My 2016 Reads

Completed: First Quarter

“Master and Man,” a short story by Leo Tolstoy.

Interior Castle, a non-fiction book on spirituality by St. Teresa of Avila.

“A Cup of Cold Water,” a short story by Edith Wharton.

Feline Catastrophes, a collection of humorous anecdotes by Victor S. E. Moubarak.

“In the Garden of the North American Martyrs,” a short story by Tobias Wolff.

To Kill a Mockingbird, a novel by Harper Lee.

Prayer for Beginners, a non-fiction book of devotion by Peter Kreeft.

“Saint Dymphna,” a short story by Mary O’Connell.

Completed 2^nd Quarter:

“A House of Gentlefolks,” a short story by Evelyn Waugh. 

The Noonday Devil: Acedia, the Unnamed Evil of Our Times, a non-fiction book by Jean-Charles Nault, O.S.B.

White Fang, a novella by Jack London.

The Book of Psalms, (Psalms 51-100) KJV and Ignatius RSV Translations.

“Hallelujah, Family,” a short story by Ludmilla Petrushevkaya, translated by Anna Summers.

“Wingstroke,: a short story by Vladimir Nabokov. 

“A House of Gentlefolks,” a short story by Evelyn Waugh.

“Miles City, Montana,” a short story by Alice Munro. 

“The Cabuliwallah,” a short story by Rabindranath Tagore. 

“1933,” a short story by Mavis Gallant.

“The Man Born Blind,” a short story by C. S. Lewis. 

“After the Storm,” a short story by Earnest Hemingway.

Completed 3^rd Quarter:

Saint Dominic, a biography by Sr. Mary Jean Dorcy, O.P.

“Clair de Lune,” a short story by Guy de Maupassant. 

“The Crucifix across the Mountains,” a personal essay by D. H. Lawrence.

“The Woman In White: Emily Dickinson and Friends,” an essay by Joyce Carol Oats.

“The State of Grace,” a short story by Harold Brodkey.

The Book of Psalms, (Psalms 101-150) KJV and Ignatius RSV Translations.

Learning the Virtues That Lead You to God, a non-fiction book of Christian devotion by Romano Guardini.

Completed 4th Quarter:

First Letter to the Corinthians, an epistle from the New Testament by St. Paul the Apostle in both the KJV and Ignatius RSV translations.

Silence, a novel by Shūsaku Endō. 

“Unzen,” a short story by Shūsaku Endō. 

“The Stampeding of Lady Bastable,” a short story by Saki (H. H. Munro).

“The Jesting of Arlington Stringham,” a short story by Saki (H. H. Munro).

Second Letter to the Corinthians, an epistle from the New Testament by St. Paul the Apostle in both the KJV and Ignatius RSV translations.

Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family, a novel by Thomas Mann.

“The Demilitarized Zone,” a short story by Anthony Doerr.

“The Flying Stars,” a Father Brown mystery short story by G. K. Chesterton.

 “The Red-Headed League,” a Sherlock Holmes short story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

“In a Grove,” a short story by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa.

“Clay,” a short story by James Joyce.

Two Gentlemen from Verona, a play by William Shakespeare.

Artful Sentences: Syntax as Style, a non-fiction book on writing by Virginia Tufte.

Unfinished Reading:

Julius Caesar: Life of a Colossus, a biography by Adrian Goldsworthy.

Some Desperate Glory: The First World War the Poets Knew, a book of history and collected poetry by Max Egremont.

I’m late on summarizing last year’s reads.  Really late.  On balance I would say this was again not a great year for reading, perhaps just short of average.  But more importantly I was distracted from my plans.  I don’t think I read half of what I planned to read at the beginning of the year.  Two reasons I think.  First the Thomas Mann novel Buddenbrooks taken up in May but not completed until the end of summer was so long that I did not plan accordingly and once I fell behind it destroyed the pace and plan I envisioned.  Second belonging to Goodreads book clubs forces one to accommodate the poll winner for the reading selection,  I don’t get to decide all the time.  Before I summarize, if you wish to read my beginning-of-the-year plans and the quarterly updates for 2016 you can find them here:

Plans for 2016  

First Quarter Update  

Second Quarter Update 

Third Quarter Update  

As you break down my reads you will find twelve full length works, six books of non-fiction, five books of fiction, and one play, maintaining the one book per month goal I set out every year.  The fact that there were more works of non-fiction than fiction is not typical of my reading patterns, but I think this may have been a function of being part of a Catholic Book Club on Goodreads, where the book selections tend to be Catholic devotional works or about Catholic theology.  There were four such books on the list: St. Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle, Peter Kreeft’s Prayer for Beginners, Jean-Charles Nault’s The Noonday Devil, and Romano Guardini’s Learning the Virtues that Lead You to God.  I have to say I thought the Kreeft book and the Guardini book were so-so.  I didn’t dislike them, but I didn’t think they were that insightful.  Interior Castle is a great classic and well worth the read, and Nault’s book on acedia—a complicated emotional state of boredom, sloth, and inertia—is fascinating and perceptive.  Nault makes the case that acedia is what drives people to lose devotion and perseverance, both in religious life and even every day activity, and Nault points out is particularly problematic in today’s hyper distracting world.  It’s a rather heavy read, but interesting.

