she has no problem believing McGowan's claim that she descends from a marriage between Jesus and Mary Magdalene. "Yes, I believe her. Her passion and her mission are so strong, how can she not be?"
The Expected One is the story of Maureen Paschal, a woman who begins to have visions of Mary Magdalene, discovers she is a descendant of Mary and Jesus and undergoes a dramatic search for a gospel written by Mary that is hidden in southwestern France. In a parallel plot, McGowan tells what she says is the actual story of the marriage and children of Jesus and Mary Magdalene.
The title of the book, she explains, is taken from an ancient prophecy that tells of a woman chosen by divine providence to bring the real story of Mary Magdalene's life to the world.
McGowan calls this a novel but says it mirrors her own life. Maureen's visions, she says, are "verbatim" accounts of her own visions of Mary Magdalene. "Maureen is a fictional character," she says, "but there is a lot of me in Maureen. I know it will be hard for people to accept this, but it's true."
Though McGowan says she is descended from Jesus and Mary Magdalene, she won't say whether she, like the fictional Maureen, is "The Expected One."
"I'm not grandiose about this, and it concerns me a lot that I could be portrayed that way," McGowan says. "I don't want it to appear that I'm standing up and saying I'm the expected one. That's a dangerous, ego-driven kind of thing."
So far, McGowan is offering only her word about her lineage and only hints at her proof. In addition to the visions, she says, she has discovered that her family is related to an ancient French lineage that traces its roots to Jesus and Mary Magdalene's descendants. Legend holds that Mary Magdalene settled in France after Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection. "That's all I'm prepared to say right now," McGowan says. Some members of her family, she explains, want her to respect their privacy and not discuss it.
Despite the lack of hard evidence, McGowan's supporters include her literary agent Larry Kirshbaum, who left his position as CEO of Time Warner Books in December to start his own literary agency. McGowan was one of his first clients and he helped her get a seven-figure, three-book deal with Simon & Schuster. (Her next two books pick up where The Expected One leaves off.)
And USA Today has proven itself perfectly willing to prostitute itself in order to promote this trash, giving the subject voluminous amounts of space meant to promote the book, including an excerpt of the novel itself.
Here we go again, folks!
Incidentally, McGowan gets further into her novel than Dan Brown did before she makes a literary blunder. The very first word of the first sentence of The Da Vinci Code was a dud. McGowan made it through at least six words before her first sentence started to go off the tracks.
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July 14, 2006
Also Coming Soon To An iPod Near Me
(Jimmy Akin)
Last week I did sometihng I haven't done in around 20 years--I went to an actual science fiction convention. (More on that later.)
Scott of SFFAudio reminded me of something that I learned at the convention: There is a publishing house that offers ordinary HTML texts of many of the books it sci-fi books it publishes for download--either free or, in some cases, for a subscription fee.
The publisher is Baen, and it's part of an interesting marketing philosophy that they're trying out (i.e., letting people read some for free will prime their appetite to also purchase material, so you'll end up making money).
Ordinary HTML files are great for me (as opposed to the formats many eBooks are published in) because I can easily turn them into audio books using my TextAloud program.
So I'm definitely going to be visiting their site.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (6)
Coming Soon To An iPod Near Me
(Jimmy Akin)
A reader writes:
Hello, Mr. Akin -
My name is Scott, and I just noticed on your most recent post that you use your iPod for audiobooks. Though I'm sure you listen to a wide variety of stuff, I know you have an interest in science fiction, so I'd like to point you to my site, SFFaudio, which features news, reviews, and commentary on the world of science fiction and fantasy audio.
I'm Catholic, and enjoy your site very much. My co-editor/website partner is not a religious believer.
SFFaudio can be found at www.sffaudio.com. I hope it's of use to you.
God bless, fellow audiobook fan,
Scott
PS - I'm currently listening to "The Sparrow" by Mary Doria Russell from Brilliance. I'm about 1/8 of the way in... it's interesting that much of the science fiction that treats religion in a respectful way (rare enough, indeed) features a Jesuit. So far, the novel is quite good.
