Art Study: Morphing Icons

Orthodox icons of Mary and the infant Christ morphed together. I don't know that it has any real value other than just looking kind of neat and pretty, but oh, well. That's good enough for me to add it to the blog.

One error in here: the icon at 00:44 is Anna (Mary's mother) with the infant Mary, but other than that they're all Mary and Christ.

Poetry Study: Massachusetts on the Mind

From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere"

...So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Read the full poem here.

Book Review: The Last Queen, by C.W. Gortner

I should have known better with this one, but I still let myself get carried away by a pretty cover and an enthusiastic summary in the dust jacket.

Before launching into my comments, I need to add the disclaimer that I didn't actually read the book closely. In fact, I got 70 pages into it before skimming quickly through the rest and then tossing it away in disgust. Part of the problem is the genre. I like the idea of historical fiction, but I seldom appreciate the result, because I get too caught up in historical inaccuracies. For his part, the author admits that he does take historical license, and this is fair enough. (How else to tell a fictional story about a historical person?) But there are some historical problems here that undermined my ability to get into the story.

More importantly, though, the writing is just plain poor. Even if I could have gotten past the historical problems, I don't think I could have ignored the writing. By about page 3 of the book, I started thinking that the writing was leaving something to be desired, and by page 10 I realized that I had read fan fiction of better quality. The characters are flat and extremely trite, and the concept of the story is highly simplistic. Let me back up quickly and explain who the story is about. The title The Last Queen refers to Juana of Castile, who was the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella and whom history has remembered as "Juana La Loca," or Juana the Mad. In the dust jacket summary, you can read the following about the book: "In his stunning new novel, C.W. Gortner challenges the myths about Queen Juana, unraveling the mystery surrounding her to reveal a brave, determined woman we can only now begin to fully understand." (On an entirely separate note, I'm irritated about the use of that grotesque word "stunning" to describe a book, not to mention the split infinitive.) The disconnect between this summary and the story itself could not be larger. Gortner's approach to setting Juana apart is something like this: while all of Ferdinand and Isabella's other children followed blindly the path laid before them, Juana decided to object to the traditional way and forge her own path. Really? That's it? Like that hasn't been done before? Like that isn't the only way that writers of historical fiction seem to set female characters apart? *Sigh* *Yawn* *Ugh*

And so the story proceeds. Juana is the new!revolutionary!interesting!anti-medieval! woman who accepts her fate for the good of Spain and faces the oh-so-evil adversaries who would refuse her allow her on the throne that she deserves. At least, that's what Gortner seems to project here. In reality, history indicates clearly that Juana was highly unstable -- to the point that her mental instability was recognized in her youth as likely inherited from her grandmother. She is remembered for an obsessive and extremely possessive love for her husband. And she ultimately she earned herself the title "Juana La Loca," after her husband left her alone for a while, and she spent a day and a half standing outside in the snow screaming for him. Girlfriend clearly needed some Prozac. The fact that the her family deemed her too unstable to rule Spain might just be a mark of wisdom on their part and not a failure to understand her needs.

Juana's questionable mental state raises one final problem in this book: point of view. Why on earth Gortner chose to tell the story from the first person remains a mystery to me. If you are a writer and you want to present a character as wrongly mislabeled in history and show that character in a sympathetic light, point of view is going to be a big part of it. When that character is recorded as having potentially severe mental instability, the first person probably isn't the best approach. Why not tell the story from the perspective of one of Juana's ladies-in-waiting? Or one of her sisters? Or just someone else who knew her well? But a first-person narrative from someone who might have been mad is hugely problematic, unless the writer is Faulkner and the story is The Sound and the Fury.

Anyway, you can probably tell that I won't be recommending this book. If you enjoy historical fiction, I would encourage you to find a better story, because this one doesn't do any justice to the person, the time period, or the events that occurred. I would truly appreciate a good account of Juana of Castile. This isn't it.

***As a quick note, yes, I've admitted that I didn't read the book closely. Yes, that might make my review somewhat unfair. If you feel this way, please don't bother to point it out in the comments.

