Christopher Tuthill's Blog, page 4

Young Goodman Brown, by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1835)

I first read Young Goodman Brown in high school and recall being puzzled by it. Hawthorne’s prose was perhaps a bit too dense for me, as I suspect it was for most of my ninth grade English class. But there was something unsettling about it, and I returned to it again and again through the years. Eventually, Hawthorne became one of my favorite writers, but it was an acquired taste.

We’re in the Puritan village of Salem; the tale was written in 1835 but Hawthorne is reaching back to the witch trials of 1692-93. The story seems straightforward. Young Goodman Brown leaves his wife, Faith, to go out on some ‘evil purpose,’ against her wishes. He travels past the town meeting house in Salem Village, and Hawthorne sets a foreboding tone:

“It was all as lonely as could be; and there is this peculiarity in such a solitude, that the traveller knows not who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and the thick boughs overhead; so that, with lonely footsteps, he may yet be passing through an unseen multitude.”

“What if the devil himself should be at my very elbow!” Brown remarks, as he continues on his way. He meets others from the village on his path, including a man who is older than him, around age fifty, but who looks just like him, and remarks in a very matter of fact way that he had done terrible things with Young Goodman Brown’s grandfather:

“I helped your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem. And it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip’s War. They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you, for their sake.” The stranger goes on to say that he is acquainted will the deacon, the governor, and other elders of the town. This shakes Brown’s understanding of his own family and village, leaving him quite unsettled.

This stunning section ramps up the tension until Brown hears the voice of his wife, Faith, and is distraught that she is in the woods. He arrives at a clearing where all the village is assembled; he and Faith are to be initiated in a ceremony, binding them to the devil. He calls out to Faith that she must resist and “look up to heaven,” at which point the villagers disappear.

Brown is unsure whether the entire story was a dream, but it bewilders him to the point that “A stern, a sad, a darkly meditative, a distrustful, if not a desperate man, did he become, from the night of that fearful dream.” Hawthorne’s final sentence is: “And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave, a hoary corpse, followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grand-children, a goodly procession, besides neighbors, not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone; for his dying hour was gloom.”

It may not be entirely fashionable today to believe in good and evil or supernatural powers, but this story still leaves me unsettled. The idea that your friends and neighbors, or your entire conception of the world, may be totally wrong, is something no one wants to admit. But the devil is right there in the story, cheerfully informing Brown that his father committed atrocities, that his grandfather enthusiastically persecuted his neighbors, and that Brown himself is on friendly terms with evil. Everyone in Salem is implicated; the story takes place during the Witch trials, at which Hawthorne’s own grandfather was a judge, making this tale even more grim.

There are no easy interpretations or answers in this tale. Brown lives the rest of his days haunted by his knowledge. There’s no redemption for him from God, or from anyone else, even his beloved Faith.

Hawthorne wrote plenty more in this vein: A Scarlet Letter, The House of Seven Gables, and numerous stories, and all of them leave me with this same feeling of helplessness in the face of evil. They’re also incredible to read, with the stylized, romantic prose adding to the sense of gloom and mystery.

I am not sure of Hawthorne is still taught in high schools, but he ought to be. This is one of the best short stories you’ll ever read, one that has stayed with me in the three and a half decades since I first encountered it.

Young Goodman Brown, by Nathaniel Hawthorne

I first read Young Goodman Brown in high school and recall being puzzled by it. Hawthorne’s prose was perhaps a bit too dense for me, as I suspect it was for most of my ninth grade English class. But there was something unsettling about it, and I returned to it again and again through the years. Eventually, Hawthorne became one of my favorite writers, but it was an acquired taste.