Cool!
Having a site that coordinates sci-fi, etc., audio is a great idea. I looked it over, and there's a lot of useful resources there.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (5)
July 11, 2006
In Search Of Ancient Astronauts?
(Jimmy Akin)
Y'know that Erich von Daniken book Chariots of the Gods that was such a phenomenon back in the 1970s, what with its claim that ancient astronauts visited the earth and left behind various ancient mysteries along with legends turning them into ancient deities?
Boy, that book is annoying.
I mean, I'm sorry, but Ezekiel just did not see a flying saucer.
And the Nazca lines are just not alien landing strips (though NASCAR race tracks might be).
Well, as annoying as his book are (and they've inspired even more annoying imitators, like Zecharia Sitchin--as well as cool things, like Stargate SG-1), von Daniken wasn't the first person to have the idea of deities "really" being aliens.
Others had that before him.
H.P. Lovecraft, for example.
And, it turns out,
THERE'S A DIRECT CHAIN LINKING LOVECRAFT'S WORKS WITH VON DANIKEN'S.
(CHT to the reader who e-mailed!)
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June 23, 2006
Sciencs Vs. Magic: Hawking Vs. Potter?
(Jimmy Akin)
The comments he made regarding John Paul II weren't the only things that Stephen Hawking had to say recently.
he stated a number of other interesting things, such as humans needing to start establishing offworld colonies that can function independently from earth if we want to survive long term.
That project might take awhile--longer than most of us will be around--but Hawking also mentioned a much shorter-term project he's involved in:
Hawking said he's teaming up with his daughter to write a children's book about the universe, aimed at the same age range as the Harry Potter books.
"It is a story for children, which explains the wonders of the universe," his daughter, Lucy, added.
They didn't provide other details.
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (3)
May 16, 2006
The JA.O Literary Club
(Jimmy Akin)
I just wanted to thank everyone who participated in the discussion of "Through and Through" for the JimmyAkin.Org Literary Club.
I also want to thank Tim Powers once again for granting permission for the story to be reprinted on the blog.
Though I labelled the meeting #1 in case I do it in the future, I wasn't sure about whether there would be future meetings, but after seeing the level of interest that was displayed in continuing the venture, I'll see what I can do about securing reprint rights to other stories that the group might be interested in.
These may not all have Catholic themes. I don't know that there are enough obtainable stories out there that are Catholic themed--certainly not as much so as "Through and Through." Some future offerings may simply be stories that I find entertaining or interesting. We'll have to see.
Also, as one perceptive person noted in the combox, I likely don't have time to deal with unsolicited manuscripts, so the stories that get considered will tend to be already-published things (some published long enough ago to be public domain) that I run across and think might be worthwhile for the group.
I also wouldn't want to commit to doing this "regularly," since that would put pressure on me to come up with stories on a particular schedule, and that pressure would tend to lower the quality of the stories offered for discussion. I'd rather keep the quality of the stories higher (according to my own, subjective determination) and have meetings on an irregular basis--just as pleasant surprises that show up as part of the mix.
So thanks once again to one and all for making the first meeting of the JA.OLC a success!
Posted by Jimmy Akin in Fiction | Permalink | Comments (4)
May 12, 2006
Through And Through
(Jimmy Akin)
[NOTE: A lot of folks in other countries see the site at unsual hours, and I didn't want this week's special event to get buried under other posts and be less visible over the weekend, so I moved the two relevant posts to the top. This should also make it easier for folks who want to participate but who couldn't read the story during work hours. For an explanation of what we're doing see here.--ja]
Through and Through
ALREADY when he walked in through the side door, there were new people sitting here and there, separately in the Saturday afternoon dimness. The air was cool, and smelled of floor-wax.
He almost peered at the shadowed faces, irrationally hoping one might be hers, come back these seven days later to try for a different result; but most of the faces were lowered, and of course she wouldn’t be here. Two days ago, maybe—today, and ever after, no.
