Identity (and) Politics

All arguments are turned back as further evidence that the speaker is bound by the determining influence…. This is little more than a sophisticated form of...ad hominem...there can be no logical conclusion about the cause of our opinion inferred from the fact that 63 percent of an arbitrarily drawn class structure of which we are said to be a part have similar opinions.

-- Herbert Schlossberg, Idols for Destruction, p. 156 (emphasis in original)

... you must show that a man is wrong before you start explaining why he is wrong. The modern method is to assume without discussion that he is wrong and then distract his attention from this (the only true issue) by busily explaining how he became so silly.

-- C. S. Lewis, “Bulverism”; God in the Dock, p. 273 (emphasis in original)

How many articles have we seen these past few weeks trying to explain why so many people voted for Trump? On both sides of the progressive/conservative divide, it seems people are latching onto the same conclusion: white, rural, evangelical voters are sick of being looked down upon and ignored, and elected someone who will support their interests instead of the liberal elites’. Some people defend them for doing so, and others condemn them. But is it true that all Trump voters had this self-interested motive? I think both those who didn’t and those who did can tell us something about political discourse, specifically what's called “identity politics.”

Firstly, as the two quotes above explain, it is an error to assume that membership in a social class, or self-interest in preserving that class, is the sole reason for someone's decisions. Many who voted for Trump were not excited about him; hence the expression of “holding your nose” while voting. There were grave concerns about the moral direction of the country, including such things as religious freedom and abortion; hence all the hoopla about Supreme Court justices. And many recognized that Trump is by no means a moral paragon, but chose him as the “lesser of two evils” because they regarded Clinton as worse. Not worse for them personally, but simply a more despicable person in general. Plus, not everyone who voted for Trump was white, rural, or evangelical. What were their reasons? Certainly not the ones assumed by so many commentators.

This brings out one problem with “identity politics”: the assumption that everyone in the same social class thinks the same way, or should. Pro-life women are ignored and silenced. Black conservatives, like Ben Carson and Clarence Thomas, are attacked as “race traitors”. The people in Lewis's essay on “Bulverism” shut down their opponents with “You say that because you are a man” or “because you are a bourgeois,” etc. This idea reduces human beings to a collection of labels, or machines that can only act as they are programmed by their environment. Yes, our race, gender, and class might influence our decisions, but that doesn't mean we are controlled by them. Part of being human is the ability to make decisions based on “things unseen,” on ideals and transcendent truths. We can think about more than meeting needs or grabbing for power. To deny that ability for any person or group of people is insulting.

On the other hand, the consensus of journalism is not completely wrong. A lot of people did vote for Trump based on identity politics, specifically white, rural, and/or evangelical identity. Here is a fascinating article that points to over-emphasis on identity and diversity as one cause of the liberal loss. Here is a good summary (I think) of how this idea has impacted the church. In this article by the same author, he explores the nature of ressentiment, a French word sociologists use to mean something more than simply resentment. This is the familiar notion of making victimhood the core of one’s identity, of seeing everything in terms of oppressors and oppressed, with one’s chosen group in the latter category. Weirdly enough, almost every group in the present American culture sees itself this way. Feminists decry rape culture. Black Lives Matter claims the authorities think they don't. Evangelicals see persecution everywhere. As the author says, that's not to say that there is no oppression in these areas, or that they're all at the same level. The problem is the attitude, “when the community thrives on its sense of being injured. The group rallies around its identity in being wronged.” This creates an atmosphere of enmity and fear.

Fear, as we all know, is the path to the Dark Side. And yet, all sides in this election appealed to it. There's been a lot of mockery focused on the millennials who need safe spaces and trauma counseling to deal with Trump’s victory, or the people who take to their blogs and social media to express their fears. But can Trump voters honestly say that they weren't just as scared of a Clinton victory? Before the election, hundreds of articles and blog posts declared in apocalyptic terms that Hillary in the White House would mean the end of Christian America. Another hundred or so claimed that Trump's election would ruin the reputation of the American church. Who's afraid of the Big Bad President? Looks like everyone. This post takes Christians to task for caring more about their own fears and desires than others’, and this one highlights the continuing effects of fear on families across the country. Identity politics pits our fears against each other; as well as our angers, our hates, and our sufferings.

What do we do with all of this?

I don't have all the answers. Neither do the articles linked above, though they have a few good ideas. I would suggest two starting points: First, don't reduce people to their labels. People are complicated. We have many reasons for the things we do, some legitimate and some not. We have our differences, but we are all alike in dignity. Grant that dignity to those who disagree with you. Hear their concerns and search for common ground. Second, don't be ruled by fear. History is complicated, too. One election may have far-reaching consequences, but so may your choice of hope, courage, and kindness. Let that be your identity. 

Planet Narnia, A Responsive Reread: Characters, Contrasts, and Calormen

In my last post on The Horse and His Boy, I talked a little bit about how the essence of Mercury is change and how Calormen, the empire to the south of Archenland, is a demonstration of the evils of empire: entitlement, greed, tyranny, exceptionalism (everyone else being "barbarians"), and most of all, an unquestioning acceptance of the status quo. Calormen is anti-Mercurial because most of its citizens assume that nothing about it ever will or should change. We see this attitude and its Northern opposite most clearly in the characters of The Horse and His Boy. This post, therefore, will consider those characters and how they contrast with each other related to the anti-change nature of Calormen.

Kings

The Tisroc is the epitome of status quo, as seen in the catchphrase "The Tisroc (may he live for ever)" uttered by every loyal subject of his. Even though, as Bree points out, the idea is completely meaningless, the Tisroc not only requires it of his subjects, but assumes it himself in conversations with his son and Vizier. This even prevents discussions of succession. When Rabadash envisions the High King Peter seeing his nephew and grandnephew on the throne of Calormen, which would happen if Rabadash succeeded in marrying Queen Susan, the Tisroc responds, "He will not see that if I live for ever as is no doubt your wish." Dude. You know you won't, he knows you won't. What is even the point? Well, maybe it was to curb Rabadash's "dangerous" tendencies. Apparently five Tisrocs before him have been assassinated by impatient princes. But denying him any thought of ruling will make him a pretty poor ruler when this Tisroc does eventually die.

Of course, the Tisroc encourages the status quo because it is one in which he is entitled to every good thing, another characteristic attitude of Calormen. The sun appears dark in the Tisroc's eyes because he remembers that he does not yet own the Northern kingdoms. In his mind, everything rightfully belongs to him: the jewels and furs that cover his massive frame, all the countries of the world, and the love of all his people. A throwaway comment at the end of his scene shows glaringly how entitled he is. He orders Ahoshta to "call back the pardon we wrote for the third cook" because he, the Tisroc, feels like he's going to have indigestion. In other words, the third cook was going to be punished, the Tisroc pardoned him, but now he feels sick and is going to punish the third cook again. Really? Was it the cook's fault, O enormous Tisroc, or was it just that you ate too much and want to blame anyone but yourself?

King Edmund, the first Northern king we see, could not be more different. Change for the better is a huge part of his character. His upbraiding of Shasta (mistaken for a truant Corin) is intended to set him back on track, to get him to confess and repent. Later, he accepts the change of mind that Tumnus proposes, seeing poor Shasta as sun-stricken. When the mistake is revealed and Shasta apologizes for overhearing his plans, Edmund readily forgives, while yet issuing a warning not to do it again. One of his best lines comes when Rabadash's fate is discussed, and Edmund points out that "even a traitor may mend. I have known one that did." We who have read LWW know that he's referring to himself. One of the main tenets of the Northern philosophy is that people can change and often should.

And Edmund knows that he is included in that, because he has no false sense of entitlement or self-righteousness. We first see him walking down the street with his nobles as an equal, rather than being carried as the Calormene VIPs do. When he finds himself and his friends trapped in Tashbaan by the will of Prince Rabadash, he doesn't bluster and blow smoke about how important he is, but puts his mind to work plotting an escape. He brings the court back and back again to practical realities, which even kings and queens must take into account. Once the battle of Anvard has been won, Edmund acts as an advisor but graciously accedes to King Lune's wishes. This is his turf, after all.

King Lune is probably my favorite character in all the Narniad (as Michael Ward calls it). He is a clever statesman, a gracious king, and a wise father to the irrepressible Corin. Lune is ready and even eager to accept change. When his eldest son is revealed to be alive, Lune immediately embraces him into the family and changes the succession plans accordingly. He willingly talks with Cor about "when I am gone" and Cor will be king. No nonsense about living forever here! Even more remarkably, King Lune welcomes Aravis the Calormene noblewoman into his household with a bow "stately enough for an Emperor" and a loving trust based only on Cor's word. Her prince just attacked his country and tried to kill him, but he can recognize the good in people no matter what their country of origin. He cares who you are, not what you are.

This, of course, also carries over to his philosophy of kingship, which is a far cry from the entitlement of the Tisroc. In King Lune's view, power is given as a responsibility, like a sentry's post, in order to take on hardship and danger for the sake of those governed. People are people, no matter what class (or even species--see his treatment of the Talking Horses) they are. This means he respects Rabadash, but doesn't take any guff from him. He loves his sons, but doesn't spoil them, instead doling out rebuke, advice, jokes, and lectures. "Never taunt a man save when he is stronger than you," he tells Corin; also, "Sit down, Corin, or shalt leave the table." These could be said to any feisty young boy. Princes don't get any special treatment just because they're princes.

