If you’ve not been following along, you really ought to start at Part 1 and catch up. It won’t take long, and we’ll wait until you’ve finished.

All done? Excellent. On to Part 6 of The Legend of Intaglio…

When we last left our hero, Intaglio the walking, talking, writing puppet, he was fleeing the evil Coachman, the true ruler of Total Freedom Island, who had made himself filthy rich by exploiting naïve young writers and turning them into wombats when he was through with them. There was, once upon a time, a thriving and lucrative market along the Mediterranean rim for both bad fiction and exotic wildlife. Who knew?

Anyhow, Intaglio had just taken a backward glance, only to see a large net wielded by a large lunatic coming down on him.

————————

“Now I have you!”

As the net descended, Intaglio lost his balance, stumbled, and fell. The net whistled past, a scant inch beyond his head, and clattered onto the cobblestones.

The Coachman, burdened with about fifty excess pounds, a surfeit of kinetic energy, and a villain’s characteristic disregard for laws of any sort, including the laws of physics, couldn’t check his momentum and went hurtling over Intaglio. The stone wall bordering the plaza brought him to an abrupt halt, depriving him of both consciousness and five teeth, including the gold one.

Intaglio struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the harbor as quickly as he could manage. He considered turning back to release the caged wombats, but decided it was best to keep moving. There was no telling how long the Coachman would stay down, and the wombats would remain wombats, caged or not. There was nothing he could do for them now.

What about Marge? No, the cricket as much as said she’d made it to the harbor. His best chance of finding her was to go there.  Perhaps she hadn’t left yet.

Though the ever-present mist hung low over the waterfront, Intaglio could see more of his surroundings now as dawn approached. The ferryman and his long black boat weren’t parked at the end of the dock, but neither was there any sign of Marge or her raft. A smattering of flotsam knocked rhythmically against the pilings, driftwood and broken boards, nothing substantial enough to support a swimmer. Fortunately, Intaglio was eminently buoyant, though he expected immersion in saltwater for the amount of time it would take to paddle across the strait to the mainland would only worsen the warping of his limbs and joints.

What was happening to him? The Writing Fairy’s words echoed between his ears: “I have filled your little oaken head with stories, but you must tell them truly, or you will never become anything more than a multijointed talking doll.” It all made sense now. He had betrayed the Fairy’s trust, and this was his punishment. The Coachman was right. The spark of life within him was fading, and he was slowly turning back into an inanimate object.

He could hear a commotion from the direction of town, sounds of bellowing and squealing. The Coachman was awake and in pursuit.  There was nothing for it now but to leap into the ocean and hope for the best. He threw himself from the end of the dock and began to windmill his arms and legs, though the movement was slow, awkward, and painful. To his surprise, he made decent progress. The harbor was reasonably calm, and it seemed the tide was going out. Then he noticed an odd sound.

Clack, clack, clack…

There was something in the water ahead, but the fog obscured it. It was enormous, and the clacking sound was like huge mandibles snapping at the air.

The cricket had said something about a monster guarding the harbor, Intaglio remembered, too late.

There was no place to hide, and he couldn’t outswim whatever it was with the tide working against him. All he could do was tread water and hope it would pass by without seeing him.

Clack, clack, clack…

The shadow grew larger, blacker than night, more impenetrable than the fog, filling Intaglio’s vision until there was nothing but a giant, jagged void that lifted up into the air and plunged down to engulf him, pulling him down, down, down into a maelstrom of darkness.

——————-

Next week, the conclusion of The Legend of Intaglio.

I promise.

No, really, I mean it this time.

Last week someone on an email loop to which I subscribe put through a request for suggested book titles for her sixteen-year-old son. Because the boy’s interests include speculative fiction, one member of the loop recommended the Spec Faith library! Yea!! To be honest, this is one of the main reasons we’re compiling the list of books. We want readers who love the genre to discover novels written from a Christian worldview.

As I thought about this mom’s request, though, I was mindful of the fact that picking from the extensive list of books might still be hard. How does someone actually go about selecting books or recommending them or approving them for a child?

Recommending and approving, of course, can be taken care of if a person has first read the books themselves. That’s not possible at all times, however, and doesn’t come into play when trying to pick a book to read for him- or herself.

Once, certain publishers were considered “safe.” For example, several years ago when I would donate books I’d read to my church library, our former librarian would often ask who published them. Certain publishing houses were an automatic “yes.”

But things are changing, even for traditional Christian publishers. One such change is a swing toward “Christian worldview fiction” and the depiction of the dark things in the world as well as the light. Another is the emergence of a host of independent publishers along with an upsurge of self-published titles.

Some people have suggested rating systems to help readers navigate through the maze of available titles. One bookstore chain even tried such a thing for a short time, adding a “Read with Discernment” label to some of the titles they put on their shelves (see “To Label or Not to Label” at my own site for my reaction to this experiment).

That move proved to be controversial. Among other things, the bookstore chain was accused of being greedy–trying to placate their conservative core readership while selling books to a broader audience. I can’t speak to those accusations because I simply don’t know what motivated them to try such a thing or to quickly abandon it.

What I did then and do now believe about rating systems is that they deliver the job of discernment into the hands of someone removed from the consumer.

Movie ratings are often used as an example of what works when it comes to a quick and easy assessment of stories. However, I doubt seriously if any person Hollywood charges to rate a movie does so based on a Christian worldview. Instead, the focus is on external things–how much bad language, sex, or violence is in the movie. The amount of those things is then assigned to certain age groups–kids should be protected from it all, so G; teens should be protected from sex but not sexual innuendo and from graphic violence, so PG; and so forth.

Do Christian ratings do any better? One popular site, Plugged In (a part of Focus on the Family) reviewed the Pixar movie Brave based on Sexual Content, Violent Content, Crude and Profane Language, Drug and Alcohol Content, Other Negative Elements, and, yes, Spiritual Content.