We’re in the Puritan village of Salem; the tale was written in 1835 but Hawthorne is reaching back to the witch trials of 1692-93. The story seems straightforward. Young Goodman Brown leaves his wife, Faith, to go out on some ‘evil purpose,’ against her wishes. He travels past the town meeting house in Salem Village, and Hawthorne sets a foreboding tone:

“It was all as lonely as could be; and there is this peculiarity in such a solitude, that the traveller knows not who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and the thick boughs overhead; so that, with lonely footsteps, he may yet be passing through an unseen multitude.”

“What if the devil himself should be at my very elbow!” Brown remarks, as he continues on his way. He meets others from the village on his path, including a man who is older than him, around age fifty, but who looks just like him, and remarks in a very matter of fact way that he had done terrible things with Young Goodman Brown’s grandfather:

“I helped your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem. And it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip’s War. They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you, for their sake.” The stranger goes on to say that he is acquainted will the deacon, the governor, and other elders of the town. This shakes Brown’s understanding of his own family and village, leaving him quite unsettled.

This stunning section ramps up the tension until Brown hears the voice of his wife, Faith, and is distraught that she is in the woods. He arrives at a clearing where all the village is assembled; he and Faith are to be initiated in a ceremony, binding them to the devil. He calls out to Faith that she must resist and “look up to heaven,” at which point the villagers disappear.

Brown is unsure whether the entire story was a dream, but it bewilders him to the point that “A stern, a sad, a darkly meditative, a distrustful, if not a desperate man, did he become, from the night of that fearful dream.” Hawthorne’s final sentence is: “And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave, a hoary corpse, followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grand-children, a goodly procession, besides neighbors, not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone; for his dying hour was gloom.”

It may not be entirely fashionable today to believe in good and evil or supernatural powers, but this story still leaves me unsettled. The idea that your friends and neighbors, or your entire conception of the world, may be totally wrong, is something no one wants to admit. But the devil is right there in the story, cheerfully informing Brown that his father committed atrocities, that his grandfather enthusiastically persecuted his neighbors, and that Brown himself is on friendly terms with evil. Everyone in Salem is implicated; the story takes place during the Witch trials, at which Hawthorne’s own grandfather was a judge, making this tale even more grim.

There are no easy interpretations or answers in this tale. Brown lives the rest of his days haunted by his knowledge. There’s no redemption for him from God, or from anyone else, even his beloved Faith.

Hawthorne wrote plenty more in this vein: A Scarlet Letter, The House of Seven Gables, and numerous stories, and all of them leave me with this same feeling of helplessness in the face of evil. They’re also incredible to read, with the stylized, romantic prose adding to the sense of gloom and mystery.

I am not sure of Hawthorne is still taught in high schools, but he ought to be. This is one of the best short stories you’ll ever read, one that has stayed with me in the three and a half decades since I first encountered it.

The October Country, by Ray Bradbury (1955)

We start the month with one of the finest collections of seasonal stories ever, by the great Ray Bradbury. Released in 1955, its significance in the genre can’t really be overstated, nor can Ray’s role in shaping Halloween as we know it today. Just leafing through this one is enough to give you a warm feeling of nostalgia and creepiness, to know that autumn is at hand. You start reading and immediately know you’re in the hands of a master.

I first encountered this one many years ago, and I make a point to re-read it nearly every October. The beautiful cover by Joseph Mugniani (with whom Bradbury often collaborated) sets the tone, and it keeps getting better as you read each tale. There are so many memorable stories here that it’s a bit like listening to the Beatles’ greatest hits: The Small Assassin, The Dwarf, Jack in the Box, on and on they go, each one weirder and more wonderful than the last. I love The Dwarf, the tale of a short man who visits a carnival fun house each night to see himself taller and more handsome, only to be cruelly abused by the fun house proprietor. For me, the centerpiece here is “The Homecoming,” which along with “Uncle Einar” are the strangest and most jaw-dropping of these stories. They’re so good that later in his career they became the backbone of another collection, ‘From the Dust Returned,’ which explores the Elliott family in all their glory.