Princes

Rabadash. Oh, Rabadash. A man with the emotional maturity of a three-year-old. This guy is in a perpetual temper-tantrum. "I want her," he cries of Queen Susan. And to him, this means "I must have her." He gets everything he wants in Calormen because of his status. "He is little used (more's the pity) to having his will crossed," says Edmund, and the narrator informs us that "In Tashbaan everyone always took him seriously" when he made silly faces and wiggled his ears. And even when he's tied up and at the mercy of the Northerners, Rabadash is still making threats and demands, obsessing over "the barbarian queen" that he can't have. He kicks the Vizier in the backside for quoting poets at him, and the Tisroc can barely muster up a weak, "Desist, O my son." (Threats are much greater, of course, when Rabadash challenges his father directly, but I digress.) To Rabadash, the universe exists to make him happy.

This is why he simply cannot handle the environment up North, and I don't mean the cold. The environment of thought that takes him simply as a man, without all the awe afforded to his status, and judges him as one in need of change, is repellent to him. How fitting, then, that the great judgment of Aslan upon him is changing him, first into a donkey in front of his enemies, and then back into a man in front of his subjects. And it's rather ironic that, out of fear of one kind of change (being overthrown by successful generals), Rabadash instituted a different change in Calormen (peaceful foreign policy). It wasn't exactly the kind of change the Northerners were hoping for (a change of mind and spirit), but one takes what one gets out of life.

Corin is one of the most fun characters in any children's story, IMHO. Just look at his first scene and the matter-of-fact way he narrates his adventures. "A boy in the street made a beastly joke about Queen Susan, so I knocked him down." And then his big brother, too. No bragging, no grandstanding about how "I beat him and his big brother." It just happened. "Then we ran into three men with spears who were called the Watch. So I fought the Watch and they knocked me down." Same thing. No "how dare they", no "my father will hear about this." It's a hazard of getting into fights. Even a prince can get knocked down. And then he doesn't bother with being all grandiose with the Watch, either, when they take him to lock him up. No struggling, no threatening. He cleverly tricks them into passing out drunk so he can escape. And when Shasta realizes he'll have to tell the Narnians the truth, Corin demands, "What else do you think I'll be telling them?" Princes have minds and consciences just like anyone else.

As far as welcoming change, Corin does a splendid job of it. He eagerly takes Shasta under his wing, telling him how to escape from Tashbaan, bringing him into the battle, and teaching him what he can about riding and fighting. When Shasta is revealed to be his brother Cor, and apologizes for "chisel[ing] you out of your kingdom", Corin is delighted with the change. "Hurrah!" he exclaims. "I shan't have to be king. I'll always be a prince. It's princes have all the fun." And the way Corin has most fun is boxing, leading to the incident of the Lapsed Bear of Stormness, the last episode we hear of him. Lots of change in that one. The Lapsed Bear was a Talking Bear who had gone wild (change one--bad), and Corin climbed up to its lair and boxed it until it "couldn't see out of its eyes" (change two--ambiguous) and "became a reformed character" (change three--good).

The third prince (how come there are three of just about everything in this book?) is the most complex: Shasta/Cor. Shasta starts out as an ordinary citizen of Calormen, but almost immediately shows himself to be far from ordinary. Quite apart from his fair Northern skin and hair, Shasta has a completely different attitude toward life than his "father" Arsheesh. He's curious about what lies Northward beyond the green hill, where Arsheesh couldn't care less. When he discovers that Arsheesh is not in fact his father, he accepts the change readily. "Why, I could be anyone!" he exclaims. Shasta speculates about his potential status as the Tarkaan's servant, but doesn't hold any delusions about being entitled to special treatment (despite his grandiose fantasy of being the son of a god). And when he discovers a Talking Horse, his default reaction is telling: "How ever did you learn to talk?" Apparently, in his mind, horses can learn to talk. That is, they can change.

In spite of all this, Shasta still has some Calormene attitudes from his upbringing. He calls Aravis "only a girl" (she rightfully upbraids him for it), says of the Tisroc "may-he-live-for-ever" until Bree calls him on it, and assumes that the Narnian lords will act like Calormenes would if they discover who he really is. "Like Calormenes" is still his default assumption of how all people are or should be. But all of that changes (there it is again!) over the course of the story, as directed by Aslan. He joins up with Aravis, and, through traveling with her, learns to appreciate her. He spends the night in the Tombs with the protective Cat (secretly a Lion), who motivates him to be kind even to dumb animals in future. Being forced to protect Aravis gives him a powerful lesson in sacrificial leadership, the kind he'll need someday as king of Archenland. And the hardship of finding King Lune, the fulfillment of the prophecy at his birth, and the revelation of Aslan's complete sovereignty ("I was the Lion") shows him that he's only a very small part of a very big story. In that context, he can't think of himself as The Most Important Being in the Universe, like Rabadash does. Even when he comes to see Aravis in his new princely garb, Cor makes sure to let her know that he didn't get all this up to impress her; he's still just himself.

Noblewomen

I can't say "queens" or "princesses" because they're not all royal, but the contrast is very strong between the three main female humans we meet. Let's start with the easiest one to characterize: Lasaraleen. She's one of the most Calormene characters in the whole book. Her descriptions and dialogue simply ooze entitlement, privilege, and total acceptance of the status quo. In contrast to King Lune, Las cares much more about what you are than who you are. She cries to Aravis, "if only you had sense you could be the wife of a Grand Vizier!" Ahoshta's numerous moral and physical shortcomings are invisible to her. All she can see is his wealth and power, his pearls and palaces. Her servants are merely things to her, modes of transportation and labor-saving devices. Even Aravis has to remind her that Las' fate isn't the only one that matters ("I meant, all would be lost for me"). Particularly reprehensible is her reaction to the Tisroc's plot against Narnia with Rabadash: "It must be right if he's going to do it!" (emphasis original). Because everything we do is right because we're enlightened Calormenes, right? Ugh.

Aravis, on the other hand, is a paradox: a very Northern Calormene. She sees and rejects everything evil about her own culture. At first, she only sees her own forced child-marriage as being wrong, and sees change as so hopeless that her only chance is suicide. (Though she can see clearly that Ahoshta is a jerk who has bought all the power he has.) But then Hwin speaks. Again, Aravis' response is telling: she at first believes that the fear of death has made her hallucinate. Only later does she ask how the mare learned to talk. Aravis still has several Calormene attitudes at the beginning: she manipulates the system to get her way, like Ahoshta, and she sees the servant girl as merely "a tool", not caring that she was beaten. When entering Tashbaan, she chafes at not being able to travel in a way suited to her station, with a litter and servants and soldiers saluting.

But then in Tashbaan, Aravis encounters all the evils of the Calormene culture at their most glaring, even witnessing the secret councils of the Tisroc with Rabadash and Ahoshta. Having seen them, Aravis utterly rejects them. It's at this point that she stops wishing the Tisroc to live forever and begins to see Shasta in a much more positive light. Unlike Lasaraleen, Aravis sees Ahoshta for who he really is: "A hideous grovelling slave who...hopes to get his own back by egging on that horrible Tisroc to plot his son's death." And Las, after seeing the same scene, still thinks he's a "great man"?! Aravis declares, unusually for a Calormene, "I'd sooner marry my father's scullion than a creature like that." Even earlier, when Lasaraleen is horrified at the thought of running away with a peasant boy, Aravis accepts the fact that "I'll be nobody, just like him, when we get to Narnia." Of course, in the end, he turns out to be far from nobody, but Aravis couldn't have known that. She comes to respect him as simply himself. Even her attitude toward leadership changes, as we see after the grueling desert journey when everyone falls asleep. Aravis is first to wake up and is furious with herself, grumbling that the Horses and Shasta had some excuse, being slaves all their lives. "But I ought to have known better" (emphasis original). In other words, her noble privilege is a responsibility. How Northern of her. Hopefully that made it a little easier to adjust to life in Archenland.

Susan, whom we only see for a couple of scenes, remains her tragically non-planetary self. She's almost the reverse of Aravis; the most Calormene of the Northerners. Of course, we barely see her in this book. But even that is significant. She's the only reason the Narnians are in Calormen, because she responded well to Rabadash's suit when he was in Narnia. On the one hand, she does willingly change her mind once she sees who he really is. But on the other, she seems pretty helpless and childish in the discussion that follows; almost like Rabadash himself. (Was that why she found him attractive?) Even earlier, when "Corin" is brought back to her, she acts like one child talking to another, calling him "playmate" and asking how he could do this to her. And while Edmund and the others set their minds to the problem of escape, Susan contributes nothing useful. She gets sidetracked on the description of the desert route and then just bursts into self-deprecating tears. And unlike Lucy, we don't find her at the battle, doing the Northernly royal thing of leading the troops. We know from PC that she never did like battles, but still, if she's one of the best archers, isn't it her responsibility as queen to take on hardship for her people? Susan is using her privilege to avoid hardship instead. Even Shasta does better before he knows he's a prince!