Another non-fiction work, also with a Catholic subject was the biography of St. Dominic de Guzmán by Sr. Mary Jean Dorcy.  This read was not associated with the book club but was something I did to honor the 800^th anniversary of the founding of the Order of Preachers.  And the last non-fiction book I read was my annual read on the art of writing, this year being Virginia Tufte’s Artful Sentences: Syntax as Style.  Tufte’s book is a magnificent work.  It goes through every possible sentence structure and their rhetorical implications.  I meant to post some of the grammatical points here, but unfortunately I haven’t been so consistent in my blogging.  Perhaps on occasion I still will post something from this wonderful book.

The four full length fiction works were all outstanding and all four classics.  Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird from mid-20^th century American South dealt with issues of racism through the eyes of a young girl.  Jack London’s White Fang is an early 20^th century American novel from the point of view of a wolf-dog as he goes from wild to domesticate.  Shūsaku Endō’s Silence is a 20^th century Japanese historical novel set in the 16^th century of Catholic persecution.  And Thomas Mann’s Buddenbrooks is an early 20^th century German epic set in the 19^th century of a family’s decline.  I immensely enjoyed all four novels.  The fifth fiction work, Feline Catastrophes, is Victor Moubarak’s humorous collection of anecdotes—somewhere between short stories and jokes—centered on the house cat and the trouble he causes.  Victor you may realize is a frequent reader of this blog.  As with his many other publications, Feline Catastrophes, was a fun read.

The one play I read was one of Shakespeare’s early comedies, Two Gentlemen from Verona.  While the plotting seemed a little awkward and the character’s conversions too convenient, the play was still enjoyable and worthwhile, least of all for Shakespeare’ language.   It was a play obviously where he was learning his craft, but his poetry had already developed into the Bard that he would be.  This play checks off another of the ones I’ve read from the Shakespeare opus.  That makes 28 plays read of Shakespeare’ 37 officially credited plays.  I’m getting there.

I also made headway on my track through the Bible.  From the Old Testament I read Psalms 50 through 150 both in the KJV an Ignatius RSV translations, and from the New Testament I read First and Second of Paul’s Letters to the Corinthians, also in both translations.  That puts me about half way on the Old Testament and significantly through the New.

I completed 22 short stories but if you add the two essays I’ve listed, which are about short story length, I read 24 short works this year.  That’s spot on the two per month I set as a goal.  I guess that’s not too bad.  Both essays were well worth reading, but Lawrence’s “The Crucifix Across the Mountains” is exceptional, a classic.  Not only was D. H. Lawrence a great novelist, great short story writer, and great poet, but he was a fine essayist as well.  “The Crucifix Across the Mountains” starts out as a travel essay where the author traverses across the Alps from Germany to Italy.  But near Innsbruck the author comes across a series of crucifixes, and as he goes from mountain to mountain he encounters more crucifixes.  The essay is a contemplation of art, Christ, and death.

This year I’ll rate the short stories as either exceptional, good, ordinary, or duds.  Of the duds there were two: “The Man Born Blind” by C. S. Lewis and “The State of Grace” by Harold Brodkey.  Lewis’s story was a posthumously published work and I suspect it was never refined, if it ever meant to be published.  It felt more like a sketch than a complete story.  Brodkey’s story was boring and depressing and was supposed to have all sorts of Freudian significance, which in today’s age is meaningless.  Six stories I considered ordinary: “Saint Dymphna” by Mary O’Connell, “Clare de Lune” by Guy de Maupassant, “The Jesting of Arlington Stringham” by Saki, “The Flying Stars” by G. K. Chesterton, “The Demilitarized Zone” by Anthony Doerr, and “Clay” by James Joyce.  The one surprise to some in those six I think would be Joyce’s “Clay.”  It’s about a spinster who going on a visit to the family of a man who she nursed when he was a child, forgets the cake she bought for the occasion on the train ride because she became flustered when a drunken man flirted with her.  It was well written but the lack of sympathy the author displays for the woman made it feel harsh and pitiless, and the theme wasn’t exactly profound.  I’m probably not with the majority, but I don’t find James Joyce that great a short story writer. 

Nine stories I’d rate in the good category:  Tobias Wolff’s “In the Garden of the North American Martyrs,” Ludmilla Petrushevkaya’s “Hallelujah, Family,” Vladimir Nabokov’s “Wingstroke,” Evelyn Waugh’s “A House of Gentlefolks,” Alice Munro’s “Miles City, Montana,” Rabindranath Tagore’s “The Cabuliwallah,” Mavis Gallant’s “1933,” Shūsaku Endō’s “Unzen,” Saki’s “The Stampeding of Lady Bastable,” I could probably distinguish a couple of those in a very good category (Gallant’s and Petrushevkaya’s ) since I had a hard time deciding if they were exceptional.  What’s notable about this group is just how international the group of writers are. 

