Jennifer Freitag's Blog, page 48

Really, I Couldn't Tell

If you're anything of an artist, and have made attempts at sketching the human face, you have probably run across numerous tutorials on human expression, and what the face does when someone undergoes any particular emotion. If you haven't drawn a human face (or anything, for that matter) perhaps you have seen pain charts at the doctor's office depicting something of the same idea. Either way, you know what I mean: the human face undergoes change in emotion, and each emotion, typically, has its own special expression. It's how we tell what someone is feeling at any given time.

I have tried drawing the human face in emotion, and it isn't easy. Faces, particularly eyes, will make or break a human picture. The person's psyche is neatly bound up in that one blot of anatomy, and the artist has to conquer the difficulty.

But I'm not here to talk about drawing. For the writing artist, depicting emotion is even more difficult. At least with a picture, you get to look at the person's face and say, "She doesn't look happy. He looks like he could kill. And doesn't she look like she is in raptures with that balloon?" With writing, we have no such leisure. We have to deliver the emotion to the reader without the use of a portrait - indeed, we have to deliver the emotion and the portrait through words instead of pictures. So how do we get it just right? How do we impress the reader with, not only the right emotion, but the emotion which fits the character as well as the situation? Do does one avoid the amateur depictions (the cliche villain temper-tantrum comes to mind)?

it's magic, mostly

No, seriously. Someone asked me once, "How do you write like that?" and my slightly-serious, tongue-in-cheek reply was, "It's magic." I'm usually a very atmospheric writer with often very introspective characters, and I depend heavily on a person's aura to deliver emotion. When I write, if the story is not fighting me, I am in the moment, there among the characters, and everything is knit together so that the situation and the characters are not two separate entities. They never are. It takes a very stalwart figure to remain even-keeled through life's tempests. So if anyone is suddenly worried about her character approaching a situation with the right emotion, rest easy. It isn't rocket science, though it does take thought. Often, it's just a matter of common sense.

know thyself

Or, rather, your character. Different people react to situations in different ways. In the face of danger or insult, one character might go cold afraid, while the character next to her might rise to biting wit. But while the characters are spiraling downwards or upwards into these patterns, what is everyone else (the reader included) seeing and hearing? The girl goes white - we think she must be afraid; the man goes rigid and withdrawn, and suddenly seems twice as tall again as before - he must be furious. Images, changes in the pressure of the atmosphere, even something as small as the sudden flicker of a hand as if to ward something off, can tell the reader just what a character is feeling and thinking. But a writer has to know her characters or the reactions won't be in keeping with their own personalities, or the plot. Time and acquaintance will help a writer get to know her characters, but take the time to make a more in-depth acquaintance. Notice the little things: they say volumes about a person's attitude.

don't always rely on the obvious

He smiled. She laughed. The dog growled. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with these, and they certainly ought to be used. But, like "he said, she said," they oughtn't be over used. Brevity is to be admired, and please don't make a habit (it's embarrassingly easy to do so) of using yards and yards of description to escape the cliche or jaded terms, but on occasion imagination is required. A character is disapproving but playing along - he speaks his words purringly. The hackles lift on the dog like the spines of a boar's back, and everyone and his cousin feels the fury lurking in the animal, waiting to spring. A fellow has just flattered the girl kindly, and she knows it, so she laughs. But how does she laugh? Gaily, and with a touch of silver in her tone.

Stereotypically, women emote more than men do. There is always a reason for a stereotype, and in some cases this is true: women do emote more than men. Women get furious, women laugh, women break down in tears. Every which way you turn, your run-of-the-mill girl (pick me! pick me!) will be expressing her emotions in some typical way. For me, this makes women very hard to write. I can't have Adamant laughing and sobbing her way all over the place. She must be more than your average girl. But how do I depict that? Perhaps she is grateful for a compliment, and she colours at the cheeks while she drops a curtsy. Perhaps she is outraged or frightened: she blanches, and her stomach clenches up. Hopefully the reader can feel the pleased warm pinkness, or the curl of the belly at horror while at the same time seeing the curtsy, or seeing the white face. Images and atmosphere.

Now, how about men? We must do them justice. (K.M Weiland wrote an excellent post on the difficult of writing the opposite sex.) First of all, keep in mind your character's personality. Second, take into account the character's age. Is he just a little boy? Maybe he will answer pain with a stormy face, and a little cry afterward around the back of the woodshed, and the reader will appreciate both his frustration and his courage to hold off crying until everyone is out of sight. Is he full-grown? If he is full-grown, you will have an even harder time, for his reaction will absolutely depend on his personality. My husband, very amiable and easy-going, would probably take a difficult situation in stride. His face might be concentrated on his work, but he might just as well be chatting pleasantly with me while I attempt to divert his attention from the project to myself. My father will conjure up a magician's cloud of darkness in which to shroud himself, and everyone can feel it and will leave him alone. The gentleman whom I have adopted as my uncle (we'll call him Mr Knightley) sports the most amount of expression among the men I know: everything gathers in his face, either in a sudden burst of laughter (the way a kingfisher will dart) or in a slow brooding darkness (like a summer thunderstorm). Much is in the aura, and the aura often puts on a flesh-and-blood form through the facial features.

But once again, don't rely on the typical all the time. Don't always say that he frowned, don't always say that he grinned. Maybe he speakings with his teeth on edge, or cheekily.

in short

It boils down, largely, to knowing your character so well that even a mere gesture can depict emotion and convey the gist of the character's thoughts to your reader. This is one way to bring your character to life for the reader. We don't always rely on people voicing their thoughts so that we can know what they are thinking or feeling. They say actions speak louder than words. What are your character's "little things"? What expressions does he or she have, or what gestures?

atmospheric example

Druce bent his head and continued burnishing. The sound of the supper crowd went on above their close bent heads. He worked, with light flickering in and out across the blade as he moved, and she watched, holding the jar when and where he wanted it. For no reason she could think of, her heart was beating in her chest rather strongly, like the wings of a bird—she always thought her heart had a swan's pair of wings—and she twisted her lip between her teeth.

"She is very like a lady," Druce said presently. She noticed how light his fingers were on the sword, as Ambrose's were on the sheep. Suddenly he pulled away from the sword, peering at it uncertainly through his unruly forelock. "I wonder that the best swords are like ladies. They say Aidan Roefax's—his is like a lady."

"Aye." Her gaze dropped back to the sword. For a while neither of them moved, then Druce slowly returned to burnishing.

They did say Aidan Roefax's sword was very like a lady, riding lightly at his side as she had seen the older girls lean on the arms of their loves. But she liked Aidan Roefax's lady better, for she was grave as well as light. His sword was the only lady Tate had ever seen at his side, too. The man flickered among them without seeming to brush anyone, and she always felt a kind of ghostly thrill when she chanced to see him from afar off. And she was glad that Druce's sword was a lady like that, grave and light, light and grave…

There was a blur of shadow between them, and Tate looked up quickly to find Aidan Roefax himself above them, looking down at the thing which Druce held in his hands. The firelight turned his hair into a wild-swept crown of copper-streaked darkness, the shadows plunging stark from his sharp nose. He had a strange face, angular and dark, and a scar divided a straight bar of brow from black to silver to black again. Tate had never seen the man so close, and she caught her breath. Druce, busy with the burnishing of the blithe bright thing in his hands, did not notice the warrior until the young man said, "If you can find it in your belly, cub, I would have you run with my pack."