Advisors

We don't see much of the advisors, either, but there's quite a contrast there. Starting with the sleazy vizier (try saying that five times fast) of Calormen, we find the hideous, groveling Ahoshta Tarkaan. As Aravis observes, Ahoshta is one of the only upwardly mobile characters in Calormen; however, the way he made his way to the top is by gaming the system, by flattering the people in power. Later, we observe this yes-man in action, full of "live-forever's" and fawning phrases like "The praise of my masters is the delight of my eyes." The entitlement-driven status quo of the Calormene court is his territory, his life, and his means to power. His desire of Aravis is only another aspect of this epitome of Calormene attitude. A sixty-year-old man marrying an adolescent girl? Apparently it's always done that way "in the great Calormene families." And it's not hard to guess that Ahoshta wants Aravis in part so he can make a useful connection with her influential father. Though he claims to love the Tisroc more than his own life, it's clear that this is only a means to gain more for himself.

On the other side, we have not just one, not just two, but--let me check--at least six Narnians advising Susan and Edmund. And they don't all agree with each other. There's give and take, critique and counter-argument, even after Tumnus reveals his master plan for their escape. And no one is telling the king and queen what they want to hear; they're offering what they think will do the most good for them and for Narnia. We can tell that the royals are listening to and considering them all; diversity of opinion is important to them in their counsels. Tumnus, though, is probably the most influential. As I mentioned, he eventually has the best idea and saves them all. He's also the one to suggest that "Corin" has a touch of sunstroke and is confused. One gets the sense that this happens a lot, and that Tumnus is one of the most trusted members of the court. Yet he isn't puffed up about it or given some kind of exalted rank. He's just happy they can get out of the trap, and happy to serve the convalescent prince his meal, too. The Narnian group of advisors are the perfect example of servant leadership.

Just in case anyone's actually following this series, I do apologize for the insanely long delay. Maybe someday we'll get to The Magician's Nephew. Until then, farewell!

Planet Narnia, A Responsive Reread: The Horse and His Boy

YAY IT'S FINALLY TIME!!

...
Sorry. Crazy fangirl moment over.

It's finally time for The Horse and His Boy, my favorite Narnian Chronicle! Having a "mercurial" personality (in a very medieval sense), I enjoy this book in so many ways. For one thing, it has so many amazing characters that I'll have to employ a whole 'nother blog post to explore them. For another, the setting and plot are unique among the books, with tight pacing and sly humor. Rereading this book in the aspect of Mercury has been a tremendously meaningful experience, and a lot of fun as well. Thus, I will respond to this blog post from Mari Ness on Tor.com with what may be an overabundance of glee. Be forewarned. And read the original post first, because I will respond without repeating it.

Before we get into things, let's spend a little time thinking about Mercury: the planet, the element, and the mythological deity. The element, also known as "quicksilver" ("quick" in the older sense meaning "alive"), gives perhaps the clearest definition to Mercury's nature and the aspect that we see the most in the book. If you were to roll a bit of mercury around in a dish (which I think you're not allowed to do now we know it's poisonous), you would notice a very strange phenomenon: the droplets. When disturbed, quicksilver scatters into tiny little spheres that roll around wildly until they bump into each other, at which point they merge again, eventually unifying back into the smooth surface you started with. This behavior of quicksilver was a favorite metaphor of Lewis' (see Michael Ward, Planet Narnia), who used it in literary criticism, poetry, and fictional descriptions. But in HHB, he did something even cooler: he dramatized it throughout the story as characters are united and separated and united again. Bree and Shasta get together, then later meet Aravis and Hwin. The group is separated in Tashbaan, only to be reunited on the other side, and then Shasta splits off from the others at the Hermit's house, later returning after his reunion with his true father and brother. In the end, the Horses and humans go their separate ways to Narnia and Archenland, but the very last line of the book indicates that they would keep getting back together for many years in the future.

Mercury the planet supposedly presided over two (that I know of) constellations in the zodiac: Gemini and Virgo. Gemini provides Lewis with another constant imagery for his story: twins or pairs. It even starts with the dedication, which is to a pair of brothers. Shasta and Corin are, of course, the main pair of twins in the story, and clearly based on Castor and Pollux (the former being a horse-tamer and the latter a boxer). The imagery continues with the horses galloping neck and neck, the slaves on either side of the Tisroc's couch, Mount Pire with its double point, and the two kings shaking hands across the battering-ram at Anvard, just to name a few. Virgo, as a footnote in Ward's book points out, may be responsible for the two subplots of virgins escaping forced marriage. They are certainly very different, and the contrast is almost certainly deliberate, but I will say more about that later.

Mercury the myth seems to have ruled over many things. He was the god of language, of crossroads, of speed, and of theft. Language is the concept that Michael Ward takes under consideration in his Mercury chapter of Planet Narnia, which is well worth reading. Mercury's rule of the spoken and written word includes elevated style (Aravis' storytelling), pithy wit ("Does it ever get caught on a hook halfway?"), puns, double meanings (there's that twin picture again!), and symbolism. All other aspects of Mercury's character, I believe, can be summarized under one concept: Mercury is the god of change. Crossroads mean a change of direction. Speed, a change of location. Theft, a change in ownership, or at least possession. In my next post about the characters of HHB, one main focus will be on how they respond to change. And now, to the response.

First, about coincidences: The Hermit of the Southern March tells Aravis that in his long life he's never met such a thing as Luck, and Lewis clearly agrees. Even in this world, he was convinced that everything was working out according to a divine plan. His works on the efficacy of prayer and the problem of pain, just for a few examples, are adamant that God is to be conceived of as being in control of every little circumstance. As Cor later notes of Aslan, "He seems to be at the back of all the stories."

Then to deal with Calormen. I congratulate Ms. Ness on recognizing the influence of the Ottoman Empire on Lewis' portrayal. One must remember, Lewis was not a man of his time; he was a man of medieval times, especially when writing the Narnia books, which take place in a medieval-type world and are ordered by a medieval cosmology. And in medieval times, the Ottoman Empire was much, much bigger than the little island nation of England. Thus, the depiction of the Calormene Tisroc as a powerful tyrant who dreams of "swallowing up" the little countries of Archenland and Narnia. But more to the point, Lewis is not using Calormen (at least, not in this book) to comment on Islam. They're clearly polytheists, as Aravis demonstrates by swearing in the names of multiple gods and preparing sacred rites for the goddess Zardeenah. What he is doing with it is highlighting the evils of empire. Most of the character flaws in the Calormenes--greed, tyranny, entitlement, servility, corruption, and so on--are things we see in every bloated empire, from the Babylonian to the British to the Galactic. Most of all, the characteristic of Calormen is anti-Mercurial. Their habits of language are cumbersome and verging on the meaningless, as demonstrated in Ahoshta's constant quoting of the "poets" who used ten-dollar words at every opportunity. Their resistance to change (Mercury's nature) is even more pronounced. Things in Calormen are the way they are, and no one except Aravis questions them. In fact, they go so far as to denounce the ways of the Northerners as "barbaric", childish, and demonic. Sound familiar? How long ago was it that we in America were calling people "savages" and treating them like children or idiots?

The anti-Mercurial nature of Calormen can be summed up nicely in their catchphrase: "The Tisroc (may he live for ever)." Bree points out how silly this is in the first chapter: "I don't want him to live for ever, and I know that he's not going to live for ever whether I want him to or not." Even the people who say it know that it's not true. They refer to the year the present Tisroc began his reign, which would have to be when the previous one died. (Also, incidentally, the same year LWW took place.) The Tisroc himself notes that several before him have been killed before their time by impatient princes like Rabadash, and when Rabadash eventually takes the throne, he won't let his generals go out and win glory in battle because that's the way Tisrocs get overthrown. One wonders how many Tisrocs died while their subjects muttered "may he live for ever". And yet, one can see how such a practice might have started and been encouraged. Strict anti-treason laws might have prohibited talking about the Tisroc's eventual death, or even thinking about it. This might have grown into a command to wish for his eternal life. And when you repeat something often enough, you start to internalize it and believe it. The saying keeps the Tisroc's people content with the status quo. Even if they're sensible enough to realize the present Tisroc won't live forever, at least there will always be a Tisroc. There will always be a Grand Vizier, Tarkaans and Tarkheenas, soldiers and sellers and slaves, and the whole structure of their society. For isn't it the most enlightened and civilized way of doing things? Of course it is. Because everyone else is a barbarian.

On the subject of Aravis, I agree: she is awesome. And I will talk about her awesomeness in depth in the next post on character contrasts. Only a couple of notes here: First, her physical punishment by Aslan is one of the ways she's brought out of the mentality of imperial Calormen. There, people (especially lower-class people) are seen as tools to be used for one's own pleasure or advancement. (Again, sound familiar?) Aravis even refers to the servant as a "tool" of her stepmother's. Aslan makes it clear that such an attitude is not acceptable in his realm. People feel pain, no matter who they are. Second, her eventual marriage can be seen as another statement of the coupling theme that runs throughout the book. Even the separation-and-unity of quicksilver is featured in the humorous way they get together, by "quarrelling and making it up again" over and over.