The funeral would be next week sometime, probably Monday. No complications about burial in consecrated soil anymore, thank God . . . or thank human mercy.
His shoes knocked echoingly on the glossy linoleum as he walked across the nave, pausing to bow toward the altar. In the old days he would have genuflected, and it would have been spontaneous; in recenter years the bow had become perfunctory, dutiful—today it was a twitch of self-distaste.
There were fewer people than he had first thought, he noted as he walked past the side altar and started down the wall aisle toward the confessional door, passing under the high, wooden Stations of the Cross and the awkwardly lettered banners of the Renew Committee. Maybe only three, all women; and a couple of little girls.
They never wanted to line up against the wall—a discreet couple of yards away from the door—until he actually entered the church; and then if there were six or so of them they’d be frowning at each other as they got up out of the pews and belatedly formed the line. silently but obviously disagreeing about the order in which they’d originally entered the church.
Last week there had been five, counting her. And afterward he had walked back up to the front of the church and stepped up onto the altar level and gone into the sacristy to put on the vestments for 5:30 Mass. Had he been worrying about what she had said? What sins you shall retain, they are retained. Probably he had been worrying about it.
As he opened the confessional door now, he nodded to the old woman who was first in line. The others appeared to be trying to hide behind her—he could see only a drape of skirt and a couple of shoes behind her. He didn’t recognize the old woman.
He stepped into the little room and pulled the door closed behind him. They wouldn’t begin to come in until he turned on the red light over the door, and he needed a drink.
The little room was brighter than the interior of the church, lit by a pebbled glass window high in the wall at his back. He opened the closet and shook out his surplice, a white robe that he pulled over his head. Then he undraped from a hanger the stole, a strip of cloth like a long, double-wide necktie, purple silk on one side and white on the other; and he draped it over his head and down the front of his surplice, with the purple side showing. The audience demands the costume, he thought as he bent down to snag a bottle of Wild Turkey from behind an old pair of shoes.
A couple of little girls out there, he thought. Chinese-restaurant-style confessions, those will be, one from column A and two from column B: I quarreled with my brothers, I disobeyed my parents. They look to be a little young yet for impure thoughts.
He unscrewed the plastic cap and took a mouthful of the warm bourbon, letting the vapors fill his head before he swallowed. And for their penances I’ll tell them, Say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys.
No use in being imaginative. Once he had told a young boy, For your penance, I want you to tell your mother and father that you love them. Later he’d learned that the boy had found this flatly impossible—apparently in the boy’s family the declaration would have been taken as a symptom of insanity—and the boy had lived in silent fear of Hell for two weeks before his family had finally gone to Confession again, at which point the boy had taken the same old sins to another priest, one who would reliably give the conventional sort of penance.
Confession is good for the soul. I still believe that’s true, he thought. It can make life easier to bear, after all, letting in the fresh air, sharing your secrets with another. But not when it’s so tied in with the dread of Hell. That woman last week—
He took another sip of the bourbon to take the edge off the memory. And it hadn’t been his fault—how could he have known how strangled she was with scruples and legalisms? She didn’t need—hadn’t needed—a sympathetic human being to talk to; what would have served her best would have been an 800 number—If your sin has to do with the 6th Commandment, press 6 now.
In his early years as a priest, he had seemed to feel heavier after hearing confessions, especially the marathon sessions before Easter, as if some residue of the absolved sins clung to him; and he had whimsically speculated that clouds of evicted sins polluted the air afterward, interfering with TV reception and making cars hard to start. Now he just felt tired afterward, as if he had spent the afternoon helping a lot of people to get their checking accounts unscrambled.
The woman last week hadn’t wanted any help, not from him. She had sat her thin frame down in the chair across from his, awkwardly, tucking in her skirt and glancing around, clearly uneasy about the face-to-face style of Confession. She’d have been happier with the old booth arrangement, he thought, whispering through a screen so that priest and penitent saw each other only as dim silhouettes; though she had hardly looked more than thirty years old. He took one more mouthful of the liquor now, and then screwed the cap back on and put the bottle away.