In this latter section, the reviewer camps primarily on the use of magic with a mention of references to “destiny” or “fate.”

Where, I wonder, is the analysis of the movie from the position of what the Bible says about the theme elements? Does it depict women and relationships in a Biblical way? Aren’t those the important questions?

So here’s what I’m thinking. Any review or rating system is flawed. It is imperfect and incomplete because the reviewer is human and brings his or her own beliefs to the party.

I can read the Plugged In review, then, and clearly see that I haven’t been given enough information to know whether Brave is complementary to a Christian worldview or not. So what if there is no bad language or some implied drinking? Those things or lack thereof do not a Christian make.

So what if a couple of (cartoon) kids are shown running around (from behind) in their birthday suits and doing stunts and pranks that exasperate the adults who rarely reprimand them? Is a work “Christian” if it shows good parenting? Or perfectly behaving kids?

Some parents who want to impress upon their children some particular point, such as not doing silly, careless pranks (the kind that could lead to hazing) might want to know that a particular movie shows the very thing they are dealing with.

But should parents rely on the word of this reviewer to know without question that this movie, or any movie, is acceptable or not? I say, no. Reviews help a reader or movie-goer know the direction of the story, but they are starting places, and ought not be conclusions.

Rather, a parent’s job is to provide guidance. We seem to forget that the PG and PG-13 ratings mean precisely that. Parents should evaluate and discuss and guide, not assume, based on someone else’s rating.

So too with reviews here at the Spec Faith library. No reviewer is perfect or has the same life experience as all other readers. Consequently there are no perfect reviews–merely opinions by other readers. Some might prove reliable and insightful, others, not so much.

Readers, like movie-goers, learn to trust the reviewers who are more nearly like-minded. In this day of Amazon reviews, we also learn to trust either the majority of reviewers who concur, or the dissenting voices who give reasoned opinions that square with our own thinking.

In either case, reviews seem to rule the day (and the more, the better, I say). I consider them to be superior to ratings and less likely to create a new gatekeeper (the previous one being traditional publishing houses and/or bookstores). But nothing should replace good old fashion discernment on our part. After all, we will be the ones God holds accountable for our thoughts and attitudes, not any ratings maker.

A couple of weeks ago, something reminded me (I don’t recall what) of the movie Dead Poets Society. I could not stop thinking about the movie, and finally checked it out from the library. It had been years since I watched it, long before I started writing. Now, as a writer, I found even more meaning in the story.

Also, I suppose, being older, having kids, and many other life experiences have all combined and changed the things that stood out to me in that movie. One small scene in particular popped out this time. Keating had his students do an exercise to teach them about the dangers of conformity. The headmaster, Mr. Nolan, saw the exercise and asked Keating about it—or more correctly, reprimanded him.

Keating responds by saying, “I always thought the purpose of education was to learn to think for yourself.”

Nolan says, “At these boys’ age? Not on your life. Tradition, John. Discipline.”

As the movie watchers, we are expected to scoff at that. I’m sure I did when watching years ago. We’re on Keating’s side, right? The whole movie is about nonconformity, after all, not just the one exercise he asks of his class.

Isn’t it?

I found it interesting that very close to this scene is a clip where a rowing crew cruises by. Something I can’t write off as unintentional. Sculling is a sport that requires complete conformity. Every crew member moves exactly the same—must move exactly the same. What would happen if one of the members decided to row at a different rhythm? There are times where conformity is the only way.

The message of the movie is centered around not conforming. And here I say the contradictory message of necessary conformity is sent simultaneously. How can that be?

Simple. Both are true.

(On a side note–Is agreeing that we should not conform in its own way a form of conformity?)

Anyway, my point actually has nothing to do with conformity. My point is that two opposing ideas can be, and are quite often, true simultaneously.

Fiction is the perfect place to illustrate that, as I’ve shown you in the example from Dead Poets Society. Not every story contains a single message, and many times the messages within a story can contradict each other—or at least seem to.

Another example that comes to mind is Jurassic Park, in which the main message is clearly that scientists shouldn’t muck around in what they don’t understand. That playing God, or at least Mother Nature, isn’t meant for us. Bring back dinosaurs when you don’t know enough about them, they will eat you ;). But it’s also shown that the only way to truly learn about dinosaurs is to bring them back. Science, to be utilized fully, cannot be based on conjecture—it must be based on experience.

I recently took a writing class on Fluency in Story led by CathiLyn Dyck that focused a lot on theme, which is broad-spectrum compared to message. In the above examples, I pointed out multiple messages in each movie. However, those messages fall under a broader theme.

In Dead Poets Society, that theme is not specific to conformity or non-conformity, but, I believe, has to do with the idea that trouble brews when one tries to completely stamp out the other. In Jurassic Park, the message is nearly stated outright when Dr. Ian Malcolm says, “Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.” The theme is broader, more along the lines that the “could” and “should” are both necessary.

Stories like these make us think. They don’t just present a single, linear message. They allow bits of opposing ideas to struggle on-screen, or on-page, and make us grapple with our beliefs.

Christian fiction often, however, seems to miss the boat on this. Theme is something that runs through an entire novel, something that all the elements point to. Think of it as the roof of the story structure. But messages are support beams. If theme is replaced by a single message, you get a one-dimensional structure. Many Christian novels contain only message, mistakenly included as theme, and the result is that the story feels preachy.

Don’t get me wrong. I see nothing wrong with Christian books having messages, even strong ones. The problem is when a book wraps the entire story around that single message. Everything in the story points in one direction, and the reader finds themselves being told what to think.

The overriding messages in Dead Poets Society and Jurassic Park, and many other stories, come through plenty strong, but they never feel preachy because they are presented under the umbrella of theme. There is no wall blocking the story from all other options.