Susan, on the other hand, is the exception to the Northern Mercurial character. At council, she breaks down in tears instead of saying anything useful, and as Ms. Ness points out, she can't see beyond appearances. She and Aravis are apparently meant as opposites, with Lasaraleen providing a foil for Aravis in a more present way. Again, I will go much more in depth on all of them later.

"Bad luck" as part of a divine plan: see above, under coincidences. Also, which would you rather believe about your own suffering: that it's random and meaningless, meant by no one for no purpose; or that it's intended by an all-knowing deity for the good of many, including yourself? If you truly believe suffering is easier to endure with no meaning or purpose to it, then I don't understand where you are coming from.

One more note: Mari Ness expresses confusion that the characters are so excited about finding freedom in Narnia when "both Narnia and Archenland are monarchies believing in the divine right of kings." Firstly, as some of the commenters on her post pointed out, monarchy and freedom are not mutually exclusive. Secondly, given King Lune's comment on how "the king's under the law", Archenland might well be seen as a constitutional monarchy. And finally, the philosophy of kingship espoused by King Lune (which he presumably got from his ancestor Frank, who got it from Aslan) is one that puts severe limitations on the king's power and how it may be used. In Narnia and Archenland, kingship is not just a divine right, but a divine responsibility; a duty, like a sentry at his post. Their job is to take on hardship and danger so their subjects don't have to.  Power is to be used for the sake of the powerless. This is why the Northern countries don't have forced marriage (as Hwin tells Aravis), slavery, or "dangerous" princes like Rabadash. Again, I will be coming back to all of this in my next post.

With that said, let's get to it, eh? ;)

Planet Narnia, A Responsive Reread: The Silver Chair

Hello all, I'm sorry it's been so long since updating this series. In my defense, this book is one of the more "miserable" of the seven, as Mari Ness points out in the first paragraph of her blog post here. There are good reasons for this in the planetary scheme of things, and I'll get to them below. Hopefully, this post will be short, since there wasn't much in Ms. Ness' article that I disagreed with. (And I CAN'T WAIT to get to HHB, which is my absolute favorite and will take two full posts at least!) Again, please read the original post, since I will (as usual) be responding without repeating.

The Silver Chair has as its presiding planet what we consider not a planet at all: Luna, or the moon. But when you think about the original meaning of the word "planet" (as Lewis was wont to do with many words), the name might be more fitting than we think. "Planet" means "wanderer", and is there any heavenly body in our terrestrial sky that wanders more than the moon? The stars remain in their positions as the sky turns, such that one can find them in the same configuration any day of the year. The planets move much more freely, but still show up predictably and generally stick to the same course. The sun, of course, defines days and seasons, rising faithfully every morning and setting every evening. But the moon seems to be all over the place, waxing and waning and showing up in the daytime sky and getting closer to and further from the earth. Granted, we can predict a lot of that now, after millennia of study. But it's hardly a surprise that the changeable, wandering moon was associated in the medieval mind with wanderlust, fickleness, and insanity (or "lunacy"--moon pun!). Hence, "the first and only quest tale of the Narnia series", where the destination is uncertain, leading the characters to wander a great deal with confusing or "not always clear instructions."

But there's another important reason why the instructions are not always clear. Luna, in the medieval model of the universe, was the boundary marker of our fallen world. All the other planets' spheres (between one orbit and another, their territory if you will) were in heaven; or more accurately, were "the heavens". Out beyond the moon, everything was clear, orderly, and perfect. Confusion, or indeed evil itself, only existed below the moon, in our terrestrial sphere. Aslan makes this difference part of the story when he tells Jill before blowing her into Narnia, "Here on the mountain I have spoken to you clearly; I will not often do so down in Narnia. Here on the mountain, the air is clear and your mind is clear; as you drop down into Narnia, the air will thicken. Take great care that it does not confuse your mind." And in Planet Narnia (pp. 128-129), Michael Ward points out that this is not the only Lunar-esque divide in SC: first there's Aslan's mountain, where everything is perfectly clear; then there's Narnia and Ettinsmoor, where things are not always what they seem and Jill and Eustace "muff" the signs; then there's Underland, where you can barely see a thing and the witch's deception rules. (And then there's the deeper land of Bism, but we see so little of it that it's hard to comment on.) Thus, the answer to the question I posed at the end of my last post is that in the system of Narnia and Lewis' wider imagination, it's this side of the moon that is truly "dark".

As Ms. Ness astutely points out, the northern lands beyond Narnia are "very wet", and this is yet another aspect of Luna's influence. By association with the tides and by its fluctuating nature, the moon was closely tied to water in the medieval mindset. And I am very impressed by how C. S. Lewis manages to make the landlocked journey of SC atmospherically wetter than the sea voyage of the preceding VDT. The overwhelming aesthetic of VDT, despite taking place on a large body of water, is light, glowing, shining, white and gold. Jill and Eustace's journey with Puddleglum (whose very name seems to drip) is overwhelmingly cold and wet and dim and gray. And that's the above-ground portion. Even in England, the laurels are dripping, and Eustace can't sit down for the wet grass.

Regarding the underground portion, just a personal note: I was never scared of underground places like Jill and Ms. Ness. I'm more on Eustace's side, being afraid of heights. Enclosed spaces, to me, feel safe and cozy. This is why I was so content to live in basement apartments for about two and a half years. But, moving on...

The question is raised of why Aslan doesn't just rescue Rilian himself, since he obviously knows where he is and how to get there. I struggled a bit with how to answer this, until my husband said succinctly, "Why don't I do my child's math homework?" It's because the point isn't only to get the right answers, or in this context, the point isn't just to rescue Rilian. It's important for the person experiencing it to learn how to solve the problem, to make mistakes and struggle and grow. Given Ms. Ness' praise of how Jill does just that, I doubt she would really want to take the opportunity away from her. (Not to mention Eustace and Puddleglum, but we don't see their growth as much.)

This educational aspect of the story might also help to shed some light (moonlight, naturally) on one of the most controversial scenes in Narnia: the corporal punishment of the bullies at Experiment House at the hands of Jill, Eustace, and Caspian, abetted by Aslan. As Ward explains in Planet Narnia, "the Moon was associated with grammar", one of the "seven medieval arts". Grammar could be extrapolated to mean an entire educational system, and discipline was a huge part of that. At Experiment House, though, discipline is nonexistent. Anyone who gets caught in wrongdoing is deemed an "interesting psychological case" and brought in for a conversation in which manipulation is easy for those who know what grown-ups like to hear. Very little real learning is going on in their ostensible subjects, because real learning involves effort. It involves difficulty, struggle, and hard work. The poor victims are already expending all their energy in staying safe, and the bullies (this is important) are skating by on their forceful personalities, never facing anything difficult, anything that might hurt them in any way. Not only is this unfair, but it's harmful to the bullies themselves. When they get outside the school environment, where such things as math and reading and science--and diligence and perseverance and recovery from failure--actually matter, they'll be completely unprepared. This is a wake-up call to them and to the adults who have made this situation possible. Appropriately, the Head is found "behaving like a lunatic" (moon pun!) after the incident.

Now, briefly, to respond to the penultimate paragraph: why enchant Rilian to be such an obnoxious person? This isn't answered in Planet Narnia, but I think I can make a guess. The witch didn't want to hang out with him for the rest of her life, despite what she might have told him. After she used him to take over Narnia, giving its inhabitants a large dose of bitter irony, her plan was probably to get rid of him and just rule it by herself. Perhaps she would have allowed him one moment of clarity before the end, just to make him suffer with the knowledge of what he had done. But in the meantime, his grating personality was likely to drive away potential rescuers, as even the Aslan-sent party is heartily sick of his company after one dinner.

That's all I have for now, but next comes (drum roll, please)...The Horse and His Boy! And this will be tons of fun, because it contains one of my favorite plots as well as some of my favorite scenes and characters. Under analysis, it also revealed plenty of deeper meanings and fun connections, so I'll probably take two posts to discuss everything I found. :)

See you then!

Planet Narnia, a Responsive Reread: The Voyage of the "Dawn Treader"

This is perhaps my second favorite Narnia book, a close second to The Horse and His Boy, which I will be reviewing later. No surprise there; like Olaf, I've always loved summer, and the sun, and warmth. Going on a voyage to the sun here in the middle of winter was like a soothing vacation for the soul.

Here, again, is the blog post on tor.com to which I will be responding. First, allow me to compliment the author on her choice of title. "Into Light" is a deeply apt description of VDT, and I will explain why in the comments below. Again, I recommend you read her post first or along with mine, as I will be responding to it without repeating it.

First, let's get our bearings by getting to know the presiding planetary "spirit" of the book: Sol, Apollo, or the Sun. (Remember, in the medieval cosmology, the sun went around the earth; and it appears to be the case in Narnia, which we learn is a flat world.) This is certainly the most obvious planetary influence out of the seven, as the literal rising sun is the goal of the journey, even giving the ship and the book their names. What might not be so obvious is the way the Solar spirit inhabits other aspects of the story, such as the several island visits and what the characters do there. There are two main ideas related to the sun which Lewis explores through the story: gold and light.

