"Love follows knowledge."
"Beauty above all beauty!"
– St. Catherine of Siena

Friday, April 4, 2025

Lines I Wished I’d Written: Dr. Manette and Lucy Before the Wedding.

I’ve been reading Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities for the first time.  A lot of people read this much earlier in life but, given I have never, I decided to jump into it on a whim.  I had been meaning to read it for a while. I am a little over half way, and, to be frank, it’s not overwhelming me.  But I am told that the great parts of this book come in the last third.  I’m hanging in there. 


But this scene I wish to highlight comes at just about the very center of the novel.  I am sure that is significant but I am not sure what the significance is since I have no idea how the novel will end.  As some of you may know, this is a story set during the French Revolution, but the actual storming and violence has not occurred yet.  In the first half of the story Dickens provides the context and situation of characters in two cities, as the title indicates, London and Paris. 

This scene is a tender situation between a Dr. Alexander Manette and his daughter Lucy.  At the beginning of the novel Dr. Manette has been released after eighteen years of imprisonment in the Bastille, which was both a fortress and prison in Paris.  He was vindictively imprisoned for revealing corruption by some aristocrats, which signals that he had virtues and ideals.  He was imprisoned just before his daughter Lucy was born, and so the two had never met until Dr. Manette’s release.  While imprisoned, Lucy’s mother died when Lucy was a child, and as an orphan she was taken to England.  But she returned to France on the news of her father being released.

Dr. Manette was severely traumatized while a prisoner in the Bastille.  At his release he barely knew who he was and of his past.  Lucy takes him, brings him to London, and nurses him back to health and functionality.  Her tender love is perhaps at the core of the novel.  This scene takes place several years after Dr. Manette has been in London.  He has regained his senses, though he is frail.  A suitor, Charles Darnay, has asked the doctor for the hand in marriage of his daughter, and he has agreed if she accepts.  She accepted, and this scene occurs the night before the marriage is to take place as father and daughter spend one last night together.  This scene comes from Book II, Chapter 17, “One Night.”  I am quoting almost the entire chapter.

 

Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.

 

Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.

 

“You are happy, my dear father?”

 

“Quite, my child.”

 

They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.

 

“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the love that Heaven has so blessed—my love for Charles, and Charles’s love for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is—”

 

Even as it was, she could not command her voice.

 

In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is—as the light called human life is—at its coming and its going.

 

“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite, quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will ever interpose between us? I know it well, but do you know it? In your own heart, do you feel quite certain?”

 

Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie, seen through your marriage, than it could have been—nay, than it ever was—without it.”

 

“If I could hope that, my father!—”

 

“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be wasted—”

 

She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated the word.

 

“—wasted, my child—should not be wasted, struck aside from the natural order of things—for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself, how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”

 

“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy with you.”

 

He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy without Charles, having seen him; and replied:

 

“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”

 

It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long afterwards.

 

“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon. “I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic, that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember, and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”

 

The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time, deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.

 

“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had been born alive, or the poor mother’s shock had killed it. Whether it was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it was a son who would never know his father’s story; who might even live to weigh the possibility of his father’s having disappeared of his own will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”

 

She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.

 

“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of me—rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a blank.”

 

“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”

 

“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and the moon on this last night.—What did I say just now?”

 

“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”

 

“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence have touched me in a different way—have affected me with something as like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its foundations could—I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door. But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”

 

“The figure was not; the—the—image; the fancy?”

 

“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too—as you have—but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think? I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these perplexed distinctions.”

 

His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.

 

“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight, coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active, cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”

 

“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love that was I.”

 

“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things. But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and blessed her.”

 

“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless me as fervently to-morrow?”

 

“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”

 

He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the house.

Not only is it a tender seen between father and daughter before she is given in marriage, we see Dr. Manette’s relief that the care his daughter gave him did not reduce and limit her life, and that she will have the opportunity to love and fulfill herself.  He also recalls the memory of while imprisoned wondering what had happened to his child.  As a father I could have imagined the heart wrenching pain.  He recalls how he had given hope of meeting his child again.  Let me requote this piece of his conversation.


“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of me—rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a blank.”

He had suffered, both physically and emotionally.  His years imprisoned were filled with conjuring up images of his lost daughter.  He even pictured being in her prayers.  And now he will lose his daughter in another sense, but this time he loses her for her joy.  Finally the scene concludes with her being in his prayers.  Such a remarkably tender scene.