The importance of non-conformity is clear in Dead Poets Society without making all the conformists look like Nazis. We may think certain characters, like the Headmaster and Neil Perry’s overbearing father, take things too far, but they’re not presented as beasts. Both characters, at their hearts, have the best interest of the boys as their motivations. In Jurassic Park, scientific advancement is not portrayed as evil incarnate, nor is John Hammond—he is a loving grandfather who wants to build an amusement park, after all. And the dinosaurs, well, they just want to survive.

Christians shouldn’t be afraid of stories that hint at other ways of thinking. If the main message has merit (and we know it does) and it is presented properly, it will be seen clearly among the other opposing and/or complementary ideas.

Winter by Keven Newsome is a good example of this. It is the story of a Goth girl who is chosen by God to be a prophetess. His message is clear: God chooses the unexpected to do His work. But it falls under an over-arching theme: We can’t judge based on appearance. There is reference to the theme everywhere. Not just in how Winter is judged by other students and teachers because of her Goth appearance, but also how she judges them. Outward appearance vs. heart is something that shows up over and over.

But even though theme runs throughout, Keven doesn’t preach his message with every move. Other, more “expected” characters are also used for God’s plan—Winter isn’t always in the spotlight. And Keven uses the story to point out that not every unexpected person gets to do big things. As one character says, “We’re all freaks. It’s just a matter of perspective.” Winter is chosen as a prophetess because of and despite the fact that she’s a “freak.” But the opposing idea that being a freak doesn’t guarantee you’ll get chosen is also there.

Admittedly, none of this would have occurred to me years ago, the first time I saw Dead Poets Society. And maybe you don’t at all agree about my assessment of the messages and themes of the stories I mentioned. They are, after all, my own personal observations, but please take them in context.

What have you noticed about theme and message? Do you see them as different? Do you find a message easier to swallow when it’s not presented as the sole driving force behind a story? Or is one message enough to support a story?

At the risk of sounding like conspiratorial politicians, or Dan “Da Vinci Code” Brown, I have a theory about The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (LWW) that I’ve not previously heard.

It answers this question: why did C.S. Lewis write about four children coming into the magical land of Narnia? Why not two, or three, or even one, in order to write a simpler story with a more-focused cast of characters?

One answer is that the age range of the children, though it’s never quite specified, allows a child of any age to have a representative. Yet I now believe there’s more to it than that.

Each one represents a different way of reacting to a fantasy world or story such as Narnia.

Lucy — the good child, trusting, wise, who naturally accepts this magical land. She is like readers who accept and love Lewis’s creations and enjoy the world without question.

Edmund — the flawed child, suspicious, wanting to “grow up” wrongly, foolish, gullible. He could be like readers who fancy themselves above Narnia or other children’s stories.

Susan — the flawed near-adult, practical, kind, but (later) wanting to “grow up” wrongly. She could be like readers who appreciate Narnia, but mainly for practical, worldly reasons.

Peter — the good near-adult, a strong leader, who isn’t averse to being “childlike” (notice his maturity, yet eagerness to explore the old house in chapter 1). He is like adult readers who have been like Lucy, yet can now lead others into Narnia with maturity and joy. “There is a kind of happiness and wonder that makes you serious” (Lewis, from The Last Battle).

As you read the book, or perhaps listen to the audio drama version, does this theory match what you read? That’s one question of these few to ponder, based on chapters 5 and 6 of the story, as this LWW reading group — at my church and informally online — continues.

Chapter 5: Back on This Side of the Door

1. From the chapter title on, how do you feel about being “stuck” in this world, instead of going back into the wardrobe to discover something new in Narnia? I wonder if you now find this “real world” chapter very short, by contrast to how it seemed as a child when it seemed the children were stuck in the “real world” for a very long time!
2. And now we come to one of the nastiest things in this story. Up to that moment Edmund had been feeling sick, and sulky, and annoyed with Lucy for being right, but he hadn’t made up his mind what to do. When Peter suddenly asked him the question [“What’s this all about, Ed?”] he decided all at once to do the meanest and most spiteful thing he could think of. He decided to let Lucy down.(page 44)
   • Why does Lewis say, “And now we come to one of the nastiest things in this story”? Why give it away? Does he seem to warning us, or even apologizing in advance?
   • It’s easy to say Edmund was wrong in what he did and why he did it, because he was very wrong. But does it make sense? Can you identify with Edmund, especially at a time when you were wrong about something and didn’t want to admit it?
   • What about Peter’s response to Edmund? Based on this, is Peter right or wrong?
   • In any one part or scene of a story that honors God, is it possible to have two people who are both right and wrong in different ways, who are “good guys” but do wrong things? If that’s true, how do we as readers tell the difference?
3. 

   If the Professor (Jim Broadbent) from the 2005 Disney/Walden film had also had a bushy mustache, he would have been an exact replica of the book’s illustration by Pauline Baynes.

   “How do you know,” [the Professor] asked, “that your sister’s story is not true?” … [Susan] had never dreamed that a grown-up would talk like the Professor and didn’t know what to think. (pages 47-48)

   • How does the Professor’s response surprise Peter and Susan, and surprise us?
   • Without considering The Magician’s Nephew, why may the Professor think like this?
   • How do you feel when the Professor takes Lucy’s side and uses “logic” to prove it? By contrast, perhaps, how do you feel when he says “we might all try minding our own business” (page 51) and ends the conversation, not trying to investigate more?
4. “If there really is a door in this house that leads to some other world … if, I say, she had got into another world, I should not be at all surprised to find that the other world has a separate time of its own; so that however long you stayed there it would never take up any of our time.”(page 49)
   • Slight spoiler: oddly enough, we later find this to be true. What’s your view about the Narnian passage of time, which plays a key role in this story and the others?
5. “Logic!” said the Professor half to himself. “Why don’t they teach logic at these schools? There are only three possibilities. Either your sister is telling lies, or she is mad, or she is telling the truth. You know she doesn’t tell lies and it is obvious that she is not mad. For the moment then and unless any further evidence turns up, we must assume that she is telling the truth.”(page 48)
   • How often does this happen in real life — that someone trusted and not crazy tells an unbelievable story like this? Is such a situation only limited to stories?
   • For those familiar with Lewis’s nonfiction, might the Professor’s words be familiar?
   • From Mere Christianity, page 52: “A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”
   • Does this seem like a good argument about Jesus  being God? What are any possible flaws? (Hint: you might recall that the Professor said, “unless any further evidence turns up.”) What additions or changes to the argument could make it better?
6. And after that—whether it was that they lost their heads, or that Mrs. Macready was trying to catch them, or that some magic in the house had come to life and was chasing them into Narnia—they seemed to find themselves being followed everywhere …(page 53)
   • We have three explanations for this apparent craziness. Which do you think it was?
   • Can anyone really say for sure it was one reason over the other? Why does the author leave the question open and not explain it? Does he do this all the time?
   • Is it okay for some “magic” in a Christian story sometimes to be unexplained?