In the medieval mindset, each planet was responsible for creating a certain metal in the earth. Jupiter produced tin, valued for its shining quality; Mars produced iron, the strongest natural metal. The sun produced gold, that coveted metal that was alchemy's goal. Gold is prominently featured in VDT, with the ship's gilded sides, golden images of Aslan, the dragon's hoard of gold coins, and the alchemical pool on Deathwater Island. People can have two different attitudes toward gold: hoarding it or giving it away. It is the second impulse that Sol generates in responsive pupils, and we see generosity praised and greed condemned in many an episode. Greed is symbolized, often, by a dragon. It's common knowledge that dragons are hoarders of gold, and Eustace's greed turning him into a dragon is only the most obvious example. Notably, this is the only Chronicle in which dragons appear (the strange beasts of SC and LB are more like dinosaurs, in my opinion). Ominously, the ship herself is shaped like a dragon, which portends that her king is more susceptible to greed than he thinks. But more about that in a bit. (For a much more extensive treatment of Solar gold, see Planet Narnia, the chapter about VDT.)

Light pervades the story, made more striking by contrast with episodes of darkness such as the Dark Island. As a concept, light is rife with meaning, and Ward touches on some of those meanings in Planet Narnia, but one that I don't think he deals with sufficiently is that light reveals truth. The whole voyage is not a "cruise", as Ms. Ness calls it, but a quest of discovery, boldly going where no man (besides the seven lords) has gone before, shedding light on uncharted seas and lands and the fate of the missing Telmarines. As a result, the travelers also discover much about themselves. Seeking knowledge, finding out the truth, revealing hidden things; all of these are operations of the Sun. With all of this in mind, let us proceed to the response.

C. S. Lewis did certainly disapprove of Eustace's "modern" parents and the mindset that they represent. But it's not just their tastes in underwear or drinks that he disapproves of. By describing them as "very up-to-date and advanced people" and then listing all the fads they're following, he implies that they are just that; fads. Harold and Alberta Scrubb aren't doing all of these things for reasons of conviction, or even of preference, or so it seems to me. The stress on being "up-to-date" seems to indicate that all these things they do are simply for the sake of being "up-to-date". This is the same mind we later encounter in Governor Gumpas, who views the growth of the slave trade in the Lone Islands as "Progress" and "Development" ("We call it 'Going Bad' in Narnia," says Caspian), "Necessary" and "Unavoidable". This is progress for the sake of progress, not caring where one is going as long as one is going forward. But Lewis points out in several of his writings that this is a bad idea, likely to lead astray. If you're going the wrong direction, moving forward will only get you further lost. Sometimes the best way to get where you want to be is to turn around, as the crew does literally at the Dark Island. And one of the functions of light is to show you where you've gone wrong and guide you back to the right path.

I commend Ms. Ness on seeing the theme of "temptation and self knowledge" so clearly. I would put it differently, though. Almost every island is a test, but each test reveals something about the one taking it. For instance, Eustace's transformation brings what was inside him to the outside, causing him to finally see clearly who he and the others really are. And Lucy's temptation of beauty reveals to her just how jealous of Susan she really was, and how much she craved recognition. Moving on to the second, failed test, the temptation of eavesdropping, I have a few replies to what the blog says: First, it was Lucy, not Aslan, who suggested that she and her friend would have remained good friends all their lives if only she hadn't heard what she said. Aslan gently reminds her that "no one is ever told what would have happened." He said this before in Prince Caspian, but it gains new significance under the revelatory nature of Sol. Some things are not meant to be revealed, at least not to our finite understanding. And some revelations, like the conversation overheard, need further light (Aslan's words) to interpret them correctly. So the lesson for Lucy from that temptation might be put thus: Beware of being deceived by partial revelation, and be aware of the limits of your own knowledge. Some things should not be known. (And if you object to my use of the word "should" as a moral aspect of knowledge, I refer you to the movie Jurassic Park and Ian Malcolm's brilliant indictment of the dinosaur-cloning scientists.)

Eustace's transformation and un-transformation is indeed one of the best subplots in the book, and Ms. Ness is perceptive to note the baptismal nature of the "undragoning" process. I would disagree with her assessment of the characters as "bland", even Caspian. He's more of a man and less of a boy than we saw in the previous book, but still young enough to be a lot like Edmund, Lucy, and the reading child. His great temptation is to greed, as seen on Deathwater and in his near abdication in the Last Sea. In the latter, we are told that for one moment he looked a great deal like his uncle Miraz. By seeking the World's End despite his duties as king, Caspian is revealing a selfish, tyrannical, dragonish attitude (foreshadowed by the shape of his ship); he wants what he wants when he wants it and doesn't care about anything else. Aslan, in the form of the golden lion's head on the wall, strikes him like the noonday sun on unshaded eyes, leaving him shaken.

And it is Aslan that will be the focus now, as Ms. Ness' blog post spends a lot of time on his last words to Edmund and Lucy (in this book; he talks to them in LB before leaving off His lion form). I'll spend a good deal of time on it, too, combining it with the Christian focus that is usually my last section.

Ms. Ness makes several errors here, mostly to do with her understanding of Christianity. She interprets Aslan's words as making Narnia "a spiritual testing ground", pits this reason against the reason of saving Narnia, and seems to think the main purpose of "becom[ing] evangelicals" is to convert others. But that is to miss the whole point. The point is the self-revelation of the Light of the world. Aslan's purpose is that the children may know him, both in Narnia and in our world. This is not merely a knowledge about him, but a relational intimacy, a friendship. Whoever you are reading this, you obviously know a few things about me, but unless I've met you in person, you don't really know me. And it is the second kind of knowledge that Aslan wants for the Pevensies, Eustace, and indeed all the Narnians.

This makes sense out of every objection. Was there an easier way for them to know Jesus in our world? Maybe, but would it have had the richness and depth that it had in Narnia? Probably not. And that was why they would have shared it with the narrator, so others could enter into that deeper understanding. Yes, the children were brought in to save Narnia, and so to reveal Aslan's character to them and to the rest of Narnia as the one who saves, who rules, who fights, who illumines, etc. Aslan's purposes are much larger than the children, but they are not at odds with his individual plans for them. All tie together under the auspices of his creatures knowing him. It's not "a spiritual testing ground", but a place of spiritual revelation. Why these children? Because he loved them and wanted them as his friends. Becoming "evangelicals" or Christians is not just about converting others, though that's a part of it. It's about knowing the one in whom we believe and revealing him to the world. Letting Eustace come back makes sense, because Aslan has yet more ways to reveal himself to him, whereas it seems Edmund and Lucy are ready to go back to their own world with what they have learned in Narnia. They're too old in terms of experience, not in terms of age. And yes, I know Peter and Susan had less experience than they did, but presumably it was enough (though maybe not for Susan, but that's another topic).

But why is knowing Aslan such a big deal? I'm glad you asked. Seriously, this is one of the most important questions one can ask. Hopefully I can make the answer clear.

Consider: If Aslan is indeed Christ under another name, taking the Narnia stories as true, then He is the being who created the universe--all the universes, if there are more than one. He had nothing to work with besides himself, so everything that exists in every universe is a reflection of his character in some way. In this fallen world, it is twisted and marred by evil, but the image is still there, "clearly seen", in the words of Romans chapter one. This is what theologians call "general revelation". But we don't see. We are like the Dufflepuds, refusing point-blank to see what's obvious and right in front of us. Imagine poor Coriakin, a star who once performed in a cosmic dance, saw everything that happened in his world, and predicted the future, set to govern such stubbornly stupid idiots! It certainly was more of a punishment than a retirement. Now think of the gap that must exist between our minds and that of the Creator. We invented the light bulb; He invented Light itself. He made human beings with all their capability for reason and understanding, solely so that we could know Him. And imagine what it would be to know this person, this Creator! To be the intimate friend of the eternal being at the back of all the stories, the ultimate cause of all life, the true Light that gives light to everyone in the world! It is the greatest honor anyone could have! And it is our true purpose, the reason we were created in the first place. There is nothing more important, no activity more worthwhile, than knowing Him.

Like the sun, though, He is too glorious to be looked upon without harming us. If you've seen Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, you have some idea of what I'm talking about [SPOILER ALERT]. When Cate Blanchett's character wishes to know everything, it's too much for her. She experiences intense pain and then explodes. Something like that would happen to us if we met God unmediated. So He reveals Himself to us gradually, gently, almost like a parent using baby talk, guiding us to know, love, and trust Him; which is our purpose in life. That's what we'll be doing for eternity, we Christians. Heaven is misconstrued so often as a boring place. One wonders what anyone could do forever. The answer is simple: get to know the infinite Creator.

Whew. Fangirl moment over. For now. :)

This next post is where things get a little odd to me. Ms. Ness goes on to The Silver Chair from here, as does Planet Narnia, which is strange because The Horse and His Boy was evidently published before it (SC, 1981; HHB, 1980). It's even obvious from reading the books themselves, for in The Silver Chair, Jill and Eustace hear a Narnian bard tell the story of The Horse and His Boy. So it would make much more sense (in my mind) to go on to HHB from here and leave the two Jill-Eustace adventures to flow together. Oh, well. Since this is a response, I suppose I'll go from the sun to the moon instead of Mercury. Until then, I leave you with a question for your consideration: Which side of the moon is really the dark side?

Happy landings!