Druce, startled out of his work, flung up his head, the russet thatch about his forehead tossing backward as Idunna the red mare would do; flung back his head to look up into that grim, laughing face above them. She held her breath, listening to the sound of the blood in her ears and the surf-sound of the talk around them. But the two seemed apart from the world, Druce and Aidan Roefax, apart from even herself, looking in a silent communion at each other with the sword between them. Only the red gem in the warrior's ring winked conspiratorially at Tate, as if to include her in a curious blood-coloured secret.

And Druce, who had seemed only a few moments before uncertain of himself and of the sword, suddenly gave back the same grim laugh and said, "I can find it in my belly, and well, sir."

"Good," said Aidan. "At the duck-flight, then." And he swung away, his shield hitched up across one shoulder and the painted dragon on it big and bold with the firelight jinking off the iron rim all around it.

But it seemed the two had not been in their own world, shut out from the rest. For as Aidan strode among the others, Tate heard someone call out, laughingly and a little high as one will do who is very nearly drunk, "Aye! If we have the roly-polies running in the wolf pack, we're sure of a victory over the Norman aetheling!"

Aidan checked, turning his hawk-nosed face over his shoulder, full in the firelight with a little sharing smile on his face, as if he thought the jest were funny too. But Tate was sure everyone in the hall knew that the jest was not funny to Aidan, and she felt the soft ripple of awkwardness run among them, as a little wind will run among the grasses of the downs. The young man stalked on, straight as an ash-shaft, the faint, shining mockery that he had like a mantle about him, which reminded Tate of the voice of Ambrose's silver bells.
jennifer freitag

"Ponies," Said Conory

In theory my attention has been trained on editing Adamantine. And, for the most part, I have been chipping away at that mountain, but I thought I would share a little piece from my novel-in-progress Between Earth and Sky. I've already shared some of Adamantine and, you know, one must be fair. So, without further ado (or even much explanation) here is some inky haberdashery. Happy Christmas, and hold on tight!

"Other than yesterday," Conory said above him, "have you ever been in a chariot before?"

Rede straightened. "No, sir," he said, dropping his eyes to watch for the staff.

Conory grunted philosophically. "Then mind this, and mind it well. Chariots are like living things. No one chariot is like any other, and you've got to mind your chariot as much as you mind your team. She will tell you what earth is beneath your wheels, tell you when she is free and when the ground is giving her grief. She has moods, no mood the same from one day to the next. Some like sunny days, some like rain. Some like the hunt and some like war, and some like idle ramblings through the countryside. You've got to listen for your chariot's voice and mind her well when she speaks to you, but mind that you don't let her have her way. Never liked a girl who wore the breeches, and don't let the chariot wheedle her whims into you. Hold her firm, but hold her like a living thing and she will not do you wrong."

Rede ran his eyes over the odd thing, tipped on its front, upheld by the pole. It did, for just a moment, seem to have a living potency to it. Then he blinked and his heart beat and it was a chariot again.

"Ponies," said Conory with gravelly cheer, and Rede jerked round to follow him to the long row of stables. The chariot, it had been just a chariot—yet as he walked he could not wholly push aside the notion that there were eyes on the back of his neck, or some sentient mind bent after him, almost tangibly pulling him back.

The two ponies which Conory picked out, a grey and a dun, had perhaps seen easier days, but Rede was grateful that the two game little brutes were so docile under his hand. Conory stood by and watched him as he moved into the familiar routine of leading the ponies out and looking them over. Conory said nothing, but Rede sensed the man was pleased, and that made him happy. He slipped the halters off and took down the lengths of harness, staggering under their tangled weight, and it was then that Conory moved in to help him.

"She takes the bit well," Rede remarked of the dun, whose face was a muzzle lost in a heap of forelock.

From the other side of the grey, Conory said, "He. They're geldings."

Rede apologized to the dun, and then the task of hitching them to the chariot loomed before him. Both ponies knew Rede had no idea what he was doing, but they behaved well enough, with only the occasional nonchalant removal of a strap or a latch wherever their teeth could reach whenever he was not looking.

At last the chariot stood level, the ponies were champing at the bits, and the sun was breaking up around them beyond a ragged bank of clouds which the morning wind had blown up from the sea. Throwing his blue jay cloak back from his arms, Conory climbed in and took up the reins, gesturing for Rede to follow him. The bed wobbled and gave under their feet, the leather weaving lending it a delightfully springy feeling under their soles. The fitful sunlight flashed off the iron rims of the wheels.

"Ho-o-aih, ho—step up!" said Conory, and snapped the reins smartly on the rumps of the ponies. Up went the grey head, up went the dun, and with wiry manes spraying in the soft wind, the two trotted forward with the chariot rattling with Conory and Rede behind. The young man splayed his legs in the chariot-bed, feeling the familiar buckle of the leather, and wondered if he trusted Conory enough not to bolt once they were out of the gates so he could let go of the edge and not look like a child clinging to his mother's skirts. He decided he did not trust Conory that much, and he clung on.

The bald head from last night waved to them from the guard-tower at the gate. Conory took them through to the path outside. The wind caught at them and blew in their faces, sending the blue cloak snapping out like a banner, and over the deep green of the fields and bristling new green of the woods the racing light and shadows played.

It dawned on Rede just then that Conory meant to have him drive the chariot.

The badger-striped warrior drove the team to the rolling pasture west of the Flint Mound and finally drew up along the woodshore. The untidy, spraying ranks of trees ran beside them, before and behind, curving with the hill. The wind was strongest here, and the late spring leaves and crimson buds were flying on the shivering branches. Patches of cloud-shadow ran up to them across the green and flew over, chased by bars and squares and misshapen footprints of sunlight.

Conory held the reins up, splayed between his fingers, held firmly but gently. "Hold the reins like so," he said, "and stand like so or you'll be thrown over and out on your backside."

He was only shown once, and then Rede found himself where he would never in his wildest dreams have imagined: on a rolling Arregaithel green with a limed warrior on his left hand, feet firmly placed on the woven bed of a chariot, with the reins of two suddenly very feisty ponies in his fists. I am going to die ran swiftly through his mind several times before he could think of anything that even resembled reason. But after a few moments, though his heart still hammered at the back of his teeth, he felt the thing warm to quick under him. He was holding the reins. The ponies were for him to command. The chariot seemed to be yearning forward, begging to follow the swell of the woodshore, iron rims and horses' hooves rumbling on the turf.

He did not trust himself to make any meaningful noise to the ponies, so he gently slapped them with the reins. Their heads went up again, and as one they began their stocky-legged trot. Rede discovered at once that he had been relying on the edge of the chariot to steady him, for he was nearly thrown. Conory did not move to help him, so he had to regain his own balance and position his legs as the ponies, feeling his hand slack, wheeled their heads around and snorted at the sky.

"Keep them well in hand," said his trainer.

Rede kept them 'well in hand' as best he could, easing them at a trot down the woodshore while he got the feel of them. His heart continued to hammer mercilessly in his throat, but by the time he was halfway down the edge of the forest he began to be a little confident and, swallowing hard, he tapped the ponies again with the reins.