Chapter 6: Into the Forest

1. 

   I do believe the 2005 film (despite its flaws) perfectly portrayed all three transitions to Narnia.

   “Ugh!” said Susan, stamping her feet, “it’s pretty cold. What about putting on some of these coats? … I am sure nobody would mind … it isn’t as if we wanted to take them out of the house; we shan’t take them even out of the wardrobe.” … They immediately carried out Susan’s very sensible plan. (page 55)

   • Edmund and Lucy have already been in the wardrobe twice. Why did they not think of this? Might it show that some adult “sensibility” in a fantasy world is needed?
2. “So you really were here,” [Peter] said [to Edmund], “that time Lu said she’d met you in here—and you made out she was telling lies. … Well of all the poisonous little beasts—” said Peter, and shrugged his shoulders and said no more.(page 56)
   • Was Peter right to call Edmund on his sin? Was Edmund’s angry response right? Again, are both characters wrong in their own ways? How can we tell the difference?
3. (Original British version:) signed MAUGRIM, Captain of the Secret Police … (Lewis’s change for an American revision:) signed FENRIS ULF, Captain of the Secret Police … (page 58)
   
   • As with the children’s recitations of animals in chapter 1, why the difference here?
   • Lewis never wrote about the reasons for the name change. We can only guess that it was based on his love for Norse mythology, in which Fenrisúlfr is a big wolf creature.
4. (Peter speaking:) “… A robin, you know. They’re good birds in all the stories I’ve ever read. I’m sure a robin wouldn’t be on the wrong side.” (pages 61-62)
   • Peter, as the near-adult who enjoys exploration and is open to new worlds, has read plenty of stories and believes they contain truth about reality. Is he right?
   • Is Peter right about robins always being good? Does the author say so for sure?
   • Why do you think Edmund is skeptical about the robin’s goodness? Why does Peter listen, especially when he’s still angry at Edmund for his lies and treatment of Lucy?

So in this week’s (admittedly lengthy) video, I talk about different eschatological views.

Last time, before my hard drive crashed, we left our hero Intaglio, aspiring writer and magically-vivified marionette, unconscious in a grimy alley adjoining the town plaza on Total Freedom Island, where writers are free, free, free to write, write, write whatever they want, want, want and get paid, paid, paid for it. His friend Marge had perceived something amiss in this literary paradise and was trying to convince Intaglio to depart with her, but he’d been overindulging in ginger beer and collapsed mid-conversation into an inebriated coma. If you’re thoroughly confused, begin your foray into this small madness at Part 1. Otherwise, intrepid reader, on to Part 5 and the thrilling conclusion of The Legend of Intaglio…

———————————–

It was still dark when Intaglio regained consciousness, and the air was damp and chill. Marge was gone. His joints protested as he struggled to his feet; every movement was squeaky and stiff. He took some small consolation in the fact his trousers were dry.

“You look like five miles of bad road, kid.”

Intaglio cast about for the source of the thin, chirpy voice, but the narrow alley was empty, so far as he could tell.

“Up here, on the windowsill.”

It made his neck twinge painfully to scan the wall above, but Intaglio could just make out a little square window overhead with a large black insect perched on a thin ledge at its base. The creature waved a foreleg at him, and he gasped. “Mister Cricket? What are you doing here?”

“I’m an agricultural pest. I get around. A better question is what you’re doing here. This island isn’t safe. Your lady friend was smart to shove off when she did. Of course, she’s gotta get past the monster guarding the harbor, but she seems pretty resourceful.”

“Monster? What monster?”

“That’s not important right now. You need to leave.”

“I can’t leave yet. I’m finally beginning to make money here with my writing, and I have to earn enough ducats to set myself up with a place of my own on the mainland.”

“Here’s an idea. How about you just go back home to your father?”

“I ran away and left Giuseppe with the bill for a college education that I skipped out on. I can’t face him again. He could never forgive me.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I heard he’s been scouring the countryside for you ever since you went missing.”

“What do you know? You’re just a bug.”

The cricket fluttered his wings. “You’re right. I’m nothing but a lowly cricket. I could never match wits with a juvenile-delinquent puppet who works like a slave polishing furniture when he isn’t writing fractured fairy-tale romances or drowning his sorrows in ginger ale.”

“How did you find out about that?”

“I told you. I get around. This is your last warning, woodenhead. Get off this island now, before HE catches you.”

“Who’s HE?”

“What do I know? I’m just a bug. See ya.” The cricket hopped through a hole in the window, and Intaglio was alone again, save for the company of some very disturbing thoughts. He staggered along the alley toward the town plaza. There was a can of lemon oil in his room. Maybe he could smooth the friction in his joints before the sun came up–the walnut paneling in the Mayor’s office was due for varnishing, and that job would stretch into the next evening if he wasn’t 100-percent.