Planet Narnia, A Responsive Reread: Prince Caspian

It's been a while, both since I posted my response about The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and since I reread Prince Caspian in preparation for this one. Blame the holidays and a bout of stomach flu that hit our house. Anyway, here we are now, ready to return to Narnia after a year/about a thousand years/whatever.

Here is the blog post on tor.com to which I will be responding, and again, you might want to read her comments before reading mine, since I'll be answering them without repeating them.

For this book, it would perhaps make more sense to describe the planetary character before we get into things. As LWW was a Jovial book, full of the character of the astrological Jupiter, Prince Caspian is a Martial book, built around the theme of Mars; or I should say, the themes of Mars, since there are two. Mars began as a god of vegetation, of growing things, especially trees. This is why the month of March was named after him, the only month to be named after a planet. It was only later that he became a god of war. Lewis considers him under both of these characters.

This tension between life and death, growing and destroying, may be one of the reasons the book is (as Lewis admitted) the weakest of the seven Chronicles. It was also probably difficult for him to portray the theme of war in a way that children could understand and even enjoy; a tall order for a sophomore effort. And any writer of a sequel, a series, or a television show faces the challenge of making a story connected to the established story but not the same. Lewis gets better at this as he goes along, but this story is his first attempt, and rather fails. "Things never happen the same way twice," Aslan tells Lucy; and yet, a lot of the same things happen in PC as in LWW. The Pevensies are all pulled into Narnia, which is under the reign of a tyrannical usurper. Lucy sees something that none of the others do, and is disbelieved until proven right. Everyone winds up at the Hill of the Stone Table. The boys and girls are split up, the girls staying with Aslan while the boys fight an important battle against the tyrant. Aslan and the girls bring in surprise reinforcements that turn the tide of the battle into a Narnian victory. A new ruler is crowned. The four Pevensies return to England, having left something of our world back in Narnia. The way all these things happen is different, of course, but the similar story structure can make those differences rather jarring.

Most differences have to do with the difference between Jupiter and Mars, that is, the difference between kingship and knighthood. For of course, Lewis the medieval man filtered war through the lens of knighthood, with all the chivalry and courtesy that came with it. Unfortunately, there are many, many similarities between a good king and a good knight. Peter demonstrates this at the single combat when he spares Miraz' life, and Edmund grumbles, "Comes of being a knight and a High King." Both aspects would motivate him to mercy.

So what is a good knight, according to Prince Caspian and the character of Mars? One major aspect is orderly obedience. Everyone has his place in the ranks and defends it to the best of his ability. The subordinates don't seek to subvert their leaders, and the leaders don't seek to abandon their responsibilities. Trumpkin is a prime example, as even when he disagrees with his superior officer, he'll still follow and obey him. Another important aspect is courage, which is defined not only as facing one's fears, but as doing what is right even when it's very hard. We see this in countless ways, portrayed by Caspian, the Pevensies, Trumpkin, Doctor Cornelius--pretty much all the good characters, Susan being the least receptive to the Martial spirit but catching on eventually. ("You have listened to fears, child....Are you braver now?" "A little, Aslan.") And just as the White Witch was the antithesis to Jovial joy, with her stoic and deadening winter, here the Telmarines are the antithesis to Martiality (if that's a word). Instead of faithfully keeping their places in the ranks, Glozelle and Sopespian scheme against Miraz, convincing him to join single combat through fear of being thought a coward, and eventually murdering him. Miraz himself is a usurper, coming to the throne through treachery and murder. He rules in a large part through fear, as Cornelius explains to Caspian about the Black Woods: The Telmarine kings fear the sea because Aslan comes over it, so they let the trees grow up to cut off the coast. "But because they have quarrelled with the trees, they are afraid of the woods" and imagine them full of ghosts, encouraging their people to believe the same, because they're also afraid of what might happen if the people started making friends with the trees, the sea, and all that they represent.

Now to the response. First of all, yes, the Telmarines don't like Miraz either, but again, their culture is full of treachery and fear. Caspian didn't just want to take his rightful place as king; he wanted to take it in the right way, turning his back on all that the Telmarine kings have done for many generations. That would indeed be considerably harder.

"[H]is route to the throne is not at all clear": this might be another instance of Lewis working in the aspects of Mars. In war, things are often unclear, and the only thing the soldier or the knight can do is make the best decision possible with the situation presented to him. Also, Caspian is still a very young prince, forced into this situation by necessity (another word that Lewis associated with Mars; see Planet Narnia, chapter four). He's not a very good commander yet, which is why he needs the aid of the more experienced kings Peter and Edmund, and of his great Commander-in-Chief, Aslan.

Bacchus, the Maenads, and Silenus. Those were always a weird part of the story to me, too. Michael Ward makes a brief connection in Planet Narnia with the month of March, during which, in ancient Rome, the Bacchanalia occurred after a festival in honor of Mars. This is a loose connection at best, and perhaps another weakness in the Chronicle, but the revelers are more sturdily rooted in the story (lol) by their association with plant life. They are quintessentially wild, like the untamed forest, and their function in the story is mainly to remove all the unnecessary/unwanted restrictions that the Telmarines have put in place: Beruna's Bridge (which the river-god calls "my chains"), a school where falsehood is taught, a man beating a boy, etc. They serve as a reminder that, although the Martial spirit is one of orderly obedience and hard necessity, those things are means rather than ends; means to abundant life, peace, friendship, and joy. (P.s.: Glozelle and Sopespian, as I said above, are not just there to help out the plot, or to save the children from being murderers, but to portray the general character of the bad guys as anti-Martial.)

Oh, yes. The next paragraph is one that I can hardly disagree with. The flashback method is confusing and makes it harder to totally immerse in the story. This may be one of the reasons for the book's poorer quality, and is probably connected with Lewis' desire to change things up a bit for the sequel.

No moral depth? On the contrary. Courage (as a few people have said) is not just one of the virtues, but is what is needed for any of the virtues to become strong. It's easy to have love, or gratitude, or self-control, or faith, when everything is going well for us. It's when things get hard, when the going gets tough, that we see how strong those virtues really are in us. The whole journey for Caspian and the other children (and Trumpkin, to some extent) is a lesson in courage, in doing the hard, necessary, right thing. Indeed, faith and disbelief may be studied almost the hardest here. The Last Battle is definitely the most in-depth journey of faith without sight, but Lucy's trial with her unseeing siblings is a great example to the Christian of the duty of witnessing even to the stubborn unbeliever, trusting that God will work through our obedience even if we don't see results right away. It takes courage for Lucy to "stick to her guns", and at first, she doesn't. It's something she has to learn. And the others change, too; the boys harden into warriors after the hard journey to Aslan's How, and Susan eventually admits how wrong she was and submits to Aslan's influence.

The worst consequence of disbelief is not just "a day's delay and exile to a tropical island". Those were the consequences meant to teach Aslan's children and to reward those who trusted his promises, respectively. How about the man who turned into a tree? The class full of boys who apparently turned into pigs? (Interestingly, it was apparently their fear that accomplished the latter transformation.) And think about the other two kinds of Telmarines who stayed in Narnia. Some were like Caspian and were glad that the Old Days had come again. They were on Aslan's side and probably became well-loved citizens of Narnia. But those who didn't like the new order of things, nor trust Aslan to give them a new country, must have been miserable the rest of their lives. Imagine a Nazi, or a member of the KKK, being forced to live in Africa. Caspian wouldn't have put up with them trying to assert their "rights" over his other subjects for a minute. Most of these probably ended up in prison or banished, or leaving the country voluntarily, as Pittencream does later in VDT.

On the subject of humans ruling the animals, see the previous post in this series, on kingship and the order of creation as Lewis saw it. Also, consider this: all or most of the animals we see have their own particular prejudices. The Bulgy Bears want to have dinner first and council afterwards; the squirrels want everyone to eat and talk at the same time; the mice want to storm Miraz' castle right away; the moles want to dig trenches all over the place; the fauns and satyrs want to start with a dance; later, in SC, the owls have all their meetings at night; etc. A Centaur might be a good choice for a ruler to tie all these disparate races together, but Narnian Centaurs have their own job of stargazing and prophecy. (Dwarfs tend to be racial supremacists, as in the case of Nikabrik and the Dwarfs of The Last Battle.) A human king, ruling under the guidance of the animal-yet-divine Aslan, can know what's best for all.

Trumpkin's doubt of the Pevensies' abilities is another way Lewis shows that he (Trumpkin, that is) is not quite in tune with Aslan's Martial influence. A soldier obeys his commanding officer, even if he doesn't think much of him. Trumpkin realizes this under Caspian, but has trouble accepting the authority of the four Kings and Queens from England. In part, this is because their authority comes from Aslan, in whom Trumpkin also disbelieves until proven wrong. His skepticism is another way the issue of faith is explored, and reminds me of the character of MacPhee in That Hideous Strength, whom the leader of the faithful company describes affectionately as "our skeptic" and the best man you could have on your side in a losing battle. His loyalty and faith are not easy to win, but nearly impossible to lose once gained. And when Trumpkin does believe in who the Pevensies are, he steps in and reminds them whenever they start to forget who they are in Narnia; their place in the ranks. Peter would rather not have to make a decision; "You are the High King," Trumpkin points out. If anyone has to make tough choices, it's the leader. Susan obstreperously declines to follow Aslan in the middle of the night, even when everyone else is doing so; "Obey the High King, your Majesty," says Trumpkin, "and let's be off." Trumpkin doesn't believe it, either, but he knows the difference between giving advice and taking orders, which shows how he's somewhat receptive to Aslan even before coming to faith.