She had made the sign of the cross and then started right in, exhaling as she spoke: “Bless me, Father, I have sinned.” Her voice was shaky. “My last Confession was . . . at least five years ago, before ’96. I’ve meant to come—it’s scary, though, a big speed bump to get over—last week I went to a wedding—” He noted that her left ring finger didn’t have a ring on it; “—and there were family people there, people I hadn’t seen since college. I took Communion. At the Mass.”
He had nodded, and when she didn’t go on he raised his eyebrows.
“I took Communion while in a state of mortal sin,” she said.
“The Eucharist provides forgiveness of sins,” he told her. He had preferred Eucharist to Communion ever since Whitley Strieber’s book about space aliens had taken the latter term as its title.
“Father,” she had said uncertainly, “not mortal sins. Which I’ll get to a lot of, here, I hope. If you’re not in a state of grace, Communion is like sugar to a diabetic—uh, damaging?” She spread her hands as if to catch a ball.
He had smiled at her, and he hoped now that his smile had not been patronizing. “God understands—” he began.
“But it’s God, literally coming into us, right?” she interrupted. “If there’s oily rags and newspapers around, you’ll catch fire from the heat of Him, your soul gets scorched, right?” She laughed nervously “And I’ve got a lot of oily rags in my soul. I don’t like the idea that I’ve . . .” She shook her head and closed her mouth.
“Sin,” he had said expansively. “What do we mean by it? Isn’t the only real sin cruelty, to others—or to yourself?”
For a moment neither of them spoke, and he hoped this wouldn’t take too long. How many more people were waiting out there? “I came a long way to get here,” she had said finally. “I didn’t really think I’d get this far. I don’t need to talk about ‘What’s sin?’ with some guy. I’ve done some terrible things, and right now I think I can say them out loud; I think. I want absolution.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m not going to absolve you for something that isn’t a sin.”
Her mouth was open in evident disbelief. “As a favor to me,” she said.
“No, it’s ridiculous.” He noticed her bony hands clutched together, and it occurred to him that she might be an addict—amphetamines, probably “Don’t trouble yourself over these—”
“‘What sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven,’” she said, her voice getting brittle, “I remember that part. And ‘What sins you shall retain, they are retained’ You’re telling me you’re retaining this one.” Her smile made her cheekbones prominent. “I bet you’d retain them all, if you heard them. I bet none of them are sins anymore . . . according to you.”
“I’m not retaining anything! So far I haven’t heard anything you’ve done wrong. Tell me—”
“No.” She had stood up. “This was a mistake.”
And she had walked out.
And on Thursday morning she had been found dead in a back pew of the church. Dead of an overdose of drugs—a speedball, he’d been told, cocaine and heroin. Her parents were long-time parishioners, and her funeral would be in this church. Luckily she had not left a note.
How long will it take, he wondered as he reached for the switch that would turn on the red light over the door outside, before people are ready to abandon the crude supernatural templates that obscure God’s love? When will they see that God is in all of us, and that what we most need is to forgive ourselves?
The knob turned, and the door swung inward and a little girl in blue jeans and a green sweater stepped in, Reeboks scuffing the carpet. She appeared to be about eight years old, with short-cropped dark hair.
He wondered if she had shoved in ahead of the old woman he’d seen at the front of the line. The girl’s face was narrow, with horizontal wrinkles in the lower eyelids already.
“Do sit down,” he told her.
He had forgotten to put a stick of Doublemint gum in his mouth, but she didn’t appear to notice any smell of liquor, and he’d remember to do it before the old woman came in.
She climbed into the chair, and her shoes didn’t touch the carpet.
“Bless me, Father,” she said, “I have sinned. My last Confession was too long ago to remember. These are my sins—I killed myself on Thursday” She looked at him mournfully. “I know that’s very bad.”
He was aware of cold air on his face—his forehead was suddenly dewed with sweat.