There was an odd squealing noise coming from somewhere across the plaza. As Intaglio emerged from the alley, flickering gaslights illuminated a portly man in a long overcoat wrestling with something round and furry. The man dropped the struggling thing into a cage strapped to a small wheeled cart nearby. He locked the cage, then bent down to collect a pile of clothing and a tall silk hat from the cobblestones. He stuffed the garments into a sack beside the cage.

The man stretched and arched his back, which cracked like a rifle shot. “Heigh-ho, time for another election, eh, Bill, m’lad?” He rattled the cage, which elicited a chorus of wails and whimpers from the animals within.

Then he saw Intaglio. He smiled, and even in the dim lantern glow, a gold tooth sparkled there. It was the Coachman who’d given Intaglio and Marge a ride to the port of Lucretia in his wombat-drawn carriage. “Ah, it’s the puppet boy. So happy to see you again. Have you enjoyed my cozy little island?”

“What do you mean, your island? Total Freedom Island is owned by everyone who lives here.”

The Coachman guffawed. “Still as dense as the day I met you. This island exists solely for my enrichment. I collect naive children with visions of fame and fortune, and I set them to work writing stories for my customers, a community of gold miners in Sardinia with very particular tastes in literature. They pay handsomely for comforting little yarns that remind them of their childhood.”

“I don’t get it. We’re paid for the stories we write here. It’s not a lot, but I figure I can save up a decent bundle of money if I’m patient and careful.”

“That’s the beauty of this arrangement. You all think you’re profiting, and even better, you think it’s your idea. But, my little marionette, the money never leaves the island, because none of you ever leave the island.” He jerked a thumb at the cage behind him. “Until you leave my way. You see, no human being can tolerate writing such drivel for very long. It saps their spirit and drains their intellect. They become empty shells, void of all inspiration and creativity. Soon, they can’t even muster the energy to copy the mindless fairy tales I require, so I have to find another use for them.”

If Intaglio had had any veins, his blood would have turned to ice water. “You can’t mean…”

A wombat. In case you were wondering.

“Yes! I mingle an exotic herbal concoction, which I bought in Australia from a wandering Bushman, into the community well. The proper dosage transforms the residents of my island into wombats at exactly the same time they cease to be useful to me as writers. I’ve discovered there’s a healthy demand for wombats among the zoological gardens of Europe, and my Sardinian gold miners even find them to be passable draft animals. They fit quite well into dark, narrow tunnels. The ones I can’t sell pull my coach and help me collect more dull-witted children to replace them on the island.”

“You heartless cad! I won’t let you get away with this!” Intaglio didn’t feel nearly as confident as he was trying to sound.

“How do you propose to stop me? I confess I was in a bit of a quandary over you at the beginning, since you’re made of wood and thus immune to the wombat drug. But then, I heard about a carnival in Sicily which has a room full of puppets that do nothing but sing the Italian National Anthem all day long for the entertainment of tourists. It employs a devilishly clever contraption that pipes hot air into the puppets’ bodies to make their mouths flap open and shut in time to the music. It seems the exhibition has a broken puppet, and is closed pending its replacement. Handcrafting one would take months under normal circumstances, but I’ve sent word to the very generous owners that I have an immediate solution to their problem. You’re just the right size. Think of it. You’ll never be at a loss for words again.”

“Nooooooo!”

The Coachman retrieved a net from his cart. “You may not be changing into a wombat, but the spark of life is nearly extinguished in you. Are your joints stiff? Your thoughts sluggish? His voice slid into an oily hiss. “Can you still remember how to conjugate the verb, ‘to be?'”

Intaglio began edging to his left, toward the path that led to the harbor. “I am…you was…they…is? No, that’s not right. Oh, frittata. Wait a minute, I know this. I were…”

Not even close.

The Coachman drew nearer, net at the ready, grinning from ear to ear.

Literally.

Ear. To. Ear. I defy you to imagine that without your knees knocking. Intaglio was a one-puppet percussion section.

Now the Coachman’s voice was the howling of a frozen north wind in the dead of winter with no Christmas in sight: “How long have you been writing stories like ‘The Country Mouse Who Laid the Golden Egg?’ Oh, I checked the records, manikin. You’ve gathered a ponderous stack of five-star reviews from your slack-jawed neighbors in the past few days, all the while protesting to anyone who will listen that you won’t sacrifice your integrity and are suffering the torments of Hades for your art. Fool. Your integrity is dead and buried, and your suffering has only begun. Your time has come, Intaglio. You’re mine.”

Intaglio bolted. He nearly fell on his face when his knees wouldn’t flex properly, but he somehow managed to recover his balance and hobble forward in a jolting hop that he knew was far, far too slow.

He risked a glance over his shoulder, though the movement sent a lance of pain through his neck and into his shoulders. The Coachman was gaining on him, all red eyes, maniacal grin, wobbling belly, and flapping coat, his net swinging down from high overhead.

“Now I have you!”

————————–

Okay, I lied. This isn’t the conclusion. Cut me some slack–I’m making this up as I go. Besides, we still have to find out what happened to Marge. Is she modeling a new fur coat in the wombat cage? And what’s up with the monster the cricket was talking about? Is there really enough gold in Sardinia to support a community of miners with no taste in literature? Is there any gold in Sardinia? And another thing–does the Italian National Anthem stick in your head all day long if you listen to a roomful of pneumatically-driven puppets sing it over and over again?

These and other pressing questions will be answered, or not, in next week’s thrilling conclusion, or not, to The Legend of Intaglio.

Or not.

Not everyone finds philosophy fun. I do, for whatever reason. More than that, I find it to answer a lot of why questions. (So maybe I never grew out of that little-kid stage when you ask your parents all the why questions: Why is the sky blue? Why do people have only two legs? Why is the ocean salty? Why are boys so noisy? Or whatever. 😉 )

After a couple recent internet discussions about fiction (see for example “Realistic Christian Behavior” by Sally Apokedak at Novel Rocket and “Thank you, Bethany House Publishers” by Mike Duran), I can’t help but think a lot of our diverse views hearken back to our philosophy of fiction.