Bradbury wrote so much over his long and storied career that it’s hard to pick just one novel or collection of his, but I think this one is most emblematic of all his best elements. Good-hearted, small-town people meet fantastic beings. Helpless loners and outsiders are treated cruelly by life but keep their souls intact through art and kindness. The wonder and mystery and imagination of the dark side of the world, all told with Bradbury’s poetic prose, heartfelt emotion, and wild imagination. It just doesn’t get any better than The October Country. We were so lucky to have had Ray.

Bradbury often wrote of the importance of feeding one’s imagination. Zen and the Art of Writing is a wonderful book for any writer, with lots of great observations on how to work at your craft. Mostly, he wants writers to stop thinking and just write. The ideas poured forth from his mind when he did this. One oft quoted passage from the book is: “If you did not write every day, the poisons would accumulate and you would begin to die, or act crazy, or both. You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

I think there’s a real lesson in this. Overanalyzing things, thinking too much, and soaking up too much information, which is very easy to do in our hyper-connected world, is the enemy of good writing. In my view, Bradbury’s method works. He was drunk on life and ideas and let them spill out in beautiful ways that have resonated with millions of readers for generations. May he keep finding new audiences forever. Thanks for all the stories, Ray.

The October Country, by Ray Bradbury

We start the month with one of the finest collections of seasonal stories ever, by the great Ray Bradbury. Released in 1955, its significance in the genre can’t really be overstated, nor can Ray’s role in shaping Halloween as we know it today. Just leafing through this one is enough to give you a warm feeling of nostalgia and creepiness, to know that autumn is at hand. You start reading and immediately know you’re in the hands of a master.

I first encountered this one many years ago, and I make a point to re-read it nearly every October. The beautiful cover by Joseph Mugniani (with whom Bradbury often collaborated) sets the tone, and it keeps getting better as you read each tale. There are so many memorable stories here that it’s a bit like listening to the Beatles’ greatest hits: The Small Assassin, The Dwarf, Jack in the Box, on and on they go, each one weirder and more wonderful than the last. I love The Dwarf, the tale of a short man who visits a carnival fun house each night to see himself taller and more handsome, only to be cruelly abused by the fun house proprietor. For me, the centerpiece here is “The Homecoming,” which along with “Uncle Einar” are the strangest and most jaw-dropping of these stories. They’re so good that later in his career they became the backbone of another collection, ‘From the Dust Returned,’ which explores the Elliott family in all their glory.

Bradbury wrote so much over his long and storied career that it’s hard to pick just one novel or collection of his, but I think this one is most emblematic of all his best elements. Good-hearted, small-town people meet fantastic beings. Helpless loners and outsiders are treated cruelly by life but keep their souls intact through art and kindness. The wonder and mystery and imagination of the dark side of the world, all told with Bradbury’s poetic prose, heartfelt emotion, and wild imagination. It just doesn’t get any better than The October Country. We were so lucky to have had Ray.

Bradbury often wrote of the importance of feeding one’s imagination. Zen and the Art of Writing is a wonderful book for any writer, with lots of great observations on how to work at your craft. Mostly, he wants writers to stop thinking and just write. The ideas poured forth from his mind when he did this. One oft quoted passage from the book is: “If you did not write every day, the poisons would accumulate and you would begin to die, or act crazy, or both. You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

I think there’s a real lesson in this. Overanalyzing things, thinking too much, and soaking up too much information, which is very easy to do in our hyper-connected world, is the enemy of good writing. In my view, Bradbury’s method works. He was drunk on life and ideas and let them spill out in beautiful ways that have resonated with millions of readers for generations. May he keep finding new audiences forever. Thanks for all the stories, Ray.

Short Story, ‘Chess Match’

A new story of mine, Chess Match, was just published in the October issue of Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder. It’s a tale of an ancient being living in our world, who must face down an old adversary. Check it out, and let me know what you think.