Sunday, March 30, 2025

Sunday Meditation: The Shame of the Prodigal Son

In the Fourth Sunday of Lent in year C we get another parable, this time the Parable of the Prodigal Son.  Three years ago when we had this Gospel reading I posted I embedded a clip the movie Jesus of Nazareth with Jesus telling this parable, and I also embedded a clip from Dr. Brant Pitre whose exegesis of the parable focused on the older son.  It’s worth looking back if you have the time.  This year I’d like to focus on the younger son who in many ways stands for all we sinners as we make our way back to our Father in heaven.

 

Tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to listen to Jesus,

but the Pharisees and scribes began to complain, saying,

“This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

So to them Jesus addressed this parable:

“A man had two sons, and the younger son said to his father,

‘Father give me the share of your estate that should come to me.’

So the father divided the property between them.

After a few days, the younger son collected all his belongings

and set off to a distant country

where he squandered his inheritance on a life of dissipation.

When he had freely spent everything,

a severe famine struck that country,

and he found himself in dire need.

So he hired himself out to one of the local citizens

who sent him to his farm to tend the swine.

And he longed to eat his fill of the pods on which the swine fed,

but nobody gave him any.

Coming to his senses he thought,

‘How many of my father’s hired workers

have more than enough food to eat,

but here am I, dying from hunger.

I shall get up and go to my father and I shall say to him,

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.

I no longer deserve to be called your son;

treat me as you would treat one of your hired workers.”’

So he got up and went back to his father.

While he was still a long way off,

his father caught sight of him, and was filled with compassion.

He ran to his son, embraced him and kissed him.

His son said to him,

‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you;

I no longer deserve to be called your son.’

But his father ordered his servants,

‘Quickly bring the finest robe and put it on him;

put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet.

Take the fattened calf and slaughter it.

Then let us celebrate with a feast,

because this son of mine was dead, and has come to life again;

he was lost, and has been found.’

Then the celebration began.

Now the older son had been out in the field

and, on his way back, as he neared the house,

he heard the sound of music and dancing.

He called one of the servants and asked what this might mean.

The servant said to him,

‘Your brother has returned

and your father has slaughtered the fattened calf

because he has him back safe and sound.’

He became angry,

and when he refused to enter the house,

his father came out and pleaded with him.

He said to his father in reply,

‘Look, all these years I served you

and not once did I disobey your orders;

yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my friends.

But when your son returns

who swallowed up your property with prostitutes,

for him you slaughter the fattened calf.’

He said to him,

‘My son, you are here with me always;

everything I have is yours.

But now we must celebrate and rejoice,

because your brother was dead and has come to life again;

he was lost and has been found.'"

~Lk 15:1-3, 11-32

Fr. Geoffrey Plant has a great explanation of what a parable is, and what this parable means. 



I thought it insightful that this parable in Chapter 15 of Luke is the culmination of a series of parables, three in all, where something lost is found.  As to what a parable is, Fr. Geoffrey quotes a C.C. Dodd on the four aspects of a parable:

·         A metaphor or simile

·         Drawn from nature or common life

·         Arresting the hearer by its vividness or strangeness

·         Leaves the mind in sufficient doubt about its precise application to tease it into active thought

I would add something else from my reading of Jesus’s parables over the years.  A parable is so simple a narrative construct that we can apply it to our lives rather than project a self-contained story.  The meaning is only fulfilled by projecting our lives into the story.

There is so much other good information in Fr. Geoffrey’s homily, such as who were the Pharisees, what should the name of the parable be, and the concept of shame and honor.  Also Fr. Geoffrey questions the sincerity of the returning son.  Do you think the son was sincere?  I think so, but I can see Fr. Geoffrey’s point.  What do you think?

For the pastoral homily I really liked Fr. Joseph Mary of the Capuchin Franciscans with his vlog, A Simple Word. 

 


 

Sunday Meditation: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I no longer deserve to be called your son”

 

For the hymn I may shock people with this selection.  It’s from the Rolling Stones—yes, the famous rock group that has a number of songs idolizing intemperance.  But they also recorded a cover version of a Gospel/Blues song, “Prodigal Son,” written and performed by Reverend Robert Wilkins.    Here is the Stones’ version.