Year of publication: 2006
Number of pages: 368

Book Review: The Portrait, by Iain Pears

Intriguing. Mesmerizing. Haunting. And more than slightly bizarre. These are all the descriptions that came to my mind as I (finally) finished reading The Portrait. For those familiar with Iain Pears and his works, this might be one of the more unusual stories that he has written, so don't expect anything like An Instance of the Fingerpost (which is already pretty unusual) or the "art history mysteries" by Pears. Nevertheless, this particular novella is true to the style of writing that Pears has cultivated, and as such is a great choice for those who enjoy his works.

Set on the tiny island of Houat, just off the coast of Brittany, The Portrait is largely one long monologue that artist Henry Morris MacAlpine gives as he paints a portrait of his one-time friend, fellow artist, and art critic William Nasmyth. To put it another way, the entire story is Henry's conversation with William, but without William's response: it's just Henry talking to his friend and commenting on their lives. But it's not an entirely friendly conversation. Henry more or less holds William captive as the latter sits for his portrait and requires that his subject listen to him. The chat starts out friendly enough, but it becomes gradually more ominous as the reader learns just what Henry thinks of William. From the beginning, there is an undercurrent of danger in Henry's words, but it develops in motive as the story proceeds.

The reader learns that Henry left London to live in Houat a few years ago, and the reader eventually learns why. The reader discovers that William is a somewhat brutal critic who has ruined the lives of several artists and might even be guilty of serious crimes. The reader comes to realize that Henry truly despises William and believes William to represent everything that is wrong with art. As these elements are revealed, it might be tempting to assume the worst of William. Of course, the reader also has to step back and remember that this is essentially a first-person narrative. Henry's position has no substantial foundation, other than his explanation for what he believes about his friend and why. Readers don't even get William's response, except for the comments that Henry makes, things like: "I see you trying to protest over there. Does that make you uncomfortable? I thought it would." Interesting, but also very arbitrary. By the end of the story, Henry has ultimately condemned his friend and sentenced him, but without any serious evidence for his accusations. And yet, that's what makes this story so fascinating. It almost works. It's almost possible to believe that Henry is right -- until you realize that it's his view and his alone that is provided here.

I did a little searching after I read this book, and I found a comment from a reviewer on Amazon describing it as having similarities to Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado." A lightbulb went on in my head. That's exactly what this story is like, although in all fairness Poe did it much better. But Pears does a pretty good job. For my part, I have to admit that by the end of the story I found myself more inclined to side with William Nasmyth, only because Henry Morris MacAlpine and his whiny, self-effacing tone were getting on my nerves. Even if Henry was right about what William had done, Henry was still irritating and lost major sympathy points with me. There's nothing worse than a sniveling coward, and frankly that's how Henry came across by the time the story was over. At the same time, I can't help but wonder if that how he's supposed to come across. I don't think Pears actually expects readers to be hugely in support of either man by the end; I think the sins of both are revealed, and the reader is left to sort through two lifetimes full of deceit and corruption. As for what happens in the last few lines of the story (and in the moments just after), I think it's intended to remain a mystery, but I doubt very seriously that either man is heading back to London any time soon.

This is by no means the best or most interesting story that Pears has written, and if you're new to his works I definitely recommend An Instance of the Fingerpost or one of the art history stories. (The Raphael Affair and The Bernini Bust are among my favorites.) But if you want to try something that's very different, if occasionally mind-numbing in its monotony, The Portrait is worth a quiet afternoon.

Year of publication: 2006
Number of pages: 224

Poetry Study: The Eternal Note of Sadness

"Dover Beach"

by: Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To he before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

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For my part, lines 9-14 are among the most beautiful in all of poetry.

For something highly sacrilegious, here's a link to "The Dover Bitch," a play on "Dover Beach," by poet Anthony Hecht.

Text of poem taken from Poetry Eserver.