31 Tales of Halloween

‘The Halloween Tree,’ by Ray Bradbury, 1964

October has long been my favorite month. I love Christmas, too, as well as every other holiday that affords me time to spend with my children. But there’s always been something special about October 31. As a child, I knew Halloween was a night devoted to kids, where magical things happened, where you had a bit of independence to go out with friends and have a grand time. The costumes, the folklore, the changing of the seasons, all add warmth and wonder to this grand day. My own children have enabled me to experience these feelings again. It is so fun enjoying the fall with them: decorating the house, creating costumes, getting ready. The anticipation of it, the colors and sounds and stories, are almost better than the day itself.

The stories are the things that really animate it for me. The list of writers I admire in this season is almost endless, but it begins somewhere around Shakespeare and continues into the present. Shelley, Poe, Hawthorne, Stoker, Lovecraft, Jackson, Bradbury—my list goes on and on. The only thing that stops me from reading all these authors constantly is lack of time.

This October, time permitting, I intend to have a project on this blog, where I write some thoughts about some of my very favorite tales in the genre. I can’t promise I’ll do so every day, though that is the goal. Certainly, I’ll do a post weekly, or every couple of days. These posts aren’t meant to be comprehensive, scholarly, or to offer some kind of profound critique. It’s mostly just for me, to write up thoughts and impressions and appreciation of these tales that affected me: why I like them so much, how they work, why I have such affection for them, in that vein. Hopefully I’ll add to the catalog throughout the year, with other seasonal tales. Maybe some readers out there feel the same way about some of these stories. My hope is to document some of my very favorite books and stories, and perhaps turn some readers out there onto some tales they may have overlooked, or never heard of. There are a great number of unappreciated stories out there that ought to have more attention, in my view.

So, I’ll see how it goes. If you’re a like minded reader, I hope you join in the fun by commenting or offering your own thoughts.

I’ll probably begin early, before October 1, with some other seasonal type stories to get started. I’ll throw in some children’s stories that I’ve been reading with my family as well.

I’ll post more soon. I hope those reading this enjoy the season. I plan to be outside as much as possible in the next six weeks, to enjoy the beauty of fall, before it gets too cold and the leaves are gone.

Happy Autumnal equinox. Enjoy your fall!

Free Range Childhood

I spent lots of time with my kids camping and at the beach this summer, as I do most years. Something I noticed, that I hadn’t seen in past years, was packs of very young, free-roaming kids hanging out and doing things without adult supervision. I mostly grew up this way, and I think this style of parenting is back in fashion thanks to writers like Jonathan Haidt, whose criticisms of childhood by screen are exactly right and worth reading about.

Where he and other parents fall badly astray, in my opinion, is in this free roaming childhood movement. Plenty of well-intentioned, educated parents are heading in this direction. They can do as they wish, but I will never join their ranks, for reasons I’ll explain in a moment. Haidt even writes in his book about letting his 14-year-old go from Flushing, Queens to the upper west side unattended in the wee hours of the night, which caused me to think he is insane, despite his good intentions. I’ve done trips like that myself as an adult and felt myself lucky to get home without being harmed, though I was verbally threatened and had a man expose himself to me on one such trip in my college days. Granted, this was in the pre-gentrification days of NY, but even so, I’d never let a child of mine wander around the subways after hours until they were at least 17 or so.

Haidt and others insist that the free roaming childhood is a wonderful thing, that it’s perfectly safe and has many benefits. I had a childhood like this myself, and it wasn’t so bad. We didn’t know anything else in the 80s, when I was a boy—my parents just let us ride bikes and go all over creation alone. We returned when we were hungry or thirsty, and that was that. Everyone did it. I do think it was healthier than playing video games all day.

However, –and this is a big caveat: I was personally acquainted with several children who never made it to adulthood because of this environment. That’s right: they died as unsupervised kids because no one was there to protect them from doing dangerous things. Forget the boogeyman. Forget far away stories of missing kids. I saw this up close and personal, so I’ll thank you to shove your one-in-a-million statistics somewhere else.