 


If you didn’t catch the lyrics, here they are:

 

Prodigal Son

(Wilkins)

 

Well a poor boy took his father's bread and started down the road

Started down the road

Took all he had and started down the road

Going out in this world, where God only knows

And that'll be the way to get along

 

Well poor boy spent all he had, famine come in the land

Famine come in the land

Spent all he had and famine come in the land

Said, "I believe I'll go and hire me to some man"

And that'll be the way I'll get along

 

Well, man said, "I'll give you a job for to feed my swine

For to feed my swine

I'll give you a job for to feed my swine"

Boy stood there and hung his head and cried

`Cause that is no way to get along

 

Said, "I believe I'll ride, believe I'll go back home

Believe I'll go back home

Believe I'll ride, believe I'll go back home

Or down the road as far as I can go"

And that'll be the way to get along

 

Well, father said, "See my son coming home to me

Coming home to me"

Father ran and fell down on his knees

Said, "Sing and praise, Lord have mercy on me"

Mercy

 

Oh poor boy stood there, hung his head and cried

Hung his head and cried

Poor boy stood and hung his head and cried

Said, "Father will you look on me as a child?"

Yeah

 

Well father said, "Eldest son, kill the fatted calf,

Call the family round

Kill that calf and call the family round

My son was lost but now he is found

'Cause that's the way for us to get along"

Hey 

 

It’s not exactly a well-known Stones song, but it’s a great rendition.  Actually it’s better than the original.  You can find the Wilkins’ version on the internet.  The Stones version is condensed into a sharper song structure.

Friday, March 28, 2025

Literature in the News: 100th Anniversary of Flannery O’Connor’s Birth

March 25th was not only the Feast Day of the Annunciation, but also the anniversary of the birth of Flannery O’Connor.  And this year, 2025, marked the 100th anniversary.  In another post I’m going to provide my analysis of a short story of hers I recently read, “The Displaced Person,” a story you may not have ever heard except if you’re a big devotee of her work.  Before I get to that, I’m going to do a commemoration of her life.  She remains a model for me as a Catholic writer.

 


The Smithsonian Magazine has a beautiful tribute to her life and work, with lots of pictures and a couple of embedded videos.  In her short life of thirty-nine years she produced 31 short stories, two published novels, another novel that was unfinished but posthumously published, letters, journals, essays, and other writings.  Apparently she sat down to write every day which is what a good writer needs to do.  She has been quite influential.  From the Smithsonian article titled, “Flannery O’Connor Wanted to Shake Her Readers Awake. Her Family Wanted Her to Write theNext ‘Gone With the Wind’” by Ellen Wexler:

 

March 25, 2025, would have been O’Connor’s 100th birthday. As the many events and exhibitions surrounding her centenary attest, interest in the author’s work has only deepened since her death in 1964 at age 39. In recent years, scholars have published her prayer journal and her unfinished novel; her life has been the subject of the award-winning documentary Flannery and a star-studded 2023 biographical drama. Her influence on American culture is unparalleled: O’Connor’s stories have inspired writers such as Cormac McCarthyAlice MunroAlice McDermott and George Saunders; musicians like Bruce SpringsteenLucinda WilliamsSufjan Stevens and Josh Ritter; and filmmakers like the Coen brothers and Quentin Tarantino.

To be frank, I only know her work from her short stories, of which I have read about ten.  I’ve posted detailed analysis of two of her short stories here on Ashes From Burnt Roses, “A Good Man is Hard to Find” in three posts, (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3) and “Greenleaf” in two posts (Part 1, Part 2).  Feel free to peruse the posts.

There are some interesting insights in Ellen Wexler’s piece.  She really condenses O’Connor’s vision of fiction into this quote she takes from an O’Connor essay.

 

“People are always complaining that the modern novelist has no hope and that the picture he paints of the world is unbearable,” she wrote in an essay titled “The Nature and Aim of Fiction.” “The only answer to this is that people without hope do not write novels. … I’m always highly irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.”

That essay, “The Nature and Aim of Fiction” is an important read for writers, and more on that later.  Wexler continues on O’Connor’s philosophy of great fiction.

She relished in the unusual and the mysterious, arguing that the ability to understand good fiction belonged only to the “kind of mind that is willing to have its sense of mystery deepened by contact with reality, and its sense of reality deepened by contact with mystery.”

Mystery deepened by reality, reality deepened by mystery.  That’s almost like looking into a mirror and the mirror looking into another mirror.  As a writer, O’Connor believed fiction should be brutally honest and avoid sentimentality. 