Four stories I’d rate in the exceptional category: Leo Tolstoy’s “Master and Man,” Edith Wharton’s “A Cup of Cold Water,” Earnest Hemingway’s “After the Storm,” and Ryūnosuke Akutagawa’s “In a Grove.” “Master and Man” is a story of rich landlord and a peasant caught in a blizzard; “A Cup of Cold Water” is about a poor, young man in love with a rich lady but uses his last pocket money to save another lady.  “After the Storm” is about a scavenger who finds a sunken vessel after a hurricane and tries to steal the valuables.  “In a Grove” is a series of testimonies to the police about a murder, each account varying and telling us something about the witness.  When you add up the accounts you get to the heart of the murder.

As I do every year, I give a prize to the best short story read in that year.  First the honorable mention and runner up is…drum roll please… Ryūnosuke Akutagawa’s “In a Grove.”  Akutagawa is early 20^th century Japanese writer known as the "Father of the Japanese short story.”  I had never read any of his stories, but was totally impressed with “In a Grove.”  The sequencing of accounts, varying and conflicting with each other, creates a complex situation where truth is distorted through perception.  Finally, the winner is…more drum roll…Tolstoy’s “Master and Man.”  This was an incredible story about a selfish landlord who faced with death of the peasant under him freezing to death saves him by using his body warmth.  While doing he has a mystical experience of meeting Christ, but while keeping the peasant warm he is exposed and dies.  The landlord maybe master over the peasant, but the Lord is master over him.  You can find both those stories on line if you want to read them.

Faith Filled Friday: Compassionate Blood by Fr. Romanus Cessario, O.P

For those looking for a devotional book to read for Lent, the monthly Catholic magazine, Magnificat, has put out a devotional this season, Compassionate Blood, written by Fr. Romanus Cessario, O.P. Fr. Romanus using the thoughts and words of my dear St. Catherine of Siena creates a meditation on Christ’s Passion.  Here’s what the ad blurb says:  

“What do we learn from this description of the suffering Christ? What does Catherine teach us about the transformation that brings the world stillness on Good Friday from noon until three o’clock?

“The answer is simple: We discover that because of his enormous love, Christ’s sufferings and death cause the transformation of all that exists, the transformation we call Christian salvation….

The transformation that Catherine announces is one that creates in those persons who remain united with Christ a new ground for love, a new sort of loving…. The transformation affects both our persons and our actions.”

Father Romanus Cessario, O.P.

Senior Editor of Magnificat

Of course given St. Catherine is my patroness, as soon as I saw the flyer in this month’s edition of Magnificat I went and ordered it right away.  It just came in the mail today.  Flipping through the pages, it looks like a great little read, especially if you’re looking to learn something about St. Catherine’s theology.  And remember St. Catherine of Siena is one of the doctors of thechurch.  It’s 86 pages not including the footnotes and about the size of a well-constructed paperback.  Here’s an image of the book.

You can order it here  for $9.95, three dollars off the regular price.  I don’t know when the sale ends, so hurry if you are interested.  March 1^st is Ash Wednesday, and if you order now it should arrive before then.  

Faith Filled Friday: Day of the Massacre of the Innocents

In the Gospel of Matthew, shortly after the Magi leave the infant Jesus in Bethlehem, King Herod as a result of the Magi telling him of the birth of a future King, orders the massacre of all the male infants, and thereby ordering the massacre of the innocents.  Christian Pro-life advocates have always connected the massacre of the innocents with today’s abortion culture.  Today (January 27^th) is the 44thannual pro-life march on Washington D. C. and, perhaps as you read this, I will be for the second year marching myself. So if you catch some of it on TV (EWTN usually broadcasts it) you may catch a glimpse of me. 

I try not to be political on this blog, but pro-life to me is not political.  It is humane, it is moral, it is Christian, and each child in the womb is a reflection of Christ and especially the Christ child.  Every abortion is the ultimate no to God.  Having an abortion, assisting in an abortion, advocating an abortion is the most heinous sin imaginable. 

I found it interesting that the Russian Orthodox Church this year was able to persuade the city of Yaroslavl in Russia to not perform any abortions on the commemorative day of the massacre of the innocents.  From BBC News:  

A Russian region has banned abortions for one day after local religious leaders called for the biblical account of the Massacre of the Innocents to be commemorated, it's reported.

The Russian Orthodox Church diocese in the city of Yaroslavl declared 11 January a "day of silence without abortions", and said it had the support of the region's health department. Abortion is legal in Russia and the cost is covered by the state.

"The event is dedicated to the memory of Bethlehem children slaughtered by King Herod, who wanted to kill the newborn infant Christ," a statement on the diocese's website reads. "On this day it is forbidden to carry out abortions in all state medical institutions in Yaroslavl Region," it says, adding that state officials and the Church want private clinics to follow suit.