Last week I saw a group of 6 kids, none of which could have been more than five or so, hanging out by the beach where we camped. No adult in sight, except me. I watched to make sure none of them did anything dangerous. Probably they’ll all make it to adulthood.

Make of this what you will. Free range however you like, it’s no skin off my nose. I’ll be there at the beach, watching my kids to make sure they don’t drown.

In case you’re wondering, no, I’m not a helicopter parent, but I don’t like being told I’m too protective by some yuppie who read Jonathan Haidt and didn’t live through the death of loved ones or friends because no adult was around to protect them. Kids are vulnerable. They need supervision, whether they like it or not, and whether or not you find it inconvenient.

Here’s my suggestion: have them put the phones and video games down, and hand them a big, fat novel. Read it together. Do some swimming and hiking with them. Or let them play alone, but stay where you can see and hear them. That’s what I do and it works just fine. I intend to make sure they live to do dumb things when they’re adults old enough to take responsibility for their own decisions.

‘Ethical AI’

A curious thing happened today: I received a memo about policy regarding generative AI that the author admitted was partially written by generative AI. We must use it ethically, I’m told. It’s unclear to me how you ethically use an unethical monster. Using it sounds more to me like theft and plagiarism.

Generative AI is simply a tool, say its proponents, no more and no less. It requires copyrighted works for its ‘training’, but its creators, well, they just don’t feel like getting permission or paying for the rights to use the works, since–get this–it would just be too much trouble.

So if it’s a tool, then it’s one that was created by ruthless, conscience-free scum who have pirated millions of words in copyright, not to mention thousands of copyrighted works of art. All those hours of work, and all those lives, steamrolled like they’re nothing. It’s sickening, and I hate to dwell on it, but it seems the situation will only get worse as time goes on.

Even if generative AI had been created ethically and with good intentions, which it surely was not, what damage is it doing to those who outsource all their thinking to such machines? According to the soon to be defunct Department of Education, 54% of adults in the US read below a sixth grade level. Do you think this abysmal number will improve now that we’ve created these machines to do all our reading and thinking for us?

It is hard to be optimistic about where all this is ultimately headed. I look to the future and see people even dumber and worse than the current administration running things. It’s such a sorry state of affairs that it often feels to me that all we can do is take care of our families and hold a candle against the dark.

We saw the Naked Gun tonight. My kids loved it. So we have that. Comedy is important, and we had a good laugh. No one can replace Leslie Nielsen, but Liam Neeson is very funny, and it was the perfect antidote for the times. I loved the old series and I wholeheartedly recommend this new version and hope it does well. There aren’t enough good comedies out there. Lord knows we all need to laugh more often. It’s one of the few ways I have to tune out all the bad news.

The Fantastic Four: Babies are Magic

These days, everybody is a critic. And every movie is based on a comic book, so there is plenty to criticize. I enjoy going to the movies with my kids, and consider the experience time well spent with them, no matter what. Even so, I have opinions, and now you’re gonna hear mine regarding the new Fantastic Four movie.

First off, let me say I’m pro family. I like babies very much and doted on my children endlessly. I still do, even though they’re not babies anymore.

“What the hell do babies have to do with Fantastic Four!” you might ask, and you’d be right to yell that at me. Well, the first half hour of this film consisted of a pregnancy test, an ecstatic mom and dad, and a fawning Thing and Human Torch constantly saying how they could not wait for the baby, how great it was that the baby was coming. How wonderful it will be to have a baby at Fantastic Four headquarters! Everyone exclaimed this, over and over. They make dinner and drink wine and talk about parenthood and read a book by Dr. Spock about child rearing and share many tearful, sensitive moments in anticipation of the new baby.

Oh, when are they gonna get to the fireworks factory?