Susan, as I have said, is the least receptive to the Martial influence in this book. Because of the theme of facing hardship hardily, the result is that Susan is quite the "wet-blanket", complaining more than anyone else and refusing to obey her older brother/High King or Lucy's vision of Aslan. She's not completely useless, as she takes the initiative to rescue Trumpkin at the beginning of the story and uses her shooting skills to prove her identity as Queen. We're told that archery and swimming are the things she's good at. But talent alone is not enough. Being on Aslan's side is about commitment and loyalty, even when things don't go smoothly, and Susan apparently can't handle that. Is this one reason she turns her back on Narnia in LB? Maybe.

Nobody seems to learn anything in this book? Really? See the above paragraph on "moral depth". I would say all four Pevensies learn a great deal about holding onto faith and making the right choice when it's hardest. Maybe it's not as clear as it should be (another result of the confusing story structure?), but studying Prince Caspian under the character of Mars made it very clear to me. (No comment on the shortness of the trip, except to note that when peace has come, the knights can return home, unlike kings whose jobs are never over.)

On the subject of Peter and Susan leaving Narnia, it's impossible to say much from this book because it doesn't say much about it (another case of obeying orders even when they're difficult to understand). We get much better closure in VDT when Aslan speaks to Edmund and Lucy about not coming back. There, Aslan explains that as they get older, they "must begin to come close to [their] own world" and that the reason they were brought to Narnia was to know him better here. I'll talk more about this in the next post, of course, dealing with the book it appears in; but for now, let me just note that Aslan/Christ is the creator of both of these worlds, and He would have put the Pevensies in this world for a purpose, just as He had a purpose in sending them to Narnia temporarily. We're not told much about what Peter and Susan (nor Edmund and Lucy) began to do in our world once their adventures in Narnia ended, but if they began to follow Jesus with the same commitment they had to Aslan, one can see how that would have been life-changing. Unfortunately, it seems Susan didn't, as far as we know. But anything might have happened after the events of LB, which I will address in their proper place. They will have a lot to do with this "too old for fairy tales" concept that keeps coming up.

And now to get specifically Christian. What is Christian about war? you may ask. Much, the Bible answers. Its pages are full of physical and spiritual battles, in which many a true believer must take part as his (or her) duty. Several of these battles, like that of Prince Caspian, are wars of deliverance against wicked tyrants. In no place is this truer than in the Christian's spiritual warfare against the forces of darkness. Satan has taken over this world, and our job is to "resist him, steadfast in the faith", as Caspian and his ragtag band continue to resist Miraz even in the worst of circumstances. However, in the current stage of our warfare, our struggle is not with flesh and blood (as, for example, the Israelites against the Philistines) but against the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. Therefore, the weapons of our warfare are not physical, but spiritual, and are listed famously in Ephesians 6. And one of the main ways we defeat our spiritual enemy is simply by being faithful through hard times, like the persecuted saints in Revelation who overcame "by the blood of the Lamb, by the word of their testimony, and because they did not love their lives to the death." This is what we call martyrdom, and it doesn't always have to involve literal physical death. A martyr is literally a witness, and witnesses to the truth no matter how others respond. Dante, in the Paradiso, puts martyrs in the sphere of Mars, possibly for other reasons, but it might be that he understood witness as warfare. And Lewis in many places expressed strongly his views on the uneven dualism of the universe. He believed no one could remain neutral; all of life is choosing between one side and the other, and then fighting for that side, whether you know it or not.

Where does Aslan, or Christ, fit into all of this? Not only is He the Commander-in-Chief of our forces, but He is also the brave knight who has already won the decisive victory and directs all things to His ultimate conquest, which will bring peace throughout the world. We fight because we have assurance in Him that the war will someday be over, and He and His will be victorious. Our circumstances, however difficult, cannot change that. Let the enemy trick us, hurt us, torture us, and even kill us; if we are on the Winner's side, we have already won. We are "more than conquerors" through Him. Not only does His victory motivate us, but it enables us to do our part and fight our personal battles faithfully. That armor listed in Ephesians 6? It's the armor of God. He's the source of our strength and courage. He is also our example of fighting technique, and the Old and New Testaments are full of exhortations to be like the God who has rescued us from the enemy and made us His people. It's a tall order, but He is always with us to help us, even when it may not seem like it.

There is so much in these books, especially when you start delving into the planetary themes and Christian meanings. It is very impressive, at least to me, that Lewis was able to communicate so much in such simple language, that a child can understand it, but an adult will understand it much more. That's why these posts are going to be very long. That, and I'm just a long-winded person. :)

Whew! See you next time, on a voyage to the sun!

Planet Narnia, A Responsive Reread: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

Rereading this book, I was struck for the first time by how short it is. Maybe that's a side effect of having it in a single large volume with all the others and expecting it to go longer, or of being able to read more quickly than I could as a youngster, but I got through it in a very short time. It is a mark of how tight Lewis' prose is that so much depth of feeling and imagery can be expressed in such a short space of words.

Here is the blog post to which this one will be responding, and I invite you to read it before you go on to the rest of mine. I'll be commenting on her comments in order.

Yes, Narnia is small. This will come up again in later books, especially in relation to Calormen. Narnia and Archenland are seen as "small, free" countries on the skirts of a huge empire. Narnia's influence expands under Caspian to include the tributary giants in the North and several islands in the Eastern Sea, but the land itself is indeed tiny. This may be another medieval callback, to the times when little kingdoms had not yet made large alliances or been conquered and forcefully unified into countries. And yes, the Pevensies' "complete amnesia" about the lamp-post is confusing, especially since we see in Prince Caspian that Lantern Waste has become a sacred site, famous in legend as the place the four appeared and vanished, so obviously someone remembered. (Tumnus?) However, this along with other inconsistencies can perhaps be explained in terms of the planetary theme of the book: Jove or Jupiter. This might be a good time to get into it.

The Jupiter chapter of Michael Ward's book Planet Narnia delves much more deeply into LWW than I have time or space to do. (Space. Get it? Ha ha.) But simply put, the entire theme of the book is kingship or royalty. Jupiter was the king of the gods in ancient mythology, and in medieval astrology, he (or the planet) made people "jovial", that is, magnanimous and merry. Lewis uses the entire atmosphere of LWW to demonstrate how royalty should and shouldn't be. Thus, we have Aslan as the King of the Wood, the King of Beasts, the true King, as opposed to the Witch who self-styles herself the Queen of Narnia, Chatelaine of Cair Paravel, etc.

Kings, on Lewis' view, are given authority; they don't take it. In Aslan's case, his authority comes from his father, the Emperor-over-the-sea (apparently Narnia's name for God). He later bestows it on Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. The Witch, by contrast, is a usurper, refusing to keep her rightful role as "the Emperor's hangman" (as Mr. Beaver calls her) and keeping all Narnia "under her thumb" (as Tumnus says). The Witch also offers Edmund a share in her counterfeit royalty, on the condition that he betray his family. More on that later. Kings also sacrifice for their subjects, as seen in Aslan's self-giving for Edmund. In other books, Lewis expands on this concept with kings being "first in every desperate charge and last in every desperate retreat" (King Lune, HHB), as seen here in Peter's attack of the Wolf to rescue Susan. Edmund later demonstrates this self-sacrificial courage in the battle, fighting his way to the Witch and destroying her wand, becoming "terribly wounded" but giving his army "some chance" to defeat her.

Under the reign of a good king and/or queen, a country can have peace, prosperity, and freedom. This is another aspect of Jupiter's influence, where royal authority is not an end in itself, but a means to give joy to the people ruled. Before the Witch took over, there was "jollification" in Narnia, as Tumnus describes to Lucy; and when her magic begins to weaken, the first signs are joyful celebrations of Christmas. Of which, again, more later. The Witch condemns the parties as "gluttony", "waste", and "self-indulgence", but under the thin veneer of moral outrage lies terror. Merry-making is one thing she can't control, being incapable of joy herself.

And now, to respond to the problems brought up: As Ward points out, the children gradually become more royal as they rule Narnia. Their behaviors and dress, even their patterns of speech, change into what we would expect of kings and queens. This is probably (thematically) why they forget about their previous lives in our world, where kings are figureheads and Prime Ministers wage war.

The next objection is simple enough to answer. The witch knew nothing about the wardrobe before Edmund told her, but after talking with him for a while, she might have been able to deduce its general direction from his ramblings. Or perhaps she had some magical scrying power that allowed her to find the door once she knew there was one.