“That’s not funny,” he said, “a woman did—was found dead—”
“I want absolution,” the little girl said. “I want the sacrament. I came a long way to get here. I didn’t really think I’d get this far.”
Abruptly he remembered that the door to the confessional opened outward.
He turned to look at it—it was closed now, and its frame didn’t appear to have been tampered with any time lately—and when he turned back, it was a white-haired old woman who sat opposite him.
He jumped violently in his chair, inhaling in a whispered screech. High blood pressure made a ringing wail in his head, and his peripheral vision had narrowed to nearly nothing.
He blinked several times, and exhaled. “Who are you?” he asked in a rusty voice. His fingers were tingling, gripping the arms of his chair.
“And before that,” quavered the old woman, “I took Communion while in a state of mortal sin.” She had been looking down at her bony old hands, and now she looked up at him; and her eyes were empty holes in the wrinkled parchment of her face.
Through the holes he could see the fabric of the chair, bright in the afternoon light from the window at his back. She wasn’t even casting a shadow.
It’s a ghost, he told himself as he made himself breathe deeply. It’s the ghost of that woman who was here a week ago. Priests have seen ghosts before.
He flexed his legs under the surplice. He didn’t want to find that his legs had gone to sleep when he made a bolt for the door. He would say there’d been an electrical short, he smelled gas, felt faint, and if they found the Wild Turkey blame it on the Vietnamese priest.
But the old woman had reached out one papery hand as slow as drifting smoke, and now touched his knee; he shouldn’t even have been able to feel the touch, through the fabric of the surplice and his slacks, but the impact punched another shrill wheeze out of him, and numbed his whole leg. His heart beat several times very fast, then seemed to stop; and he began panting in relief when his pulse began beating regularly again, though it was still fast.
“And before that,” she said, in the same frail voice, “you took Communion in a state of mortal sin.”
He remembered a Tennyson line: The dead shall look me through and through. It was probably true—he had not been to another priest for Confession in . . . months . . . and he took Communion many times a week, at every Mass he said.
She might kill him if she touched him again. Would it be deliberate, did she mean to hurt him?
He was dizzy, and he became aware that he could feel the late afternoon light on his face—but he was sure he hadn’t turned his chair around in the spasm of her touching him. He blinked, but he couldn’t see anything except a gray fog. Quickly he darted a hand to his right eye, and his dry fingers found only a hole in a numb, crackling surface.
“Bless me, Father,” came his own voice from a few feet away, “I have sinned. My last Confession was a thousand years ago. I want absolution.”
He jumped with all his will, but not physically—and then his hands were gripping the arms of his own chair, and the window was at his back and he could see again, and it was the little girl in the chair across from him now.
“Don’t—do that again,” he whispered. His heart was hammering again.
“I firmly resolve to sin no more,” the little girl said, “and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”
She can’t do anything deliberately, he thought. She can’t sin anymore, she’s dead. She might kill me, but with no more moral responsibility than a sick dog would have.
She was waiting.
His sister baptized dogs and cats—just a lick of spit on a fingertip to make a cross on the furry forehead, a whispered I baptize thee . . . Why couldn’t he just say the words here, give this lost revenant what it wanted? Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis . . . but those were the old Latin phrases; these days it was I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
But this thing can’t have contrition, he thought, it can’t repent. Its living soul is with God—this is just a suffering cast-off shell.
But it is suffering, as dogs and cats do, and they don’t have souls either.
Why was she appearing as a girl and an old woman? Why was she so widely avoiding the appearance she’d had when she’d come to Confession last week, the appearance she’d had when she’d died? Was it too traumatic?
And suddenly, with something like the intimacy of sore muscles. he knew that he was responsible for the form she took; when she walked in, she had been an uncollapsed wave of possible appearances, all the appearances she’d ever had; it was his guilt that had collapsed all the percentages of possibilities down to this small ‘‘one.” A few moments ago he had even forced on her the appearance of an old woman, which was just a sheet of old skin because she would never actually live to that age.