He had seen the ponies on the uplands move from the easy canter to the flying gallop in the time it takes to blink. He had seen them check in mid flying stride and whirl on a single hoof clear around. His miscoloured team, as if remembering the days when they, too, had run the wild uplands pastures, bounded off their near hooves and rolled into the canter. The chariot bounded beneath him, keeping pace, but somehow he kept his footing; the reins shivered in his hands, quick with the life of the ponies flowing back to him, and up from the leather flooring came the will of the chariot, swelling with life just as Conory had said it would.

Down the greensward they swept, the engine rumbling in his ears, the melodic thunder of the ponies' hooves drumming over him in exhilarating waves. Once or twice the wheels banged and jarred and it was all he could do to keep his balance, and all the while he had the vague impression that their dance was not so fluid and beautiful as it could be. But his spirit could not be quenched. The wind flew in his face and made silver sparking banners of the ponies' manes. Conory's cloak flapped like a bird's wings behind him. The living beauty of it all caught him up and he forgot that life held pain, that life held heartache, that he was a lone light among this insular people. For a few whirling moments on the back of racing gold thunder, he was free.

Dignity of Causality: Characters and Prayer

I don't read a lot of "Christian" fiction. Abigail wrote two very good pieces on Christian fiction some time ago (What is "Christian" Fiction? and Light in the Darkness) which more or less sum up my own view on the matter. I hope I'm not the only one discomforted by the general swell of thin, watered-down Christianity that oozes in fiction. I don't think this is necessarily limited to our time, though I think our time is remarkable for its Godlessness. A hundred years ago, it was uncouth to say you were an atheist, even if you were one. It was just socially unacceptable. People understood what was Proper. So I tend to steer clear of nominal Christian fiction for that purpose: I'm not going to trifle with my intelligence and respect of God by entertaining novels that don't try to scratch an inch below the surface of our faith. These are Laodicean novels: lukewarm, neither warm nor hot, and I have no recourse but to spit them out of my library. There is very little time to read all of the good works out there, and no time at all to spend on the works of Laodicea.

We don't want to be writing these sorts of novels, do we? We want upright, God-fearing literature, even if we're not specifically writing Christian literature. We want an exceptionally good understanding of godly morals, we want to be fluent in circumspect conversation, etc. We want, in short, to write the sort of literature that brings people "further up and further in" to God's nature, inasmuch as we are able. Any of you, having sat staring eye to eye with a half-written novel, will probably be familiar with the sudden overwhelming rush of despair that breaks over you when you wonder if your work is worth anything, if anyone will get anything out of it, if it is even True. The agony and the ecstasy of writing can be intense.

So today I want to deal with one aspect of Christian fiction that I have seen which needs a great deal of adjustment. This adjustment is probably necessary because, by and large, I don't think the topic is taught properly among Christian circles in general. I will address it on the literature front, but please understand that it applies to flesh-and-blood-clad spirits as well.

in this manner, therefore, pray...

The necessity to pray crops up just as frequently in stories as it does in our lives. Things go wrong, characters have close shaves, people fall on their knees in thanksgiving. But prayer is more than a means of saying, "God, aaaaahh...!" in a panic, and gasping even an honest, "Thank God!" in the wake of the aftermath. I say prayer is more than this - I do not say that prayer does not include the call for divine help, nor does it exclude gratitude for that help. These two aspects are essential to our relationship with our Father: the psalms of David are chock-full of these. But you can't stop there. I've seen too many characters cry out to God merely to say, "Halp!" (sometimes even the prayers of gratitude are forgot) and this is simply unacceptable.

Do the characters understand why they are praying? Say they are taking the moment to recognize their futility and finiteness to call upon the arm of the Lord. Do they recognize, too, the nature of their God who delights in mercy, who has said "I will go before thee, and make the crooked places straight: I will break in pieces the gates of brass, and cut in sunder the bars of iron: and I will give thee the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places, that thou mayest know that I, the Lord, which call thee by name, am the God of Israel."? There is a gravity as well as a confidence to be had in understanding the promises of God. Do your characters appreciate this? Can your characters cry, "Lord, help me," and expect to be answered in the hiding place of thunder?

for your Father knows the things you have need of before you ask him

We are told to, and therefore there is nothing wrong with asking for our daily bread. But why? If our Father knows what we have need of, why ask? Especially in a story, wherein the character is at your mercy, and you mostly know your own mind, why is it necessary that a character should bother to ask the Almighty for safety and sustenance? Fledge the flying horse in The Magician's Nephew put it rather simply: God likes to be asked. But not only that (it comes off sounding a trifle petty, don't you think?), the very act of saying, "Lord, help me," or "Lord, give to me the bread of my sufficiency," recognizes the person's dependence upon the Father's hand. The act is deeper than a mere petition, it is a gesture of worship. It is, therefore, necessary. Prayer is a means of grace: we must not take it lightly, and we must take it all the time.

Prayer is not merely asking for our daily bread, we understand that. So what else is it? It is rude of our characters to yelp for aid whenever they find themselves in a tight place, and to make no other effort to communicate with the Godhead, but how can we make them understand what prayer ought to be? I found a passage from C.S. Lewis' essay "The Efficacy of Prayer" rather helpful.

"Prayer in the sense of petition, asking for things, is a small part of it; confession and penitence are its threshold, adoration its sanctuary, the presence and vision of God its bread and wine. In it God shows himself to us. That he answers prayers is a corollary - not necessarily the most important one - from that revelation. What he does is learned from what he is."

Prayer is far deeper, and far more important, than merely asking for one's daily bread. By it we are drawn into union with the divine will: by it we learn what to ask for by learning who God is. My characters and I ask for our daily bread because we know God hears the cry of the needy, because he delights in mercy, because he has said, "In this manner, therefore, pray...give us this day our daily bread." But even more than that prayer is communion with the Godhead. It is a serious, grave, joyful thing to participate in. Do our characters appreciate this?

What is it that you say? she wondered, casting a baleful, wistful glance out the window. You have gone before me and behind me, and set your hand upon me. And yet still I am afraid. How do I know that you have not meant for me to fail? What do I really know of anything?

To avoid the thin, childish cry of "God, aaaaah...!" in our stories, we and our characters must have at least some understanding of God's nature (it goes without saying that this understanding is vital on entirely different levels). Elwin Ransom's order to "Say a child's prayer, if you cannot say a man's!" is not meant to be comforting. It's a reproach. We must start at a child's prayer, but for heaven's sake (and our own) we mustn't stay there. A lot of prayers that I have run across in Christian fiction have been petty complaints and, most often, the voicing of confusion and misunderstanding on the character's part. "God, I don't know why you are doing this to me. God, I don't know what to do. God, I'm lost. God, I'm scared. God, why this? God, why that? God, wouldn't you just do this?" Now, taken individually, there is nothing necessarily wrong with many of these petitions. The last three grow presumptuous, though even Christ cried

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!