It may surprise some to learn that fiction in the form of the novel hasn’t been around all that long. Of course it had roots in the oral tradition of storytelling and in the myths of various cultures, but not until the development of the printing press did fiction as we know it begin to take hold.

Those early myths and legends are important because the novel in its first endeavors seems to have adopted similar purposes. One of those appears to be to understand the world–natural and supernatural–and another, to invite the readers to mirror the virtues of the story heroes.

John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, one of the first English works of fiction, exemplifies both these purposes.

Another purpose is present, however, in works like Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales which served as both a reflection and critique of society.

These purposes seem at odds with one another. Are stories working to acculturate readers or are they serving to expose life and society for what it is?

Some stories appear to work toward both–showing some negative of society in order to assimilate readers into a competing ideology (think Avatar and The Da Vinci Code).

A more recent idea is that reading is primarily for self-growth:

Reading is self-mastery, because the self (and its affirmations) are held in check while the author (and his structures of thought) are fully attended to. True diversity in literature would be to read authors in circumstances as different from our own as possible, because we might then imagine ourselves as different than we are — not the creature of circumstances, but their master. Reading is fundamental, all right: to a person’s ethical development. … If reading is the key to self-mastery, fiction is the master key. Those like Hanson and Hitchens, who invite disagreement, are good too. But fiction demands that you either identify with the characters’ decisions or distance yourself from them, and this has a powerful effect. In doing so you shape your own moral experience. (“So Why Read (Fiction) Anymore?” by D. G. Myers)

Centuries earlier Aristotle introduced the explanation for fiction’s power.

As Aristotle pointed out in Poetics, “the historian speaks of what has happened, the poet of the kind of thing that can happen” (pp. 32-33). … And when Aristotle talks of poet, nowadays he might sooner have said fiction writer. So, as we enter a book, play, or film, in a fictional world of what could happen, we set aside our own immediate concerns. Often we take on the concerns of a protagonist. Always we enter a world that is somewhat different than our own. In a narrative world we can compare our own reactions, thoughts, and feelings, with those of the characters in a story. Thereby we can come to know better both ourselves and others.(“Why Read Fiction?: Why fiction is important in psychology” by Keith Oatley, Ph.D. in The Psychology of Fiction)

Interestingly, as we saw last year (see “The Psychological Study Of Creativity – Or, You Experience What You Read”), recent studies of the brain have shown that reading fiction does far more than what scholars once believed. It is, in fact, a form of simulation:

What scientists have come to realize in the last few years is that narratives activate many other parts of our brains [besides language regions] as well, suggesting why the experience of reading can feel so alive. … The brain, it seems, does not make much of a distinction between reading about an experience and encountering it in real life; in each case, the same neurological regions are stimulated. … Fiction — with its redolent details, imaginative metaphors and attentive descriptions of people and their actions — offers an especially rich replica. Indeed, in one respect novels go beyond simulating reality to give readers an experience unavailable off the page: the opportunity to enter fully into other people’s thoughts and feelings. (“Your Brain on Fiction” By Annie Murphy Paul, emphasis mine)

Fiction is powerful, that’s clear. It allows us readers to enter into either a story that aims to bring us into alignment with society by challenging us to mimic the heroic protagonist or into one that aims to reflect and/or question our ideas of the way the world works.

A simple view of stories then is that some give readers an ideal to model and others give readers a reflection to critique.

I think this understanding of stories is at the heart of a lot of disagreements about novels in contemporary society, whether secular or Christian. For example, just last week here at Spec Faith, the question came up as to whether Christians ought to read horror. We frequently discuss whether or not we should expose ourselves to “gritty” stories about the garbage dump of life. Must we wallow in the mud, or can we choose instead to read stories that evoke truth and beauty?

A tangential issue that might help with that question is this: are truthful stories beautiful (artistic) simply because of their truth? Here’s another one: Can stories be considered truthful if they tell only one side of life, either hope or hell?

I tend to think that we readers position ourselves on one side or the other of the “what should we read” debates based on how we answer these questions. If we understand reading to be a mechanism by which we learn how to be or as a means for personal growth, then we probably want books that call us to godliness or at least to ethical behavior.

If on the other hand, we see reading as a reflection and critique of society, then we want stories that push our awareness of the world, including the seamy side of society.

So why (beyond escape) do you read?

I have met many avid readers, particularly Christian readers, who refuse to read in the horror genre. They’ll read just about anything else—fantasy, romance, espionage, suspense, historical, science fiction. However, they “don’t do horror.”

I confess: I don’t quite get it.

Perhaps the most common reason Christian readers give for refusing to read horror is that horror is Dark … and Christianity is about Light. The Bible calls us to think about things that are true and good and virtuous, they say, usually quoting Philippians 4:8 or some variation for good measure. So why should we voluntarily scare ourselves? Why should we willfully subject our minds to disturbing images, carnage, depravity, the occult, or wickedness?

Granted, some of this reaction may be a reasonable response to gore. Thanks to effects technology, dismemberments and disemboweling are now status quo for Hollywood horror. And, frankly, it sells. Nevertheless, saying that all horror is gore is like saying that all romance is erotica. It’s an unfortunate stereotype. So refusal to read horror on the notion that it’s all splatter is misguided. In fact, some of the best classic horror – like The Haunting of Hill House, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Frankenstein, The Turn of the Screw, even Dracula – is relatively gore free.

But let me take this a step further: Even if gore is involved, I think a case could be made for not running from it, not closing our eyes to it. The famed Japanese director Akira Kurosawa simply said, “The role of the artist is to not look away.” Christian artists and readers, perhaps more than any other group, should embrace this proverb. We should not “look away.” Our eyes should be wide open. I don’t mean that we should delight in evil, be captivated by the macabre, or celebrate darkness, but that our perspective of the human condition should be unflinching and particularly acute. Feel-good story-telling may have its place. But writers and readers — especially Christian writers and readers — who only subscribe to a “feel-good” world have violated an essential artistic, dare I say, biblical law … they have “looked away.”