LifeNews also picked up the story and added this other bit of information: 

The Yaroslavl diocese simultaneously plans a “Candle of Memory” event to commemorate the children whose lives ended not only under the reign of King Herod, but also due to abortion, RT News stated.

What is amazing in the LifeNews article is it says that 70% of pregnancies in Russia end in abortion and that 72% of the population are against any bans to abortion and that only 4% of the population are against abortions in all circumstances.  Goodness, no wonder they have a population problem there, but in addition they have a moral deficit there.  So the clergy there are fighting the good fight. 

If I haven’t turned you away with my pro-life advocacy by this point, you probably are a supporter.  Pray then with me for the end of abortion across the world.  The little innocents have no voice and no power.  We need to speak up for them.

Silence, by Shūsaku Endō, Part 7: In Response to Meg Hunter-Kilmer

There has been a mixed reaction to the movie Silence in the Catholic blogosphere, which came to me as a bit of a surprise.  The same issue that has riled up some toward the movie also applies to the novel.  The issue is whether the protagonist of the novel/movie, Sebastian Rodrigues, the Jesuit priest, is right in apostatizing at the climax of the novel in order to save the innocent Christian peasants from being slowing tortured and martyred.  I’m sure you can find articles and blog posts around the internet to read both sides of the issue.  I’m not going to search and link them here.

But I did come across a piece by Meg Hunter-Kilmer on the Catholic e-magazine, Aleteia, “More than apostasy: What we’re not talking about with “Silence.”  Ms. Hunter-Kilmer was a bit dismayed that the focus of the general discussion was only on the apostasy. 

There’s so much more in this film, as indeed there was in the book, so many moments of powerful faith and challenging rebuke, that to evaluate it all on how the director views Fr. Rodrigues’s apostasy is beyond unfortunate.

I sympathize with those viewers who are concerned with Scorsese’s apparent approval of apostasy as an act of compassion. I even understand that Rodrigues’ failure ultimately colored the whole film for them. There is a danger, for weak souls, that blithe acceptance of this action could lead to moral relativism and utilitarianism. But the fall of the hero doesn’t make the entire movie worthless, particularly not when you see how tortured he was afterwards.

  

So Ms. Hunter-Kilmer put together a series of questions about the movie and most apply to the novel.  I can’t answer about the movie, but I do want to answer those questions that pertain to the novel.  Meg’s questions will be indented here and my response will follow.

1. I don’t understand Rodrigues’ choice. This isn’t because I’m more virtuous than he is. It’s because I find it easier to endure other people’s pain than my own. I judge Rodrigues more harshly because he caved to a temptation that I don’t struggle with. How often do I do the same with real people?

He didn’t cave to a temptation.  He acted in mercy to save the tortured Christians.  He was more than willing to die.  He was actually looking for his “glorious martyrdom.”  But the Japanese authorities turned the table on him.  They put his Christianity to an existential crises: Refuse to act in mercy or deny Christ. 

2. Every time I recommend this book to someone, I tell them, “It reads like the Stations of the Cross.” I see Rodrigues persevering because he connects his suffering to Jesus’. But Ferreira calls this identifying of his pain with Christ’s arrogant. Is it possible for suffering to be redemptive if it isn’t united to Christ’s in that way? At what point does identifying with Christ become arrogant?

What was arrogant was that Rodrigues came to Japan and insisted on administering the sacraments against the government’s wishes.  The arrogance was twofold: His subversive infiltration and seeking a “glorious martyrdom.”  That was at the root of all the peasant’s suffering.  Remember Kichijiro asks why God has brought this on them.  It started with Rodrigues deciding to sneak into Japan. 

3. After his apostasy, Rodrigues was obviously miserable. Why didn’t he ever recant? Surely there must have come a point when there was no longer danger that others would be killed for his faith. Was it pride that kept him living that life, an attempt to convince himself that he’d done the right thing? With the final shot of the crucifix he’d kept for so many years, Scorsese implies that he maintained some sort of faith in the midst of all his actions to undermine Christianity in Japan. At first that shot gave me hope, a feeling that, in spite of the apostasy he’d felt compelled to commit, he really did love Jesus and long for him. But the more I thought about it, the more his life seemed a betrayal. It’s one thing if he convinced himself, as Ferreira seemed to, that the Gospel wasn’t true. But to work against the God he loved, to do it day after day for decades? That seems to me far more vile than the initial moment of failure.

The novel doesn’t ever get into why he doesn’t recant.  He is a broken man, and one presumes that the same trial would be put to him: the martyrdom of innocent peasants at the expense of his pride.  It should be pointed out that Rodrigues is not just a second version of Ferreira.  Ferreira developed into a satanic character.  Rodrigues becomes like Kichijiro, cowardly but Christian in his heart.

4. Most orthodox Christians, I think, would assert that the “voice of Jesus” telling Rodrigues to trample wasn’t really a locution but a temptation or a mental breakdown. How can we discern that in the moment? Ignatius himself tells us that God won’t call us to do something objectively wrong, which brings quite a lot of clarity in this situation. But when it’s more gray even than this, how can we know which is the voice of truth and which the voice of the world, the flesh, and the devil?