I exaggerate, but not by much. Dr. what’s his name, Mr. Fantastic, ably played by the omnipresent Pedro Pascal, is worried he won’t be a good enough dad. He’s so very very concerned that the baby may be strange like he is, you see. He devises ways to observe the baby in utero. He is a loving father, a good person! You must know this. You better know this. He will be a GOOD DAD! Invisible woman frets and worries she may not be a good enough mom. She is going to be a GREAT MOM. We know this, she knows it. She worries and that is why she’ll be a perfect mommy. That baby has great parents!

Finally, a BAD GUY appears. His name is Galactus, and he’s pretty bad. But he’s given little to do aside from saying he wants to blow up the earth etc etc. UNLESS! And here’s the big twist: UNLESS he can have the baby! He dispatches the Silver Surfer to GET THAT BABY! The silver surfer is the coolest character in this film by a long shot. She gives not one fuck about babies or anything else, and just wants to fight the fantastic four. Thank you, Silver Surfer! You alone seem to know your assignment! Kick some ass!

Eventually there is a giant battle and NY is razed and the fantastic four defeat the bad guy. The baby, of course, has mystical magical powers and will enrich the fantastic four’s inner lives beyond their wildest dreams.

What happened to clobberin’ time? Well, there’s that fight scene, but as my son said, “Why did they wait almost two hours to get to the fighting?”

“I don’t know, son,” I replied, “I just don’t know.”

And we both wept.

As the end credits rolled, a sensitive folk tune played. It sounded like the singer was about to cry. It was all very touching, what with the baby and whatnot.

I think I would have had a better time just reading the old Jack Kirby comic. You will, too. I give this movie one star because the robot was kind of cool, and so was the Silver Surfer. The retro sets and graphics were neat. Otherwise, I don’t get why you spend a billion dollars on a movie and just talk about a baby the whole time.

No offense to babies.

Superman

I know that 50-year-olds are not the key demographic for comic book films, but I’ll give my opinion anyway, since as someone who has loved Superman for more than forty years, I’m as qualified as anyone to offer mine.  

I suppose the new Superman film accomplished what it set out to do, serving as the first of DC’s planned ‘universe.’ Having watched Marvel run circles around them at the box office since 2008, they used a hired Gunn (pun intended) to get the kryptonite rolling. I was interested to see what they’d do, but I knew in my heart no one could ever replace Christopher Reeve for me. He was just too good in that role, and I first saw it when I was about 5 years old, so he’ll always be my favorite. But I’m always game for a new version, and my 10- and 12-year-olds were eager to see this incarnation. Off we went.  

Eighty minutes into this film, I was wondering why Superman had so little to do, and why he’d just been pummeled from one end of the theater to the other, with no end in sight. Imprisoned and helpless and tearful is not my favorite kind of Superman. I know he needs conflict and drama, but I wasn’t enjoying it much. I wished I’d saved some money and watched the 1978 version. I found myself confused as to why a movie called Superman had much better things for Guy Gardner, of all people, to do. Better lines, as well.  

James Gunn made the very funny and lucrative Guardians of the Galaxy films, and the new Superman felt like it was trying to be that sort of movie, an ensemble cast of wisecracking misfits. In my view, Gunn is great at comedy/action films like that, and I think he’d probably make an awesome Green Lantern film. But for me, this Superman lacked something. Plenty of people might disagree with me, but I wanted more about the main character and his story. Otherwise, it might as well be called Justice League.  

This one felt like a generic mess, way too convoluted in the way that almost all these films are, and worse, it was boring. For long stretches of this thing I could barely keep my attention focused on what I was seeing. The cast is great and this isn’t their fault. But I wonder: how can you hire an actor as talented as Wendell Pierce and give him nothing to do?  A bedrock of American comics like Superman deserved better than this hodgepodge of a movie.

My children enjoyed it pretty well and found it funny, and that is the audience for this. They’ll grow up watching the rest of whatever movies DC sees fit to release. A shame that this one didn’t have more heart.