The problem is the plethora of these prayers, and the seeming inability of authors and their characters to come to any sort of answer, or even to move deeper than them. "God, I don't know why you are doing this to me, nevertheless your rod and staff comfort me. God, I don't know what to do, nevertheless your word is a lamp to my feet. God, I'm lost, guide me beside still waters. God, I'm scared, be with me through the valley of the shadow of death. Your thoughts are far upon my thoughts and your ways far above my ways. I know that my Redeemer lives: though he slay me, I will hope in him."

Do you mark the difference? From an attitude of petrified terror the character is moved into a stance of peaceful submission, from a railing child to patient communion. The character appreciates the word and promises of God, and understands that the will of God is omnipotent. We cannot too lightly regard the importance of God-fearing prayer. What your character thinks of God, and how he communicates with God, define who he is. Who we are is only determined by our relationship with our Creator: this must penetrate to our characters as well.

We've had enough of fear and uncertainty. We all know what it is like to wonder, "Will God answer me?" The truth is that, yes, God answers: but he does not always grant. A character who understands this and accepts it as the way of the all-knowing Father is a character who stands on solid ground: he is a character worth reading about.

"But courage, child: we are all between the paws of the true Aslan."

A character who understands this can face anything, knowing he does his Father's will. He can come in frank and reverent communion before the Godhead: his prayers will be even more than "Help me," though "Help me" will be in all his petitions. It is high time our characters had a better understanding of prayer, and can speak better things before God than frantic babblings of terror. If we mean to write better characters, the sorts that readers can look up to and emulate, if we mean to write Christ-like people, here is one aspect that we can work on to improve them. Prayer in a story is more than the acknowledgement that a story is "Christian" - it is the acknowledgement of our dependence upon God and our privilege of communion with him.

awake to righteousness, be sober-minded

After the World's Last Night

…Life is a short and fevered rehearsal for a concert we cannot stay to give. Just when we appear to have attained some proficiency we are forced to lay our instruments down. There is simply not time enough to think, to become, to perform what the constitution of our nature indicates we are capable of.

I paused in my reading, my eyes fixed upon the words. The page was very bright in its patch of sun, and the ink characters began to blur a little as my eyes unfocused, giving way to the image the words produced. It was melancholy: the words tasted sad in my mouth and weighed heavy in my chest. The topic, God's infinitude, suddenly swelled on me, and everything around me—the book, the chair, the glass door and the sunshine tumbling through it between the trees—seemed hollow in comparison, hollow and painfully definite to my senses. For a fleeting moment I understood what the Ghosts felt on the hard grasses of Lower Heaven.

"Oh," I murmured disconsolately.

My companion glanced up from Francis Bacon. I felt him looking at me, but he took a moment before prompting: "Is something the matter?"

I squinted out into the dandelion-flecked yard. They were rather like fireflies, but shabbier. They needed to be cut. Fireflies, winking in and out, seemed suddenly like lights from another world breaking through the stained-glass chinks of time and space. Dandelions seemed a poor substitute.

"I had a thought," I said.

Again he waited, and again, when I offered nothing else, he prompted, "It seems like a sombre thought. Did you want to share it?"

I looked back down at my book. How did I describe it? How did I describe the feeling of holding the whole world in my hands, and holding, as it were, a broken vase? The book closed listlessly on itself. "I was thinking…everything is going to end. We are all going to die, even the world is going to come to an end suddenly, when Christ comes again." I looked round at him. "What if Donne is right?" I asked. "What if this present were the world's last night? What is the point? Everything I do, everything I say and write—everything everyone else does and says and writes down—is going to be burned up and buried. We do all this for posterity, and one day there won't be any more posterity. We do all this to vent some creativity in our spleens, but one day there won't be anyone left to care. Even our spleens won't be around to vent any more. It's all going to be burned and buried, dead and gone." I twisted my mouth shut, feeling very small and petty. "So what is the point?"

"Do you dream in chocolate?"

I snapped the book back open. "I'm serious!" I retorted. I shook the poor little paperback at him. "What is the point! What is the point of learning anything? Why do I drive myself to know anything when everything is just going to be burned up in the end?"

With a little shift and a rustle, very quiet after my outburst, he settled more comfortably in his chair—which is something to accomplish, in these chairs—draped one leg over the other, used his finger as a bookmark, and regarded me thoughtfully. As well as I know him, it is hard even for me to hold up under that gaze for very long. I dropped my eyes to the cover of my book.

"I see what you mean," he said presently. "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and all that. We're surrounded by futility: what is the point of working hard, or of working little? It will all come to nothing in the end… But will it?"

His cunning little smile touched his lips.

"What if this present were the world's last night? What is that last scene which our time will play? What is the last stage we will stand on? The Judgment Scene. How well will Pilate like being in the dock then, and Jesus presiding over him? But if everything we do were to no purpose, what good would such a scene do? You and I both know—" he looked coaxingly at me "—that nothing God does is to no purpose."

"I never thought that… Go on."

"A character in a favourite film of yours says rather gallantly that what we do in life echoes in eternity. I'll own to him that we are called to give an account of everything we do in this life, certainly."

I gestured with my free hand. "I know that. Don't think that thought doesn't haunt me each day. It does. But what I mean is that, all of us trying to give some kind of account of the truth—you mentioned Pilate—to posterity, even to ourselves, is everything we do done for nothing? Is it really all futility?"

"You are beginning to ask questions rather than blurt unfounded certainties."

"Hmm," I said.

He put his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand, and let his book dangle over his thigh with his finger between the pages. "I know it will look depressing to you at first, seeing it that way. I imagine it was for the Preacher too, and for a great many people through the ages. Perhaps it will help to look at it this way. A friend of an acquaintance once said, 'Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he is forsaken, and still obeys.' The futility of our time and the limitations of our understanding aside, is it not a good thing to walk after God and strive to know the truth?"

"Yes, of course. Naturally. It's the basic purpose of Man."

He gave a little laugh, which made me feel as if I understood rather less than I supposed. He always gave me that laugh. There was a sudden flicker of shadows over us, and we looked up to see a flock of blackbirds rocketing through the air, sending the gold-spotted yard whirling with plum-coloured patches.

"We keep that in mind when the depression of futility comes: that even mortal things have immortal worth, that what we do does echo in eternity, and that all we say and do will be refined in fire. What we say and do last forever." He leaned over and tapped the book in my hands. "Only, the dross will be gone. That is all."

That is all. I stared at the title of my book and wondered how much of it would be left in Heaven's library when it had gone through the fire itself. How much of my work would be left? I shuddered to think.

"Will we recognize it," I asked, "without the dross?"

"Does that matter?"

I thought about it. A part of me, perhaps selfishly, wanted to meet my own work in its resurrected form. "If it is the truth," I admitted, "I suppose not."

"As iron sharpens iron," he said, reopening his book and settling down into its pages.

"I'm sorry?" I queried, perplexed by this reference's relevance.

But he was not to be moved. Ensconced once more in Bacon, he was not to be routed out with any more questions. I sighed lonesomely and returned to gazing out the window. The light was beginning to go, and it was harder to distinguish between plant and plant: only the dandelions, which so desperately needed shearing, stood out brightly in the long shadows. Strange, I thought on an impulse, that a weed, the offspring of our rebellion, should put me in mind of constancy and light. Here in the twilight the plant's unwanted flower blazed on; in the night, when the light was gone, it would still be yellow as fierceness: and in the morning, the sun's rays would peep over the rooftops and find the dandelions hard at work, being bright.