I think it depends how you read the novel.  Was the apostasy warranted at the expense of providing mercy?  Endo is bringing Rodrigues to an existential crises.  Most existential crises involve life and death.  Here Endo brilliantly applies existentialism to Christianity.  He places two vital commandments in conflict with each other: Matt 10:33, “But whoever denies me before others, I will deny before my heavenly Father” against Matt 25: 40, ‘Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.’  Rodrigues’ choice is to act in mercy or apostatize.  Which commandment supersedes the other?  If you believe the voice that tells him to apostatize is Christ speaking, then the right choice was to act in mercy.  If you don’t, then the right choice was to let the innocent peasants die.  My personal feeling is that one always acts in mercy, for blessed are the merciful. 

5. Most stories of martyrs depict them as dying joyfully and those who look on rejoicing that they’ve been found worthy to suffer for Christ. This film has quite a lot of agonized sobbing, even when one man is (mercifully) beheaded rather than killed in some incredibly slow and painful way. Is this a function of Scorsese’s fundamental failure to understand the faith? Have we over-romanticized martyrdom and this is more realistic? Is there a cultural component that I’m missing?

I haven’t seen the movie.  Let me add here that this existential crises is the only time I have ever heard it being put to Christians.  Most martyrs are asked to apostatize or die.  Here Rodrigues is asked to apostatize or let others die.  The outline of the novel is actually based on an historical event.  Ferreira and the character of Rodrigues (who in real life was called Giuseppe Chiara) existed and apostatized.  Endo imagined the details. 

6. In the scene in which the villagers were drowned, these men who had been depicted as dirty and repulsive, true savages, became dignified. When Mokichi sings (was it some version of the Tantum Ergo?) after 4 days of near-drowning, he reminds me what it is to live and die for Christ. For that scene alone, there’s a lot I would forgive this movie.

In the novel they are singing a Japanese Christian hymn: “We’re on our way, we’re on our way,/We’re on our way to the temple of Paradise…”  The true hero of the novel are the Christian peasants.  Rodrigues may be the protagonist, but he is no hero.

7. After his first interview with Rodrigues, the interpreter walks out of Rodrigues’ cell and makes a comment about Rodrigues’ arrogance, following it with a declaration that he would fall. It was all I could do not to pull out my phone and write that quotation down word for word. That idea transformed how I viewed martyrdom and, honestly, how I view myself. It had me looking up confession times and prepared me for confession better than any examination of conscience I’ve ever seen. Those who are humble don’t have so far to fall, so perhaps some of it is just that the devil puts less effort into them. But more than that, their faith is built on Christ. Rodrigues’s faith, sincere as it was, was shored up by his awareness that he was strong and brave and educated. Had he been weaker, Christ could have been stronger in him.

That’s a good observation. 

8. Who would you rather be on Judgment Day: Rodrigues or Kichijiro?

Both are sinners.  Both are human. 

9. Ferreira claims that the Japanese aren’t capable of accepting the Gospel, despite the 300,000 converts made in 50 years. It’s worth discussing this question, the central one of Endo’s life, of how inherently western Catholicism is and what can be done for more authentic inculturation. What struck me more, though, was his insistence that the Japanese hadn’t truly embraced Christ, only their false, nature-worship understanding of him. And yet they died for him. I think that to have that strength they must have known him. Even if they didn’t, even if they were worshiping the sun and calling it Jesus, is that enough? Does God demand doctrinal accuracy or are our best efforts enough?

Ferreira is manifestly wrong.  You have to remember that this is an historical novel, so we the reader know the history.  Christianity survived the 250 year persecution and when the oppression stopped they were still Christians.  Endo’s point is the Holy Spirited obviously guided the outcome.  Rodrigues’ clandestine effort was unnecessary and therefore presumptuous and prideful.  It didn’t trust in Christ.  One needed the Kichijiro’s and the martyrs, the cowardly and the courageous.  Both contributed to Christianity’s survival.  The historicity is very important in shedding light on the events within the novel.

10. Even at the beginning, Rodrigues told the villagers to trample on the image, yet he held out for months. Why did he hold himself to a different standard? Is it okay that he had higher standards for himself or did that lead to his downfall? How can we be merciful to others while striving for sainthood without falling in the same way?

Good questions and I can’t answer any of them.  All I can say is that Rodrigues’ lack of humility caused the events.  Pope Francis today might say that Rodrigues was pushing cultural "colonialism."

11. The hunger the villagers had for the Sacraments puts me to shame. Their joy at the coming of the priests, despite the risk they knew it brought, their desperate need to confess their sins–all this reminds me how much I take God for granted. See how they love him!

I believe that was chapter three in the novel.  That is among the most beautiful chapters of all Christian literature. 