Book Review: Uncle Silas, by Sheridan Le Fanu

My first introduction to Sheridan Le Fanu actually came from Dorothy L. Sayers. In one of her Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries (the exact one escapes me now), the character Harriet Vane mentions that she'd like to do an extensive study of Le Fanu. The author's name stuck with me, even if I didn't run right out and locate a copy of one of his books. But browsing through our local used bookshop recently, I stumbled across Uncle Silas and decided it was time to try Le Fanu on for size.

Does the cover image I've included look a bit creepy? Well, it's nothing compared to this book, which has to be one of the original psychological thrillers. Add to that a Victorian/Gothic atmosphere, and you have the makings of something that is bound to keep you on the edge of your seat. Or just provide a great time, depending on how you view Gothic novels.

The story is narrated by Maud Ruthyn, a seventeen-year old girl who lives with her widowed father in their home of Knowl, a spacious manor home located in a lonely county in England. Maud's father, who married and started a family late in life, is decidedly reclusive. Adding to his oddity, he has become a devotee of Emanuel Swedenborg and has allowed the Swedenborgian belief system to guide him extensively. Nevertheless, he remains a kind if somewhat strange man, and Maud is devoted to him.

Maud learns of her Uncle Silas at a young age but also discovers that Silas has something of a bad name due to questionable involvements in his early life. Where Maud's father is the upright and honorable gentleman, Silas seems to be the unlucky rake who can never get ahead (despite his best attempts). That being said, Austin Ruthyn holds his brother in high regard, and when he dies about mid-way into the story his will contains a strange codicil. Maud's father leaves her nothing less than a massive fortune, and that money remains in the care of trustees until she comes of age. Maud's person, however, is committed to the care of her uncle at his even lonelier estate of Bartram-Haugh.

For her part, Maud is convinced that her uncle was maligned and is delighted with the decision, as it will give her a chance to meet the rest of her father's family. The trustees, however, as a bit concerned. Leading up this objection is Maud's distant cousin Monica who has always held Silas in low opinion. She points out, quite frankly, to Maud that Silas is now Maud's own heir. Should Maud die before she comes of age (21), Silas will inherit everything. Given the whispers of his poor character, the trustees cannot help but be concerned that Silas might have less than the best plans for his niece. Maud objects angrily, and she is seconded by a letter from her uncle who -- in the sneakiest way possible -- manages to demand his rights and undermine the authority of the trustees while also playing the devoted uncle and a martyr of poor public opinion.

Another element of the story that should be raised here is Maud's one-time governess Madame de la Rougierre. The woman can only be described as utterly grotesque. Austin Ruthyn hires her shortly before his death as a "finishing governess" for Maud, and everyone but Austin seems to be completely mystified about what the woman's qualifications are. But she's a manipulative woman, and she manages to get Austin on her side, until Maud tells her father that she caught Madame snooping through his papers. Madame is dismissed, and Maud is convinced that she has earned herself a serious enemy.

Moving back to the main plot, Maud arrives at Bartram-Haugh, and for a time everything seems fine, if a bit sparse. She makes friends with her cousin Millicent, and the two spend much time exploring the local area. While there are a few shady characters about, Maud doesn't let them bother her, and she becomes increasingly convinced that her Uncle Silas was just badly treated. Until her cousin Dudley shows up. Silas's son is the very image of a brutish, boorish, thoroughly stupid young man who has nothing of his family's aristocratic honor about him. And then he has the impertinence to propose to Maud who turns him down flat. Expecting her uncle to back her up and send his son away, Maud is horrified to find Silas encouraging the match.

When Maud refuses, Silas does send Dudley away, but his attitude toward Maud changes from there. She begins to notice that things are different: Millicent is sent to school in France, the gates on the property are locked so that she can no longer walk outside the house, and Silas becomes more and more hostile (though still strangely obsequious). At last, Maud begins to fear for her safety and writes a letter to her cousin Monica, but Silas intercepts the letter, and from that point Maud realizes that her life truly is in danger. What follows is an eerie series of events that escalate in horror (and inevitably include Madame de la Rougierre) and result in what was for me an unexpected climax.