I turned the pages of my book open to the place where I had been, and picked up where I had left off.

How completely satisfying, I read, to turn from our limitations to a God who has none.

A Swan In Her Feathers

Having just spent over a week with quite a lot of out-going people in my home, I found it humorous to discover a post on Adam Young's official Owl City blog about introverted people. The ten points about introverts are written by an actual psychiatrist (for what that is worth) and should be fairly creditable. At the very least, I was able to sympathize and relate to them all; some more so, some less, but always each one hit the mark for me. A week with an unusually large amount of people would probably leave anyone fatigued (no offence, of course, on my guests!) but it was nice to read about how my personality reacts, and to realize that people out there really do understand how introverts work.

"You'd think we were all poor little pygmy people, who never travelled from our fire! Though in my case, of course, she's right."

Myth #1 – Introverts don't like to talk.

This is not true. Introverts just don't talk unless they have something to say. They hate small talk. Get an introvert talking about something they are interested in, and they won't shut up for days.

I've seen this in action. My father-in-law, who is very introverted, won't stop once you get him going on a topic of interest. I'm not quite so talkative even when I'm allowed to go on about a subject I enjoy, but that's really only because I'm not often allowed to have the floor for long, and I don't want to bore people. If I could, I could go on and on.

Myth #2 – Introverts are shy.

Shyness has nothing to do with being an Introvert. Introverts are not necessarily afraid of people. What they need is a reason to interact. They don't interact for the sake of interacting. If you want to talk to an Introvert, just start talking. Don't worry about being polite.

I'm naturally shy, but I'm also naturally friendly. Always happy to see a show of friendliness in others, I'll willingly open up if you do.

Myth #3 – Introverts are rude.

Introverts often don't see a reason for beating around the bush with social pleasantries. They want everyone to just be real and honest. Unfortunately, this is not acceptable in most settings, so Introverts can feel a lot of pressure to fit in, which they find exhausting.

I hate small talk. I've never got a handle on it, it doesn't mean anything, and it's trivial. I'm not usually blunt in conversation, but please don't make me dabble in small talk. I like to talk about things that matter.

Myth #4 – Introverts don't like people.

On the contrary, Introverts intensely value the few friends they have. They can count their close friends on one hand. If you are lucky enough for an introvert to consider you a friend, you probably have a loyal ally for life. Once you have earned their respect as being a person of substance, you're in.

For me, this is perfectly true. I'm naturally friendly, if shy, but I don't want or have a lot of friends. There are only a few people to whom I have warmed, and I love them fiercely. They don't usually make friends with me - I claim them for myself. As Raksha the She-Wolf said, "He is mine to me!"

Myth #5 – Introverts don't like to go out in public.

Nonsense. Introverts just don't like to go out in public FOR AS LONG. They also like to avoid the complications that are involved in public activities. They take in data and experiences very quickly, and as a result, don't need to be there for long to "get it." They're ready to go home, recharge, and process it all. In fact, recharging is absolutely crucial for Introverts.

If your eyeballs are wide open all the time, they would get tired faster too. My imagination is like a vacuum running all the time, drawing in everything it can. I like being out, especially with my people, but I wear out easily. My sister especially, who is probably more of an introvert that I am, wears down quickly. We're like flashes of lightning rather than florescent bulbs, or cactus flowers rather than pansies: we take things in short bursts, but we do like to take them all the same.

Myth #6 – Introverts always want to be alone.

Introverts are perfectly comfortable with their own thoughts. They think a lot. They daydream. They like to have problems to work on, puzzles to solve. But they can also get incredibly lonely if they don't have anyone to share their discoveries with. They crave an authentic and sincere connection with ONE PERSON at a time.

I don't know if I would say one person, though I have noticed that, even if I am talking in a crowd, I only remember talking to the person I was immediately addressing. Which gets awkward when I try to tell the same story afterward to others who had been standing by at the time. But the rest is true, I prefer sitting by and listening and thinking to myself. I'm not really a puzzler, but I am absolutely a daydreamer, and I get horribly moody and agitated when I can't share my ideas with anyone.

Myth #7 – Introverts are weird.

Introverts are often individualists. They don't follow the crowd. They'd prefer to be valued for their novel ways of living. They think for themselves and because of that, they often challenge the norm. They don't make most decisions based on what is popular or trendy.

Oh, I'm definitely weird. But I'm not ashamed of it, and I'm not weird for the sake of being weird. I'm just myself, and so long as 'myself' is respectable, I let myself be what I am wherever I am. I don't like being put in a box or being told how to dress or what to say. So long as I am respectable, I like being me.

Myth #8 – Introverts are aloof nerds.

Introverts are people who primarily look inward, paying close attention to their thoughts and emotions. It's not that they are incapable of paying attention to what is going on around them, it's just that their inner world is much more stimulating and rewarding to them.

This assessment is a trifle pretentious. I hope I'm not aloof (though I may be a nerd). The simple fact is that, referring upward to Myth #5, since I take in the world through agoggle-open eyes, I have to go away inside myself to think about it. And thinking about God, life, myself, reality in general, is very important to me.

Myth #9 – Introverts don't know how to relax and have fun.

Introverts typically relax at home or in nature, not in busy public places. Introverts are not thrill seekers and adrenaline junkies. If there is too much talking and noise going on, they shut down. Their brains are too sensitive to the neurotransmitter called Dopamine. Introverts and Extroverts have different dominant neuro-pathways. Just look it up.

Do people really think that about introverts? It's true, I'm much more stimulated by a scene of a Cumbrian fell, or a blast of sea-wind in my face, than I am by a crowd of people walking on Main Street. I don't need (or want) to do anything wild and crazy like get on a roller-coaster, or jet-ski, or anything of that sort. Sitting down with my copy of Francis Bacon (which Rhodri graciously gave back to me today) is much more my cup of tea.

Myth #10 – Introverts can fix themselves and become Extroverts.

A world without Introverts would be a world with few scientists, musicians, artists, poets, filmmakers, doctors, mathematicians, writers, and philosophers. That being said, there are still plenty of techniques an Extrovert can learn in order to interact with Introverts. (Yes, I reversed these two terms on purpose to show you how biased our society is.) Introverts cannot "fix themselves" and deserve respect for their natural temperament and contributions to the human race. In fact, one study (Silverman, 1986) showed that the percentage of Introverts increases with IQ.

Yeah, what he said. Thankfully I've never been in a crowd that wanted me to "loosen up" or "get real," and all those other strange phrases which people have come up with. I'm not really sure what they mean by it. I'm not sure they do, either. At any rate, thank goodness the Church is made for unity, not uniformity. I can be myself and still be myself as I am made more like Christ. Though, of course, being like Christ is far more important than "being myself."