12. Rodrigues’ act of apostasy is an obvious one and most of us would recognize (at least intellectually) that nothing justifies apostasy. But are there smaller acts of apostasy in my life that I’ve justified because they’re motivated by compassion or prudence or convenience? Are there certain actions that I recognize are inherently evil, or do I think that sometimes the ends justify the means? How has this impacted my opposition to abortion or torture? Have I compromised on something small and seen it snowball? What venial sin do I need to cut out in order to be safe from mortal sin in the future?

Personally I think refusing to aid the suffering was the greater sin.  I’m no theologian but I put to you the parable of the Good Samaritan.  One of those who passes by not aiding the dying man is a priest who avoids helping the wounded man because it will contaminate him and he will not be able to perform his liturgical functions.  That is almost a comparable example to Rodrigues.  To not act in mercy because of a legalism strikes me as Pharisaic. 

13. If you’ve read The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene, compare Rodrigues and Greene’s whiskey priest. What does the juxtaposition of those two characters tell you about pride and sanctity?

Both are flawed men.  Greene thought Silence was the greatest Catholic novel.  I don’t recall the whiskey priest being prideful like Rodrigues.  I thought the whiskey priest couldn’t resist his temptations.

14. What were the differences between Rodrigues and Garrpe? If their circumstances were reversed, would Rodrigues have died a martyr and Garrpe an apostate? Or was there something that separated them even before that? Do you think you could endure what Rodrigues did and remain faithful?

I don’t think Garrpe’s character is developed enough to answer that.  I don’t know how I would react in Rodrigues’ situation.  I think I would act the same.

Questions 15 and 16 don't really apply here.

17. The title of the film refers to the silence of God in the face of human suffering. Does prolonged silence from God weaken us in the face of such suffering? It didn’t in Mother Teresa’s case–why not? How could Rodrigues have reacted differently to this silence? How could you?

In the novel, I believe God’s silence is only imagined.  Even Rodrigues says at the end He was always speaking.  The silence of the title I believe refers to the 250 years of Christians in Japan living their faith secretly in silence.  It is an historical novel, first and foremost.

So for those that have read the novel, how do you feel about the apostasy?  

Notable Quote: Marcus Aurelius on Going to Work

So here is a great quote for a Monday morning from the philosopher Emperor, Marcus Aurelius.  From his Meditations. 

At dawn, when you have trouble getting out of bed, tell yourself: “I have to go to work — as a human being. What do I have to complain of, if I’m going to do what I was born for — the things I was brought into the world to do? Or is this what I was created for? To huddle under the blankets and stay warm?…So you were born to feel “nice”? Instead of doing things and experiencing them? Don’t you see the plants, the birds, the ants and spiders and bees going about their individual tasks, putting the world in order, as best they can? And you’re not willing to do your job as a human being? Why aren’t you running to do what your nature demands?

In other words, get your ass out of bed and get to work.  The holidays are over.

Personal Note & Music Tuesday: O Holy Night by Katie Melua

I’m alive.  Being home for the holidays you would think I would have more time to blog, but alas no.  The older my son gets, the more time from me he demands and both being home the last week he really insists we do things together.  I did get him a construction project  for us to do together for Christmas.  It’s Mindware’s STEM Newton'sLaws Engineering Kit.    

It’s pretty neat, and on our first project, a dragster car, either we did something wrong or there’s a mistake in the procedures.  Well, I’ll figure it out.  I am an engineer with 31 years of experience.  I would be forever embarrassed if I couldn’t figure it out.  I guess this could be the engineering version of “Are You Smarter than an Eight Year Old.” 

The other thing that’s taking my time is my mother.  Last note I included here she was still in the Rehab/Nursing home.  She was discharged on the day before Christmas Eve.  Her hip is doing great!  She was outstanding in physical therapy and other than Tylenol she has not needed any more pain medicine.  Two minor issues came up.  A urinary flow issue and a stomach reflux issue.  Both issues were there to begin with, but undergoing the operation may have exacerbated them.  She just needs to follow up with some specialists.  Physical therapist is coming to the house a few times a week, but he doesn’t think she’s going to need much more.

What I’ve missed is to wish all my readers a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.  I hope it was all special for you and blessed.  I'm not sure if I’ve never posted “O Holy Night” before.  It has become my favorite Christmas carol.  I could listen to it all day long.  And I came across this singer I had never heard of before, Katie Melua. From what I understand she’s somewhat well known.  It’s me that’s pop culture ignorant.  Melua is a British young lady but an immigrant from the country Georgia.  She went back to her country to make this album, In Winter, and on it there are a couple of beautiful songs in her native Georgian language.  Backing her on “O Holy Night” and on other songs is a choir from her native land, Gori Women's Choir.  I hop you enjoy it.