Mr. Beaver does say there had never been any humans in Narnia before, but we know from The Magician's Nephew that Narnia began with a human king, and there seem to be several human countries around Narnia, including Archenland, Telmar, Calormen, and the Lone Islands. How to reconcile this? I take Mr. Beaver's statement as hyperbole. One can easily see how the Witch's reign would make Narnia an unpopular place for the neighboring humans to visit, and she would tightly control the spread of information. Narnia under the Witch would be isolated from its neighbors, and the line of King Frank and Queen Helen had apparently died out, so there would have been no humans in Narnia for the duration of her hundred-year reign; long enough for people like Tumnus to have no idea what humans were like. Note that Mr. Beaver also states that the Witch would like her subjects to think she herself is human, because on that rests her claim to royalty. As Trufflehunter points out in Prince Caspian, Narnia is "not Man's country...but it's a country for a man to be King of." ("Man," of course, being used in the generic sense of "human.") This ties in with Lewis' view (and the medieval view) that humanity is the highest order of being in the natural world, with authority over the rest; royalty, if you will.

The celebration of Christmas is "decidedly odd" if you take Narnia at face value. Are they celebrating the birth of Aslan as a lion cub? If so, why wouldn't they call it "Aslan-mas"? And they still have the human(-ish) character of Father Christmas, in his fur-trimmed red robe, handing out presents; a very European and Christian tradition. This is where we look back at the bigger picture. Those born under Jupiter were apt to be red of face, loud of voice, and cheerful, like Father Christmas. Also, Christmas is the very expression of what is happening in Narnia: a coming savior, hope renewed, joy and triumph. And this is very much part of the Jovial aesthetic as well. Lewis was fed up with his generation's "Saturnocentric" view of the universe, that to be serious or realistic, one had to be depressed, ascetic, and pessimistic. He believed that the true theme of creation was joy, triumph, "festal pomp", trumpets and banners and gold and wine and all the accompaniments of celebration. But when you're young, you don't really get those things except at Christmastime. So Father Christmas, and the gifts and feasts he brings, represent all of that in a way easy for children to understand.

"How do you handle returning to childhood after years as an adult?" That is a very good question, and one that Lewis does not address in the books. But stepping back, I might have the beginnings of an answer. For starters, haven't many of us adults wished for a chance to go back and experience the wonder and irresponsibility of childhood again? I wonder if the Pevensies, instead of mourning for their lost adulthood, welcomed their return to youth as an adding of years onto their lives and a chance to do life over again, only with more experience. The other issue that Ms. Ness brings up, that of submission to adult authority by those who had been adults, is mitigated when we remember that even in Cair Paravel, the Kings and Queens' authority was derivative. They were subject to Aslan, the Great King, and to the Emperor-beyond-the-sea. Trading that for the authority of parents, teachers, and British law might have required significant adjustment, but authority in general wouldn't have been too much of a problem. And the Professor (remember, this is Digory Kirke, who had been in Narnia before) might have advised them much further on post-Narnia life than he is shown doing in the book. We know from The Last Battle that the "Friends of Narnia" all knew each other and got together often.

The punishment demanded for Edmund, and taken by Aslan, seems "overkill" to Ms. Ness. Edmund's actions might not seem so bad to us, who see him as just a bratty kid; and, as she rightly points out, the Witch had him under her spell. But consider his behavior through the lens of kingship. Kings are loyal to their subjects, and lower kings to their sovereign kings (derivative authority again). Instead, Edmund chafes at Peter's authority (which Peter admits he used with too much anger), betrays Lucy's trust, and determines in his plans for kingship to make laws against beavers and dams (after all the Beavers did was take him in out of the cold and give him supper!). Even before meeting the Witch, Edmund is seen as being at odds with the rest of his family. He's grouchy, tells off Susan for telling him to go to bed, and treats Lucy just plain mean. Then comes the enchanted Turkish Delight.

It's hard to tell exactly how much the enchantment impairs Edmund's decision-making faculties. At first, of course, it makes him forget how much he was scared of the Witch and that he really shouldn't be talking so freely to a stranger. But at the end of the conversation, the Witch seemingly knows enough about him to play on his desire to show up his siblings by offering him the chance to be her Prince, and later, the King of Narnia. Imagine a discontented prince, unhappy with the way his older brother (the king) runs things, meeting a stranger at a bar who gets him drunk and loosens his tongue. Or, to make the analogy even closer, the prince meets a stranger who gets him hooked on drugs and listens sympathetically to his family grievances. Even when the prince later finds out that this stranger was his nation's archenemy who would stop at nothing to depose or even destroy his family, he still goes back to them, hoping for more drugs and for status in the new regime. Addiction or not, that's still treason and would be punished accordingly.

I can't help but wonder how the situation would have been different had Peter or Susan come through and met the Witch. Would the Witch have had to play on different motivations? Perhaps she would have cemented more firmly in their minds that Lucy was insane and needed help. But they would have been motivated by care for their family, not hatred for them. And afterwards, when Lucy revealed that the woman with the sleigh was actually the villain of the piece, would they have held back, as Edmund did, for fear of being found out? His internal reasoning reveals that "he felt sure the others would all be on the side of the Fauns and the animals; but he was already more than half on the side of the Witch." That's really what the whole deal is: which side people take. In many places, Lewis talks about his belief that the world is not just one cosmic whole, but a cosmic duel, sharply divided between the forces of good and evil. Good is stronger, in his view, but evil is very much present, and no one can remain neutral. Under the Deep Magic of Narnia, those who show themselves enemies of Good are turned over to Evil in the form of the Witch. And we see how the Witch treats her friends: after Edmund has done the best he could for her, she snaps at him, gives him dry bread and water, forces him to march through the melting snow, and tries to kill him. Truly, the "fortunate favorite of the Queen" is "not so fortunate." And so, just as Jesus did, Aslan sacrifices himself so that his enemies can be freed from the power of evil and join his side.

On the "Problem of Susan" that is brought up here, I won't say much (as Ms. Ness doesn't, either), except to note that in each book in which she appears, Susan is usually portrayed as not being receptive to the planetary influence of that story. Here, she is the least willing to do the royal thing and take risks, as seen, for example, in her reluctant consent to helping Tumnus ("I've a horrid feeling that Lu is right") and her desire to turn around at the lamp-post in the end. In regard to loyalty, of course, she's true to her siblings and to Aslan; but tellingly, she is the one to suggest that Aslan work against the Emperor's Deep Magic, which would be treason against his own greater authority. Susan is most concerned about what's "safe" and is often paralyzed with fear; not the best qualities for a queen to have. And this anti-Narnian tendency will only grow in later books until it culminates in her leaving Narnia behind completely.

"Other quibbles": can you imagine trying to write, in a children's fantasy novel, a conversation between the Christ-figure and a repentant Judas-figure? Ufda. Heavy stuff, and it probably would have bogged down the story, which is more concerned with royalty's actions than their words. When Aslan speaks with Lucy, he's a general issuing marching orders under Mars; with Shasta, the whole story is about language under Mercury, so it is very appropriate that we witness the whole speech. On animals waiting for humans to rescue them, see above about humans on the throne; also, it wasn't just the humans they were waiting for, but Aslan, the King of Beasts. "Battles are ugly when women fight"; this is a tough one for me, too, especially since in HHB Lucy is shown as regularly riding into battle, and in LB Jill is one of Tirian's best troops. This may be evidence of a change of mind on Lewis' part, but I don't know for certain what he meant by it in the first place.

On being "too old" for fairy tales and eventually old enough to read them again: this is a theme in some of Lewis' other work, particularly certain essays on literature. There is a time during which the growing adolescent spurns all children's tastes, including works of "children's literature", in order to act and seem more grown-up. But the adult, secure in adulthood, can go back and read those "children's books" without shame and find great enjoyment, sometimes greater than they had as children because their understanding has grown. This was Lewis' experience, as well as one of his characters in That Hideous Strength, Mark Studdock. The Lucy in question was probably entering adolescence, unlikely to be seen reading a fairy tale. One hopes that she put aside her qualms and read her godfather's book anyway, because it speaks to people of any age.

This is where we diverge. As a Christian, I can hardly help discussing the Christian qualities of the book. Some have been mentioned above, but I will now briefly explore how Aslan, and Christ, are kingly.

Of course, the most obvious similarity is the sacrifice. But here, many of us probably feel uncomfortable. We know Jesus died for us; but in the story, Aslan died only for Edmund. (Or so it seems.) If Aslan is the Jesus figure, then who are we in Narnia? We're Edmund. Apart from Christ, every one of us is Edmund, a selfish, treacherous, spiteful person under the enchantment of evil and choosing to go deeper into it every day. Every one of us deserves death. And He took it in our place. Sit back and think about that for a moment. Every time you were mean or cruel, every time you lied or let someone down, every time you furthered your own advancement at someone else's expense--if you are in Christ, each of those actions was laid on Him at the cross. This is the magnanimous mercy of our great King.

And then He rose again, and the New Testament exclaims that the old Law, the one we could never keep, was put to death with Him. The Stone Table cracked and Death itself started working backwards. Started, not finished; for Christ is the firstborn from among the dead, the firstfruits of the harvest that will come. When He returns, the dead in Christ shall rise first, and we shall all be changed. The last enemy that will be destroyed is Death. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We have six more books to go before that happens. For now, we are ruling and reigning with Christ in the heavenly realm, as the four Pevensies rule under Aslan. He brings joy, peace, and spiritual prosperity to His subjects, even in the here and now as we wait for the eternal peace of the new earth. Therefore we celebrate.

So, until next time, Merry Christmas, and Long live the true King!