So I'm introverted! I don't wear it like a badge, it's just what sort of person I am, and I'm comfortable in my own feathers this way. I've noticed that a lot of my characters, though not necessarily introverted, at least appreciate the value of companionable silence, which is something introverts understand. They don't need to always be doing something, or going places, or filling their eyeballs with the crazy colours of a dizzy, confused world. Sitting down side by side in thoughtful quiet is a stronger bond to them than any activity could ever be. If you have a really good friend, you probably know what this is like. Rudyard Kipling understood: he wrote "The Thousandth Man" about it. It's not a bad thing to be introverted - it's not a bad thing to be extroverted. It's good to stop and think and mull over and consider the wondrous works of God and number our days, to be sober-minded and circumspect.


But his silence at last drew attention upon it, and one of them said:
'Come, young Curdie, what are you thinking of?'

'How do you know I'm thinking of anything?' asked Curdie.

'Because you're not saying anything.'

'Does it follow then that, as you're saying so much,
you're not thinking at all?'
The Princess and Curdie, by George MacDonald

From the Uncreated Light

I posted specifically at Midsummer about my growing relationship with my husband when we were children, when we were adolescents, and now through the first two years of our marriage. Several of you remarked on how unique our relationship is, and I distinctly caught some tones of envy in some remarks. I'm not going to rebuke the tones of envy. I am grateful for what God has done for me, and I don't take the honour of having brought it about. That is in the almighty hands of God. What I would like to say now does, however, apply to all of you, and Lord willing the secret which I will presently divulge will be a help and blessing to you all.

This secret, like the toys of young elves left long ago under the heaping mountains, takes a great deal of digging to reach. As time progresses the mountains only grow higher, the earth more compressed and difficult to work with. A vital secret which Heaven has made manifest to mankind (and mankind and Hell have frantically tried to hush up) lies shining in the depths of reality, throwing off its facets God's uncreated light, and we are not now so young and foolish as to miss it, or to neglect searching for it.

The secret is the Essence of Love.

Among the diadem of Heaven's gems, this is the greatest which we can appreciate and emulate. "Am I my brother's keeper?" Cain asked, and God answered by sending his only Son to die to redeem mankind. What other love is there than this? What greater love could there be that would do such a thing? To give up all, even that primal gift of life, for another person - this is love abounding, this is love breaking its banks and laughing at the thought of constraint and contingency. Yes, you are your brother's keeper. Yes, you must love your neighbour as yourself. Yes, you must love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul and mind and strength.

But what is love? Is it meek and mild? Is it a protective tempest? Is it feeling? Is it constancy? What is this attribute (we know that it must be more than mere feeling) that we must possess, which must define all that we do? What is it?

The Essence of Love is to seek the good of its object.

The essence of love is to seek the good of its object. It wants nothing more (which is to say, it wants everything of worth) than to bring about its object's happiness and security. This is the nearest love will come to selflessness, though true love, by its very nature, revels and joys in itself and its work. It delights in the good of its object, it spins out silver good for its object like Grandmother Moon at her wheel, it exists to bring about and to live through bringing about the good of its object. This is love: when everything else has been cleared away from its fringes and its core is left bare, this is love: with all that it is, it strives to bring about its object's good.

Then the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as himself.

We are not now so young (as the Green Lady reckoned young) and foolish to miss this gem. Christians believe this instinctively. Everything about their faith confirms this: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son...for God did not send the Son into the world to judge the world, but that the world might be saved through him;" and "greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." Why did God save mankind? What could possibly be worthy of salvation in fallen man? These questions have peppered the ages, because we understand that there isn't anything in mankind that is worth saving, not once it has been willfully corrupted. So why? Because of love. Because God, in his ineffable council of wisdom, delighted to extend love to mankind, to seek the good of mankind - not because of any good mankind has ever done, but so that mankind might have good.

This is love, and this is love which we can emulate. I dig out this secret and bring it to the fore because I know that it has been obscured beneath layers and layers of shallow Romantic ideals and odd "biblical" notions, not to mention the whole seething wash of the world's confused, twisted definitions. I dig out this secret and bring it to the fore because I know many of you are looking for Mr Right (or Mrs Right). Personally, I don't hold to the notion of a Mr or Mrs Right, or Perfect, or whatever. But neither do I hold to the notion that you can grab any man or woman off the street and such a marriage would be peachy. There are many, many aspects of a relationship that must be developed, and I am here dealing with only the fundamental. Love is patient, not in the sense that it is kicking around waiting for Mr Right, but because it is loving. Love doesn't require a perfect match of personality, love doesn't require a strong, mature nature: love exists in spite of imperfections, and love endeavours to bring about a holy perfection in its object. If you can say "This person, of all the people in the world, is the person whose good I want to cultivate for the rest of my life" then you are in love.

It'll break your will, it'll change your mind,
It'll loose all the chains of the ties that bind,
And if you're lucky, you'll never make it out alive -
And that's a good thing. Love is a good thing.
It can hurt like a blast from a hand-grenade
When all that used to matter is blown away:
There in the middle of the mess it made
You'll find a good thing.
Yes, it's worth every penny of the price you paid.
It's a good thing.
Love is a good thing.
Andrew Peterson, "Love Is a Good Thing"

A Whitest Day

"I do" are the two most famous last words,
The beginning of the end;
But to lose your life for another, I've heard,
Is a good place to begin.

'Cause the only way to find your life
Is to lay your own life down,
And I believe it's an easy price
For the life that we have found.

And we're dancing in the minefields;
We're sailing in the storm.
This is harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for.

That's what the promise is for...

It's Midsummer. It's kind of a special point, don't you think? Midsummer. And it has such a beautiful ring to it. Speaking of a ring to it, two years ago yesterday, on Midsummer's Eve, this young lady was married. In our age, marrying at the age of eighteen strikes people as unwise; and, in many cases, sadly, they might be right. But being unfettered by social winds and adhering to a more biblical method than contemporary wisdom, my father and my husband's father raised, not children, but adults. So by the time I was eighteen (my husband had just turned nineteen) we were ready for marriage. We had been gearing toward it for years. This precocious child, at the age of four, had already decided that the blond bean-pole of a gentleboy was for her, so everyone could see this marriage coming from a league off.

After twenty years, though, two years doesn't seem like much: only two years of being actually married, and yet it seems like forever. It hasn't been an easy twenty years, of course. There were pockets of mines and rough patches, and my husband and I had a lot of growing to do, which is perfectly natural. I'm usually one to fixate on the traumatic moments in my life, but in these cases all those delightful moments of shared childhood and shared adolescence come to the fore. We were like Peter Pan and his shadow, one always tagging right behind the other, and always getting into some kind of trouble. It isn't often that one gets to have such a history, and to be still making that kind of history (we don't get into so much trouble now, though our childish streaks are still glaring - silly artsy people, us) and I'm very, very grateful to God for this gift.

You're the first light of the morning, my cool sunrise;
You're my love across the table, a little sleep in your eyes;
You're my strong cup of coffee, you like to laugh right with me.
You're my heart's companion, my one true companion:
Sweet darling, lover of mine.

In It's A Wonderful Life, it is brought home to the viewer how important even a single person is in someone's life. I know I would not be who I am today, nor where I am today - not even a shadow of who or where - if it were not for my husband. He has always been there for me, and he has been patient with me, and helped me grow, indulged and even shared my quirks, been "such a child!" with me, and been serious with me... I look at what God has given me in him and I can't quite believe my eyes. God's gifts are rather splendid like that, aren't they? They are all different, but each one fits perfectly. There will still be minefields, and storms (these drive us to the arms of the Father together, don't they?), and moments of peaceful quiet and ridiculous fun (these refresh the soul, don't they?) - but Lord willing we will have many Midsummer Eves to see yet side by side, and, Lord willing, each Midsummer will find us grown a little more in our Father than the year before.