The Bible is perhaps the greatest argument in favor of reading the horror genre. The Horror Writers Association puts it this way, “…the best selling book of all time, the Bible, could easily be labeled horror, for where else can you find fallen angels, demonic possessions, and an apocalypse absolutely terrifying in its majesty all in one volume?” Scripture contains scenes of gore, torment, destruction, demons, plagues, catastrophe, divine judgment and eternal anguish. The reader who wants to think only on what is “pure and good” may want to avoid such biblical stand-bys as the Fall of Man (Gen. 3), Noah’s Flood (Gen. 7), the Slaughter of the Firstborn (Ex. 11), the Destruction of Sodom (Gen. 19), the Great White Throne Judgment (Rev. 20), and The Crucifixion of Christ (which involves one of the most brutal forms of execution ever devised). While the Bible’s message is one of redemption, that redemption unfolds amidst a dark world that is cannibalizing itself, pummeled by evil beings and barreling toward chaos and destruction. And we Christians are called to “not look away.”

Some will counter that the reality of evil is not justification to focus on it. Reading horror is focusing on darkness, rather than Light. No doubt, some read and/or watch horror to fuel prurient interests or feed depravity. (I can’t see any other reason why people would watch The Faces of Death except that they are disturbed individuals.) However, there are people who read other genres for the wrong reasons too. Some read romance novels to arouse sexual desire or replace its void. Some read fantasy novels to escape the mess they’ve made of their lives. Some read Amish lit because they simply can’t cope with the 21^st century. So while some may, indeed, focus on horror as a means of dark fascination, this is not unique to readers of the horror genre. Readers of ANY genre can turn to novels as an unhealthy form of escapism or titillation.

But I would add, there’s a difference between what we look at / observe / encounter / ponder and what we choose to embrace. Just reading or watching something horrific does not make us horrible, any more than watching a car accident, robbery, adulterous affair, or elder abuse makes us compliant. Sure, fighting monsters might make us monsters (nod to Nietzsche), but this is not a good excuse to ignore the beasts. The Bible is not telling us to turn away from what is unlovely and impure, but to not dwell on them, to not allow the darkness to usurp our hope and resolve. So it’s not an issue of ignoring monsters, but learning to look in their eyes and battle them. Thus, Christians are commanded to NOT turn away from evil and misery. Refusing to look upon or acknowledge evil may in fact BE evil.

Then there are those who refuse to read horror on the grounds that it is shocking and disturbing, it evokes fear and dread. Satan traffics in fear, they say. God is not the author of fear, so why should we seek it out? Have they forgotten that “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Heb. 10:31)? Just ask Annanias and Saphira. Perhaps this is one reason why we’re commanded to work out our own salvation with “fear and trembling” (Phil. 2:12) … as opposed to working out our salvation in ignorant bliss. And then you have that last book in the Bible which talks about cosmological disaster, global plagues, societal collapse, and a gaping abyss that is famished.

Point is: Scripture uses horrific language and imagery precisely TO shock us.

Jesus did this often. Take for instance the Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus, wherein the curtain descends upon the rich man, in anguish, pleading to return to earth to warn his brethren. Not quite the happy ending, is it? Robert Penn Warren put it this way: “The grotesque is one of the most obvious forms art may take to pierce the veil of familiarity, to stab us up from the drowse of the accustomed, to make us aware of the perilous paradoxicality of life.” Likewise, horror IS meant to shock. It is meant to unsettle us, rouse our complacency, “pierce the veil” of la-la land, and “stab us” from our stupor. Yes, God does not want you to live in fear. However, sometimes it IS fear that shocks us into living.

In summary, we are called to think pure thoughts and meditate on that which is good. However, that does not mean we should live in denial about the darkness all around us. Nor should we eschew the horrific simply because it is unsettling. In fact, it is this “unsettling” that may make our stories more efficacious. Prairie romances should have a place in the Christian catalog, but so should tales of woe. Scaring the wits out of people, sometimes, is the precursor to offering them hope. As long as there really is a place like Hell, then horror must inhabit part of the “Christian imagination.” As well as our bookshelves.

So I’m interested: Do you “do horror”? Why or why not?

Last Saturday, the Speculative Faith Reading Group for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (LWW) gathered a second time. Already people, in real life or online, have been asking what’s next. Absolutely, I agree: we need more reading groups, for newer Christian speculative books or for other classics. Already I have in mind The Hobbit for this fall.

But first things first. LWW is a great place to start for at least two reasons:

1. Most people already own the book, or have read it, usually several times.
2. Christians already trust LWW for being a “safe” book. It’s a great entry point to think deeper about how stories honor God and His Story, and be more open to other books.

That’s something to keep in mind, if you want to start a similar group at your own church! This is also why I’m making this study material available now, with plans to refine it later to publish here on Speculative Faith as a free-resource “curriculum” for group leaders.

In our reading group we have about a dozen readers, ranging in ages from seven to adult. Last week we reviewed Biblical verses supporting story-enjoyment. Then we read excerpts aloud from LWW’s second chapter. (I wish we had time to read the whole chapter!) All the while we found a flood of discussions and subtopics relating to magic in stories — even from those, who before the group began, I’d thought were reserved, introverted folks. Ha!

From my notes to self:

• It’s more important than I’d thought to stress reading the chapters in advance.
• Children laugh more easily at superstitious, legalistic critiques of LWW such as this one (from which I read only parts, to keep the discussion G-rated). But my wife and I needed to stop them. “No, this is serious. This could be right. ‘Whatever does not proceed from faith is sin.’ (Romans 14:23). We must make sure we’re reading out of faith in Him.”
• Adults take criticisms like these more seriously. I think that’s the better approach — so long as we arrive on the other side more “fully convinced in his own mind” (Romans 14:5) about the rightness of reading, enjoying, and being entertained by a story like this.