Would a better priest, a better man, have seen the woman as she had appeared last week, when she’d been alive?
The world, before the first sentient man left the Garden of Eden and looked at it, had not yet been defined by attention—it had been a spectrum of worlds-in-potential that had not included humanity, an infinity of possible prehuman histories; but by the time Adam stepped out and turned his attention on it, he had sinned mortally, and so the history that came to the fore as the actual one was a history of undeserved suffering and death. When Adam’s foot touched the soil, when his eyes took in the landscape, it stopped being many potentials and became one actual: a landscape that had been a savage killing-ground for millennia.
Light turns out to be particles if you measure for particles, he thought, waves if you measure for waves. Adam had helplessly measured for misery. What sort of world would a sinless first man have found pre-existent out there? Animals that had never starved, cats that had never killed?
I’ve measured for . . . evasion, he thought. Even last week, here.
“Ego te—” he began; then halted.
She might kill him if she touched him again. And where would he be then? A moment ago he had told himself that her soul was now with God—but what if it weren’t? What if it were still sentient, but somewhere else?
What if Purgatory and Hell are real? It had been a long time since he had entertained any such notions; in fact it had been a long time since he’d believed in the existence of any sort of actual Heaven.
But this dead penitent sitting in front of him made all sorts of horrible ideas possible. Did he want to die right after using his priestly powers—thou art a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek—to perform the mockery of a sacrament? He had started to do it—Ego te . . .
And I’m not in a state of grace anyway, he thought, if all these damned legalisms actually apply, if all the awful old supernatural stories are true!
He wasn’t aware of being scared, but he was shivering in the warm room, and his hands were tingling.
I’d probably go to—everlasting punishment!—and a snakeskin half-wit piece of me would join her in her lost ghosthood, to be another specter forever haunting confessionals, looking for impossible absolution. Visible, perhaps, only to other doomed priests.
“Can you have a firm purpose of amendment?” he asked her unhappily. “Can you . . . mend your ways, go and sin no more?”
The little girl held out her hand; not threateningly, but he flinched back from the offered touch.
“I came for the sacrament,” she said.
He was suddenly sure that there was no one waiting outside the door—the others he had seen had only been her, fragmented as if in a kaleidoscope, and this conversation was taking place in some corner outside of normal time. If he were to open the door, pull it open. he’d see beyond the door frame only the gray fog he had seen when he had been in the shell of the old woman.
“There’s nobody else,” she said. “Nobody else talks to me but you. Hollowed be thy name.”
The dead shall look me through and through.
“Give me the sacrament,” she said. “Deliver us from evil.” Or to it, he thought.
Her hand came up again, but hovered between them as if undecided between touching him and making the sign of the cross. “Okay,” he said.
The hand wavered sketchily in the air, and then subsided into her lap.
God help me, he thought. If I’m not dead already myself, and beyond all help.
He stood up slowly, his head bobbing; and the little girl just watched him solemnly. He stepped to the closet and slid from a high shelf one of his sick-call kits, a six-inch black leather box with hinges and a latch.
He returned to his chair and sat down, and he opened the box on his lap. Inside, tucked into fitted depressions in red velvet, were a silver crucifix, a silver holy-water sprinkler, a round silver box that held no consecrated hosts at the moment, a spare folded stole . . . and a little silver jar of oil.
It was olive oil, and it would probably be rancid by this time, but he recalled that the oil in this kit was real Oleum Infirmorum, blessed by the bishop.
In recent years he had come to the conclusion that the oil had no efficacy on its own—whether it was olive oil or motor oil, blessed or not—and was simply a comfort to sick people with heads full of Biblical imagery; but now he was cautiously glad this was precisely the prescribed kind.
“I’ve got a lot of oily rags in my soul already,” the little girl said. She was frowning and shifting on the chair.
She looks me through and through, he thought. “I’m going to give you the sacrament,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady.
He unscrewed the lid of the little silver jar, and leaned over it. “God of mercy,” he said, “ease the suffering and comfort the weakness of your servant—u