"Dear heart, press on; let not husband, let not anything, cool thy affections after Christ. I hope he will be an occasion to inflame them. That which is best worthy of love in thy husband is that of the image of Christ he bears. Look on that, and love it best, and all the rest for that."

Beautiful People - Rhodri

Once a month Sky and [Georgie] will be posting a list of 10 questions for you to answer about your characters. You can use the same character every month, or choose a new one for each set of questions. Your call. You can answer all the questions, just one, or however many you have the time and energy to answer. Just go for it and have fun.

Despite his objections at being thus singled out, I've decided to introduce my principle fairy from my novel Adamantine in the June-July issue of Beautiful People. On his account I do apologize for the title "Beautiful People;" it isn't very masculine at all, though I'm sure Sky and Georgie couldn't help it.

He has gone back to reading my copy of Francis Bacon and is effectively ignoring me. Well! We will proceed, and hopefully he will talk to me by tea-time without looking witheringly askance. Ladies and gentlefolk -

Rhodri

What kind of music does he like?

Rhodri enjoys all kinds of music. He plays both the piano and the cello, and is a fair hand at a number of country folk tunes as well as more elegant, complicated pieces. If a piece has a good sense of rhythm he is usually game to try it.

Does he like to go outside?

Inside or outside, Rhodri doesn't mind either way. Except as it impinges on others, he doesn't really consciously mark a difference in the weather, though he could probably tell you what the weather was going to be like if you asked and gave him a minute to sniff the air.

Is he naturally curious?

No, not really. He has always been a voracious student of whatever has struck his fancy, but curiosity is not among his traits. If anything, he is quite the opposite.

Right, or left handed?

Rhodri is right-handed.

Favourite colour?

Personally, black would probably be Rhodri's favourite colour, if one can call it a colour. A runner-up would probably be scarlet.

Where is he from?

Rhodri has come from all over the place, but his boyhood home was in Kartusca, the Garden of Faerie.

Any enemies?

Rhodri's personality is such that spawns enemies almost without thinking, and chief among those enemies he would place himself.

What are his quirks?

Rhodri is probably the most quirkless person I know. He is extremely taciturn, and has a way of looking at you as if he is looking right through to your inner inside; but though he is never boring, he wouldn't claim to have any "quirks."

What kinds of things get on his nerves?

Pookas, over-inquisitive strangers, pain, Eikin, constant damp, sugar in his tea, untoward women and bad wine.

Is he independent, or needs others to help out?

Rhodri is very independent. On occasion, depending on who he is working with, he can be cross or even manipulative, but in general he can take care of himself and doesn't often suffer anyone to lend him a hand. Perversely, he usually offers his own services first, or gives them without asking.

As a parting shot Rhodri would like to mention that this is a very narrow snapshot of himself, and not from his most flattering side. Not that he has a flattering side, except when it comes to - ack! help - !

Here lies all that was mortal of Jenny. She will not be missed.

Equality by the Divine

If you have heard of C.S. Lewis, perhaps you have heard of his book The Screwtape Letters. It's an excellent book - I've read it more than once. But I had never read the appended "Screwtape Proposes a Toast" before, though chiefly because the copy of the book I have didn't include it. Having purchased a collection of Lewis' essays which did include the piece, I sat down and began to read it.

This post isn't about C.S. Lewis, or Screwtape, or really his toast. It's about an ancient question, one which Screwtape resurrected in his toast and which got me thinking. He brought up the concept of Democracy. Not Democracy as some might think of it, as a sort of governmental structure, nor Democracy as our forefathers thought of it, as a breed of anarchy, but Democracy as a way of thinking. What is Democracy? Equality. The ability, as Screwtape put it, for a man to say to another "I'm as good as you."

The moment I say that, though, you're probably thinking, "Pfft, that's not true. I'm not as good as Lizzy, and Lizzy has nothing on Jane," and so on. But that isn't what Democracy is driving at. Of course you're not as good as Lizzy at something, and Jane is even better. Democracy demands an equality, but from the up-ended, wrong-sided view. A democratic man of this sort wants to put himself on an equal footing as a person with someone else, it doesn't matter what for - indeed, the man wants his equality with another to encompass everything.

In our oh-so-enlightened age, the idea of equality and democracy is rampant in our country. At first blush, it's a good thing. Great inroads have been made in society under the philosophical idea that man is equal to man. Slavery has been abolished, women can vote (though I'll decline my views on that matter), and the like. Equality. "I'm as good as you." We have laboured long and hard to level the stratification of society that engineered such atrocities as the French Revolution. But if you take a closer look at this societal progression of thought, you'll find out that "I'm as good as you" isn't what they are really saying. It's what they want to be saying, but if they were really saying that, they would be saying it differently. What they are really saying is, "You're as bad as me."

"Lincoln said, 'With malice toward none, with charity toward all.' Nowadays they say, 'Think the way I do, or I'll bomb the daylights out of you.' "

Democracy is a levelling, a reducing to the common denominator. Democracy of this sort is a weak, sniveling, suspicious thing getting about on its belly and hating everyone who has the manfulness to walk on his own two legs. This is Equality, that every man be as I am, no one better (I shouldn't want any one worse) than myself. Better or worse imply morals, morals imply right and wrong, right and wrong imply judgment, judgment implies condemnation. But we have no need now for such things in our oh-so-enlightened age, (wasn't it observed that God is dead, and at the hand of man?): better and worse are the trappings of a bygone era of religious fervour, and have nothing to do with today. Today is for Democracy, an equality of mind and man: and every man in his own mind is the prototype of Equality.

This is the destructive nature of Democracy in the mind of man. But what about Equality? Is that such a bad idea? What about the abolition of slavery? At its core, twinges of embarrassed conscience aside, don't we know that that man in bondage is our equal? This isn't just a mutation of human thought over the centuries. If anything, this concept of Equality has a much more prestigious parentage. But more on that in a moment.

What makes men equal? We can't go tearing folk down to our level to make them equal to us, and we can't try hauling them up to us, either. Equality doesn't come from station, equality doesn't come from skills; that has been tried, and it is impossible. At what level do you draw the line and say, "Because of this, all men are equal in the sight of God"?

I let slip the answer with the question. The answer is absurdly basic, fundamental, even primeval. It is because all men, in the sight of God, were created by God, and in his image. This is an imprint which cannot be erased, and indelible fixture of man's essence which neither servanthood, ignorance, social station, and skills (or lack thereof) can do away with. At our most basic, we are equal simply because we are Men. It underlies the core of our race, but wouldn't you say it is a rather important basic principle?

But Jenny, God is dead.

Shh, we do not really believe that. History, in all its dysfunctional revels, has anchoured its great ships of state upon this basic principle. If man were not made in God's image, and owe at the very core of his essence allegiance by existence to a single Divine, there would be no concept whatsoever of Equality. Why should there be justice among men if there were not an image of God's just person on us? Why should we be compelled to be merciful to our fellows if we did not hark back to a creation by a Person who delights in mercy? I might tantrum against society all I like otherwise, and tear people down to my level all I please (or crawl my way up to others, if I feel a little more noble) except for this immovable concept of Equality by the Divine.