This week we’ll pick up the pace. It helps that chapters 3 and 4 are short and follow one vital story development — Edmund meeting the White Witch.

Wheaton College owns this wardrobe that once belonged to C.S. Lewis’s family. The college believes this wardrobe inspired the titular magic one of the story.

Chapter 3: Edmund and the Wardrobe

1. “Batty!” said Edmund, tapping his head. “Quite batty.”(page 24)
   • What does this mean? (A slang expression: “she’s crazy.”)
   • Without looking it up, how could we tell what it means?
   • How do you think that slang term got started?
   • Do you remember it being said in the movie? Why or why not?
   • Have you noticed how slang or informal terms like these change over time? How do books help us recall how words were used in the past, and how have you learned?
2. If you can remember the first time you read this chapter, how did you feel when Lucy eagerly shares the news of the wardrobe, and her siblings don’t believe her?
   • Have you read other stories in which someone discovers a fantasy world, but keeps it secret?
   • Why do you think the wardrobe didn’t work that one time? How does the wardrobe magically “work” anyway — given what we know from the rest of the story?
   • Does this remind you of sharing other truths you know, only to be met with doubt?
3. [Lucy] did not shut [the wardrobe door] properly, because she knew that it is very silly to shut oneself into a wardrobe, even if it is not a magic one. (page 27) [Edmund] jumped in and shut the door, forgetting what a very foolish things this is to do.(page 28)
   • Notice how Lewis keeps repeating this little bit of advice. Why do you think that is? (This is especially interesting, because we never read later about Lucy or Edmund actually getting stuck in the wardrobe because of the shut door!)
   • What do Lucy’s action and Edmund’s action tell us about their characters?
4. “She’s angry about all the things I’ve been saying lately,” thought Edmund. And though he did not like to admit that he had been wrong, he also did not much like being alone in this strange, cold, quiet place …(page 30).
   • Why does Edmund not want to admit this? How does his reaction to being in Narnia differ from Lucy’s? Why do you think that is? Who would you be more like, honestly?
   • Notice how the Witch rides in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. Why do you think this is?
   • Lewis ends the chapter right in the middle of a conversation. Why do you think he did that? Perhaps the chapter was simply too long? How does that slight pause — even seeing the white space and needing to turn the page — heighten the impact?

Chapter 4: Turkish Delight

1. The Witch calls Edmund a “Son of Adam,” just as Mr. Tumnus called Lucy a “Daughter of Eve.” Have you ever heard these expressions before? What do you think they mean? How do you think people and beings in the land of Narnia know about Biblical history?
2. Edmund did not like this arrangement [that the Witch suggested] at all but he dared not disobey; he stepped onto the sledge and sat at her feet, and she put a fold of her fur mantle round him and tucked it well in.(page 35)
   • Imagine you’re Edmund’s age. A strange lady invites you to cuddle up to her. How would you feel? Why does Edmund, though he doesn’t want to, obey her anyway?
   • How come he obeys what she says and not, say, Peter?
   • How might the Witch and other authority figures in Edmund’s life be very different? Do you think Edmund, at this point, has met any bad adult who practices authority?
   • How might this warn us, even as children, against obeying anything any adult says?
3. 

   Don’t let the bright colors fool you. In this author’s view, it tastes like a powdered-sugar-covered gelatinous shoe insert.

   “Turkish Delight, please, your Majesty,” said Edmund. (page 36)

   • What is Turkish Delight? Have you ever had it, or looked it up to see what it is?
   • Edmund doesn’t even need to think about his favorite thing to eat. Though we may not enjoy Turkish Delight like he does, what food would we almost instantly name if someone offered us anything to eat, right then and there, without waiting?
   • Is Turkish Delight evil? Later we find out that this Turkish Delight is enchanted (page 38). This is a little bit different from most foods in our world (with the likely exceptions of things like alcohol or tobacco, which can be very habit-forming). But here, what is really more sinful: the Turkish Delight, or Edmund’s heart?
   • Read Mark 7: 14-23 in the Bible. Notice what Jesus specifically says about eating food. Is it the food that is bad, or the person’s motive behind eating it — or eating too much of it? Can there be “too much of a good thing”? If so, what should we do?
4. Why do you think Edmund isn’t catching on to what the rest of us very likely see clearly — that the Witch is asking him all these questions so she can prevent the prophecy?
5. How come the Witch didn’t simply kill Edmund there? Wouldn’t that have prevented the prophecy coming true? (In fact, in a later chapter the Witch realizes this very thing.) Why do you think she wanted to be very sure that there were exactly four children?
6. The Witch tempts Edmund with promises of his being king over his brothers and sister.
   • Why do you think she tempted that way?
   • If Lucy or Susan had been there instead, what do you think she would have said?
   • Does this remind us of how we are tempted to sin, not all the same, but differently?
7. (The Witch:) “Fauns will say anything, you know …”  (page 40) “You can’t always believe what Fauns say,” said Edmund, trying to sound as if he knew far more about them than Lucy. … “Everyone knows it … ask anybody you like.”(page 42).
   • Why is Edmund, who hasn’t met Tumnus, so ready to call him a liar?
   • Why does Edmund repeat almost exactly what the Witch said?
   • What are some other things that “everyone knows,” which aren’t exactly true?
8. “Come on then,” said Lucy, “let’s find the others. What a lot we shall have to tell them! And what wonderful adventures we shall have now that we’re all in in together.”(page 43)
   • If you try to forget what happens next, how does Lucy’s hope make you feel?
   • Now, based on what does happen next, why is the next event such a disappointment?
   • If it’s disappointing, why keep reading? Does disappointment make the story better?
   • Knowing this, what reasons might God allow suffering, trouble, and disappointment in His real-life Story? Could it be to make His Story a far better Story in the end?