Looking back now, I've just realized how long this review is, but goodness knows there's no way to explain this story in a simple way other than "heiress is threatened for her fortune." But that's overly simplistic and fails to take into account Le Fanu's real skill with creating characters and weaving a mystery. Granted, Maud got on my nerves at times. This is a Victorian novel, and there's a boatload of weeping and fainting. Her stupid refusal to believe everyone's concern about Silas was also a little irritating. I could see what was going on from a mile away, but she insisted that her uncle was misunderstood. But perhaps this was the lesson of the story: she grows up and learns a few things about the people that she can trust. And her obnoxious qualities aside, I found myself liking Maud. For all her immaturity, she is well-meaning and completely gracious to everyone. And she makes a great narrator, so that helps!

I do recommend Uncle Silas for anyone who wants a good mystery. It's definitely of its era, and yet Le Fanu's writing is good enough to transcend period and reach out to readers today. Give yourself some time, since the book is long, but it's worth finishing if you have the chance to start it.

Date of publication: 1864
Number of pages: 433

Music: John Ireland, Piano

Piano music of John Ireland.

Equinox - 2'22"
The Towing-Path - 3'40"
Summer Evening - 4'15"

(Performed by: Eric Parkin.)

Saint Calendar: Gregory of Nyssa

January 10

Gregory of Nyssa (225-295)

Love is the foremost of all excellent achievements and the first of the commandments of the Law…the life of God consists in the eternal practice of love; and this life is wholly beautiful, possessed of a loving disposition toward beauty and never receiving any check in the practice of love. And because beauty is boundless, love shall never cease. (On the Soul and the Resurrection).

This Holy Father came from an illustrious and holy Cappadocian family that included his sister, St. Macrina, and his brother, St. Basil.

After an early experience of desert monasticism, he was consecrated bishop of Nyssa by his brother. Active in the Second Ecumenical Council (381) against the Arians, St. Gregory of Nyssa spent the last decade of his life exercising vigorous church leadership.

Like Blessed Augustine of Hippo (see below), St. Gregory was a prolific writer; but, also like Blessed Augustine, he was sometimes subject to mistakes, notably in his erroneous teaching concerning "universal salvation." This, however, did not prevent him from being accepted as a father and teacher of the Orthodox Church. Among his dogmatic works are The Great Catechism and The Making of Man. In these and his other works, as one commentator writes, "his mind hovers over immense fields of vision" (Robert Payne, The Holy Fire), making his Orthodox writings simply magnificent and filled with insight, as in the following brief passage:

"You are pleased because you are handsome, because your hands move quickly, because your feet are nimble, because your curls are tossed by the wind and your cheeks show a downy beard....You look at such things, but you do not look at yourself. Let me show you as in a mirror your true image.

"Have you ever witnessed the mysteries of the cemetery? Have you seen the heaps of bones tossed hither and thither? Skulls without flesh on them, fearful and ugly, the sockets empty. The grinning jaws and the limbs strewn about. Look at these things: there you will find yourself. Where, then, is the flower of youth?... Where, in all these bones, are the things that make you proud?" (On the Beatitudes, I)

Even in these images of death, one cannot help but sense St. Gregory's exuberant delight inhumanity and the nobility of man--that crown of God's creation which He formed, not from any necessity, but "in the superabundance of love."

"For needful it was that neither His light Should be unseen, nor His glory without witness, nor His goodness unenjoyed, nor that any other quality observed in the Divine nature should in any case lie idle, with none to share it or enjoy it. If, therefore, man comes to his birth upon these conditions, namely to be a partaker of the good things in God, necessarily he is framed of such a kind as to be adapted to the participation of such good. For as the eye, by virtue of the bright ray which is by nature wrapped up in it, is in fellowship with the light, and by its innate capacity draws to itself that which is akin to it, so was it needful that a certain affinity with the Divine should be mingled with the nature of man, in order that by means of this correspondence it might aim at that which was native to it .... In truth this has been shown in the comprehensive utterance of one expression, in the description of the cosmogony, where it is said that man was made in the image of God." (The Great Catechism, V)

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Taken from Orthodox America.