“Flannery saw in Catholicism and in her Southern culture a strong inclination to avoid honesty,” says Bruce Gentry, editor of the Flannery O’Connor Review at Georgia College & State University. “Her own unflinching honesty was a reaction against the extremities of Catholic piety and Southern niceness. She might not have gone so far with her honesty if she weren’t inclined to fix the groups she belonged to.”

Wexler concludes O’Connor’s vision of fiction with an understanding that the work needs to reach a moment of redemption.

O’Connor believed that redemption often came “at considerable cost,” an idea that’s “implicit in the Christian view of the world.” As such, her characters can’t reach their moments of reckoning on their own. Instead, they need a push. They need to be shaken awake. O’Connor’s job was to do the shaking.

O’Connor would wind up falling ill with Lupus, the genetic disease that killed her father, and thus ending her promising life in the literary centers of the country.  She was forced to move down to her mother’s house in Milledgeville, Georgia, where she would write her best work, all the while suffering from the debilitating disease.  Lupus would ultimately kill her too at the age of 39.  Wexler’s well-written article takes you through her life, her approach to writing, and through some of her work.

This is a great little TED-ED short video summing up why you should read Flannery O'Connor.



###

In her essay, “The Nature and Aim of Fiction,” O’Connor highlights the various elements of what she conceptualizes as the art of fiction.   I’m not going to go through everything she says, but one of the most important elements is the ability of the writer to create an experience through the story and one does that by use of the five senses.  She gives an example from Gustave Flaubert’s novel, Madam Bovary.

All the sentences in Madame Bo"Vary could be examined with wonder, but there is one in particular that always stops me in admiration. Flaubert has just shown us Emma at the piano with Charles watching her. He says, "She struck the notes with aplomb and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken up, the old instrument, whose strings buzzed, could be heard at the other end of the village when the window was open, and often the bailiff's clerk, passing along the highroad, bareheaded and in list slippers, stopped to listen, his sheet of paper in his hand."

Why is this sentence so arresting?  O’Connor finds it amazing that the piano sound buzzes in the room while a clerk at the other end of town in his “list slippers” hears it.  A detail of sound, one of the five senses, in one room that we cannot visually see but can see pressing of the keys, incorporating both the auditory and visual senses, travels across town to a clerk that we can also visually see, across some distance of space hearing the auditory sound.  In addition, we don’t actually hear the piano, since it’s only an allusion with words on a page, but we imagine the sound as readers in our minds.  She sums this up with, “It's always necessary to remember that the fiction writer is much less immediately concerned with grand ideas and bristling emotions than he is with putting list slippers on clerks.”

It is this accumulation of detail—details selected for purpose—that creates the story.  She will go on to tell what kind of vision of details the story writer needs to have.  I don’t have the time and space for this but let me jump to her conclusion when it comes to details.

People have a habit of saying, "What is the theme of your story?" and they expect you to give them a statement: "The theme of my story is the economic pressure of the machine on the middle class"—or some such absurdity. And when they've got a statement like that, they go off happy and feel it is no longer necessary to read the story. 

Some people have the notion that you read the story and then climb out of it into the meaning, but for the fiction writer himself the wholes tory is the meaning, because it is an experience, not an abstraction. 

That is speaking of story by what it is not, but O’Connor feels that is the best way for a teacher to pass on the craft of storytelling.  She does finally explain that the art of any medium has been explained by St. Thomas Aquinas.

St. Thomas called art "reason in making." This is a very cold and very beautiful definition, and if it is unpopular today, this is because reason has lost ground among us. As grace and nature have been separated, so imagination and reason have been separated, and this always means an end to art. The artist uses his reason to discover an answering reason in everything he sees. For him, to be reasonable is to find, in the object, in the situation, in the sequence, the spirit which makes it itself. This is not an easy or simple thing to do. It is to intrude upon the timeless, and that is only done by the violence of a single- minded respect for the truth.

It seems to suggest that the artist is trying to apply reason to human characters and situation to find what is truth in them and their fate.  It is not thematic but experiential.  I will show how she does this in my upcoming analysis of her short story, “The Displaced Person.”

###

And so, after one hundred years of her birth, let us not saddened by her early death and the huge loss to literature, but let us be thankful for what she gave us in her short life, a wealth of fiction of the highest art.