"I'm as good as you." Do you hear the childish tone in the words? If you are of a sensitive nature to such things, the proclamation makes you cringe. This is because of what a decent, pure sort of Equality has done. A good sort of Equality says, not "I'm as good as you" but "You're as good as me." A really honest sort of Equality goes further and says, "I esteem you better than myself." A really honest sort of Equality upends the whole mess entirely, for the more a man thinks, "I love my neighbour as myself," the more he will think of his neighbour, and the less he will think of himself, until he may very well love his neighbour more than he loves himself. Equality, not a bad idea in itself, is a truth that moves as a spirit moves, unseen, through the depths of a man's psyche. Indeed, the more a man goes on about Equality, and announces his adherence to it, the less likely Equality will be to keep his company. "The lady," it was said, "doth protest too much."

Equality by the Divine, on the grounds of common birth by God's hand, has a way of fading me out as my esteem for my fellows grows. If we are equal, I suppose to myself, what is to stop me from esteeming others? And isn't it better to esteem others than myself? Of course, no one likes a selfish brute, a prig, an "intellectual."

"Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

A man who hasn't surrendered his mind and soul up to the idea of Democracy will likely put his fist on the table and say "Hear! hear!" to such a statement. No one likes a selfish brute, everyone likes a charitable heart. There is an unspoken understanding among mankind that the latter is noble, and the former is a grotesque twisting of the soul by pride. And this understanding goes far to answer the inevitable question, "If we are all equal, then why should I be my brother's especial keeper? What makes him any more special than myself? I'm not looking to having anyone cover my back, because I know I'm just as good as the next guy and I don't deserve special treatment - so neither should he." If you won't take the glaring answer, there's an answer smeared over man's mind through the centuries. We do acknowledge honourable behaviour, of giving yourself up for the sake of someone else, of putting others first, and the like. And you may, if you like, cling to an obstinate idea of Democracy and say that all this idea of Nobility and Equality by the Divine and Charity and Self-Sacrifice and Keeping One's Brother is merely a weak carry-over from the days of superstition. You may, if you like, though I should hate to be in the dog-eat-dog, grubbing, hating, swindling, sniveling, hellish world such a denial would make.

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

This Democracy is a Democracy of Ignorance, of Selfishness, of Grubbiness of Spirit. Even among the elite, the moment this barb of Democracy sticks into a mind it infects it with a degrading poison. This Equality, not of Democracy but by virtue of our creation, inspires a selflessness in its adherents - a selflessness which I shan't do an indecency to by calling it into the spotlight even now. The most I will do is leave you with the glaring answer to the question, "Am I my brother's keeper?"

Jesus, who, for the joy set before him, endured the cross

"This is My commandment, that you love one another, just has I have loved you. Greater love has no man than this, that one lay down his life for his friends."

Tea

and why I drink it

I usually try to post something helpful, or meaningful, or whatever. Something that folk will be able to take away and use. Not that I suppose I very often succeed, but chances are you're not going to go away with much from this post in particular. This is about tea.

If you're a coffee-drinker, don't go. I tolerate you guys too, even if I loath the stuff myself.

I'm a Southern girl, so I've grown up drinking sweet iced tea and the like. I've run into waitresses in the North who squinted at my family quizzically when we asked for "sweet tea" - "It's tea, just put some sugar in it." It wasn't until I got into highschool that I began to develop a liking for hot tea. My mother bought me a box of Twinings Lemon & Ginger and I made myself a cup of tea. I will never forget that cup of tea. Just you try steeping lemon and ginger for more than the appointed time. I could barely even taste the lemon through the ginger, and I could barely taste the ginger through the scalding sensation running down my esophagus. This smug little Southern girl with her fine iced teas of sweetness was put in her place. I could hear the shades of Twinings chuckling at me.

But I tried again. Mother got me a prim little box sporting a green and gold vista of an Indian tea-field, also from Twinings. Rudyard Kipling helped give me an intellectual interest in the wilds of India, and this box of "Darjeeling" tea struck that nerve. "Darjeeling." I could jingle it to myself all day. I tried it, and I loved it. It's a subtle black tea, rich but light, and when they say it has hints of "muscatel and honey," they mean it. Drinking Darjeeling is like drinking royalty, only without all the nasty trappings of diluted blood, bad upbringing, and scandals. Drinking Darjeeling is like drinking red velvet and damson silk. I love that stuff. Once we ran out, as stocks of anything will run out, and Mother bought a different brand. I tasted the difference at once, and I went back to Twinings the moment I could.

I'm not a connoisseur, though. I don't drink widely enough to be that. I can pick out the differences in brands of Darjeeling, but that's about as much as I can boast. I never really liked the typical teas: Earl Grey, Lady Grey, Irish Breakfast, English Breakfast, etc. I tried Earl Grey, and it was too flat. I tried Lady Grey, and it was too fruity and sweet - the same with Irish Breakfast. English Breakfast...it's been too long, I don't remember what that tasted like. I retreated back to my faithful Darjeeling and stuck there.

"Tea is nothing but hot water with leaves in it."

An accusation levelled at me by one of my own characters, one which I couldn't really refute. But it's tasty water with leaves in it, and we take the leaves out before we drink it, you know. Give me a good black tea, a Darjeeling or an Orange Bliss, and I'm set. I like my teas dark and strong - but without the lemon and ginger. I don't use milk, because I think milk makes tea look uncomfortably like coffee; on occasion I'll take my Orange Bliss without sugar, but Darjeeling needs just a touch of sugar to take the edge off its bitterness (but if you put too much sugar in, it tastes like grossness). I'm not very adventurous either, save in an emergency. I'll dabble in a dubious Pomegranate Delight if there is no Darjeeling to be had (I think the Pomegranate brews too thin) and I'm not adverse to Ceylon Orange Pekoe if that's all I can get.

I drink a cup of tea every morning. Every morning. I get up, put my contacts in, get dressed, and put the kettle on the stove to heat. Not that you could ever set a clock by me, because I get up at different times: I suppose that routine is my only claim to regularity. But I must have my tea in the morning. I am not a morning person, and I've been told I'm a simmering mass of murder until I can get my tea down my throat. I like to think the report is exaggerated just a wee bit. It doesn't matter what time of the year it is, or what the weather is like, tea must go on. Tea is regular, tea is soothing, tea doesn't taste like engine sludge... In fact (I almost hate to admit this) I think my body has become so accustomed to having tea in the morning that it doesn't always mind substituting it for a proper breakfast. On occasion I have had only tea before shooting out the door, and I've managed without too much agony.

On a purely emotional level, I deeply enjoy the sight of a good ambery cup of tea in morning sunlight. It's like drinking sunlight itself. This is half the reason why I skirt around and avoid green teas (also, green teas are thin and dastardly, and don't do the job): tea may be only leaves in hot water, but I want it to at least look like I'm drinking something. Tea in the sunshine. It's hard to beat that.

that is why I drink tea, because I love it