Silence by Shūsaku Endō, Part 6

Any discussion of this novel should involve its most recurring motif, silence.  Silence comes up in many ways in the story.  First, there are some basic natural silences.  There is the “eerie” silence of the empty village (p. 64) and the silence that hangs when Ferreira is first brought into Rodrigues’ cell (p. 141).  There is the silence of a village when the interrogating guards investigate: “Not a sound could be heard…Why was there no sign of life? Even the barking of the dogs had suddenly come to an end, and Tomogi was like an ancient, abandoned ruin. Yet I could sense the awful silence that enveloped the whole place” (p. 50).  It is interesting to note that Japanese aesthetics tend to be lean and sparse, where more is said by saying less, and the silence motif seems to be attuned to that aesthetic.  You can also see how the plot is lean and direct and absent of any embellishments.  Think of Haiku or other Japanese poetic forms.  They are lean and evocative.  Silence, the absence of sound, fits right into that aesthetic. 

Second, there is the inherent silence of peasants under interrogation:

The peasants stood erect, silent. Men, women, children—all were silent. And so the seconds passed. It was as if enemies were staring at one another. Looking back on it now, I realize that it must have been precisely at this time when everything became silent that we looked down on the village from the mountain.  (p. 51).

Here silence is the unuttered profession one’s identity.  If apostatizing requires spoken expression, silence is the shrewd alternative.

Third, there is the silence of not revealing your fellow Christian to the authorities.  'No, father, we didn't say a word about you,' said Mokichi, hands on knees, 'and if they come again, we'll still say nothing. No matter what happens we'll stand by you.' (p. 50).  Betrayal requires some form of articulation.  Not volunteering or withholding information is a form of silence.

Fourth, and perhaps most important, there is Rodrigues’ exclamation on the silence of God in the face of the peasant’s suffering.  When Kichijiro questions why God has put this suffering on his people, Rodrigues contemplates:

I suppose I should simply cast from my mind these meaningless words of the coward; yet why does his plaintive voice pierce my breast with all the pain of a sharp needle? Why has Our Lord imposed this torture and this persecution on poor Japanese peasants? No, Kichijiro was trying to express something different, something even more sickening. The silence of God. Already twenty years have passed since the persecution broke out; the black soil of Japan has been filled with the lament of so many Christians; the red blood of priests has flowed profusely; the walls of the churches have fallen down; and in the face of this terrible and merciless sacrifice offered up to Him, God has remained silent. This was the problem that lay behind the plaintive question of Kichijiro. (p. 55)

But that’s not exactly what Kichijiro brings up.  He questions why God is allowing this and what “evil” they may have done.  But he does not question God’s existence.  Rodrigues surmises it, and it’s in his mind.  Rodrigues brings up God’s silence repeatedly.  We see it again when Mokichi and Ichizo are crucified by the shore. 

What do I want to say? I myself do not quite understand. Only that today, when for the glory of God Mokichi and Ichizo moaned, suffered and died, I cannot bear the monotonous sound of the dark sea gnawing at the shore. Behind the depressing silence of this sea, the silence of God....the feeling that while men raise their voices in anguish God remains with folded arms, silent. (p. 61)

What is interesting is that around this silence is a wealth of sound.  There is the sung hymn, “We’re on our way, we’re on our way,/We’re on our way to the temple of Paradise…”  There is the sound of the rain, the sound of the waves (“it broke upon the ears,” and the sound of the Mokichi moaning, a “dark moaning” (p. 59). 

The moaning sometimes ceased. Mokichi had not even the strength to encourage himself with a hymn like that of yesterday. Yet after an hour of silence the voice was again brought to the ears of the people by the wind. Hearing this sound, like that of an animal, the peasants trembled and wept. In the afternoon the tide gradually comes in again; the black, cold color of the sea deepens; the stakes seem to sink into the water. The white foaming waves, swirling past the stakes, break on the sand, a white bird, skimming over the surface of the sea, flies far, far away. And with this all is over. (p. 59)

While Rodrigues insists on the silence, we see otherwise.  Another example is when Rodrigues is on the run.  He hears “the hoarse cawing of pursuing crows,” sees his face in a pool of water, which he imagines to be a face of Christ crucified, and hears the cicadas “singing hoarsely” in the woods (p. 67-8).  Rodrigues again questions God’s silence.

But now there arose up within my heart quite suddenly the sound of the roaring sea as it would ring in my ears when Garrpe and I lay alone in hiding on the mountain. The sound of those waves that echoed in the dark like a muffled drum; the sound of those waves all night long, as they broke meaninglessly, receded, and then broke again on the shore. This was the sea that relentlessly washed the dead bodies of Mokichi and Ichizo, the sea that swallowed them up, the sea that, after their death, stretched out endlessly with unchanging expressions. And like the sea God was silent. His silence continued. (p. 68)

What silence?  There are sounds all over.  And here we arrive at one of the central ironies in the novel.  Rodrigues is of the Jesuit orders.  The Jesuits are known for their discernments.  The spiritual exercises of Ignatius of Loyola—the founder of the Society of Jesus—are meant to be a means of discernment of God in our lives.  That a Jesuit cannot discern God is meant to be an irony.  Right in front of him in the water is the face of Christ and he doesn’t discern it.  And, by extension, the sounds of animals and nature can be seen as God’s voice.

And here I want to digress.  Silence is a Japanese novel written by a Japanese author.  It is unfortunate for me that I do not know Japanese culture well.  I think one should to fully appreciate this novel.  It’s not just the history, which no doubt is very important in an historical novel, but also the aesthetics, the literary allusions, the cultural memes, especially inherently the symbols.  There is a high degree of allusiveness in Japanese literature and art, probably due to its very leanness.  Less is said, but what is said is amplified by cultural and literary allusions and symbols.  In addition, the ancient Shinto and imported Buddhist religions naturally supply imagery and allusions.  Both Shinto and Buddhism have an element of animism in it, meaning that animals and nature are infused with spirits.  From Shinto, Kami https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kami are spirits in nature and they can be deities, dead people, or apparently natural forces.  Insects for instance are typically symbols for the spirits.  In the novel we recurring patterns of ocean and mountains and trees and frequently we see cicadas, flies, butterflies, and even a cockroach.  Endo is placing these right in front of Rodrigues.  These form the supernatural right in front of Rodrigues, God’s voice calling.  There is a single moment where Rodrigues almost discerns it, when he is in prison.

At night, as he sat in the dark listening to the sound of the turtle-dove in the trees, he felt the face of Christ looking intently at him. The clear blue eyes were gentle with compassion; the features were tranquil; it was a face filled with trust. 'Lord, you will not cast us away any longer,' he whispered, his eyes fixed upon that face. And then the answer seemed to come to his ears: 'I will not abandon you.' Bowing his head he strained his ears for the sound of that voice again; but the only thing he could hear was the singing of the turtle-dove. The darkness was thick and black. Yet the priest felt that for one instant his heart had been purified. (p. 106)

A dove is the symbol for the Holy Spirit!  That is about as clear an indication that nature and its sounds are voices from God.  And we know that God has been speaking to Rodrigues all along because he tells us in hindsight at the end of the novel:

Everything that had taken place until now had been necessary to bring him [Rodrigues] to this love. 'Even now I am the last priest in this land. But Our Lord was not silent. (p. 191)

It’s at the climax of the novel we see God speaking with His loudest voice.  Rodrigues in a new cell hears what he thinks is snoring, and after a while it grates on his nerves.  “That’s not snoring,” Ferreira tells him.  “That is the moaning of the Christians hanging in the pit” (p. 160).  The moaning links back to the “dark moaning” of Mokichi being crucified.  Notice there the other peasants try to relive his suffering as best they can.  At the climax Rodrigues is placed in a semi-existential circumstance, and here is where I think Existentialism comes in the novel.  He is willing to die for his “glorious martyrdom,” an act of egotism, but that is not the option placed before him.  What his soul most resists is apostatizing.  What is placed before him is the suffering voice of the tortured peasants, and he has to apostatize to relieve them.  Years before Ferreira was faced with the same situation.

'I, too, heard those voices. I heard the groaning of men hanging in the pit.' And even as Ferreira finished speaking, the voices like snoring, now high, now low, were carried to their ears. But now the priest was aware of the truth. It was not snoring. It was the gasping and groaning of helpless men hanging in the pit. (p. 167)

The voices of the suffering is the voice of God.  That is what Rodrigues realizes later when he concludes “God had not been silent.”  It was for him to answer the call.  It is one thing to lose one’s faith, but where does Rodrigues get the notion that God will come out of the sky and alter the situation?  In an almost parallel historical situation Christians had to face persecution and hide secretly in the catacombs for almost 250 years under ancient Roman rule.  God doesn’t work that way, and it’s naïve to think He would.  Of all the martyrs in the world (and we have almost daily today in the Christian world) God has never stepped out of the sky directly.  I am reminded of the great prayer of St. Teresa of Ávila:

Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

That is the lesson that Rodrigues had to learn.  He has to listen to God’s call and work His work.  The peasants inherently knew this at Mokichi’s crucifixion.  Rodrigues finally learned it at the pit. 

In one of the novel’s many ironies, we see that the Japanese peasants intuitively know Christianity better than Rodrigues the priest.  When Mokichi and Ichizo are dying on the cross and they let out their moans, the Christian peasants come out to relieve their suffering.  When Kochijiro questions God, coward though he may be, it never leads to a loss of faith.  Even until the end he is a believer, though he apostatizes many times.  Rodrigues is the only one who loses faith.  When Rodrigues is captured and placed with several other Christian prisoners, the woman, though they are all haggard and starving, offers the priest a cucumber to eat, and she doesn’t pull it from a pocket; she pulls it from her bosom (p. 81), that is to say she takes it from her heart.  This is an allusion to John 15:5, where Christ says, “I am the vine, you are the branches.”  Cucumbers are fruits of a vine, and here the woman is the branch stemming from Christ the vine and the cucumber is the fruit of Christian charity.  What a touching scene.  The woman is doing the work of Christ, the very thing Rodrigues has to learn to do.  Since the cucumber is pulled out of her bosom, Rodrigues must feel her body warmth—Christian love—as he eats it.