Literary Theory: Loving the Unlovable.

I

As I have written before, when it comes to my theory of literature, I believe firmly and wholeheartedly that at its core, a good book ought to convey at least one (though preferably more) essential truth. There is, really, only one Essential truth that is necessary for a book, but the multiple sub-truths that are all a part of the essential truth serve to greatly enrich it.

Today, many people write. I mean that there are many people, all over the world, who have short stories finished and are trying to publish it, and everyone knows an author here and there. When was the last time, though, that a truly, truly great piece of literature was published and successful? Of all of the "modern" literature that I have read, I cannot name one of those authors that I felt, beyond a doubt, to have the potential for literary immortality. That is not to say that I don't think there are good books being published today--on the contrary, I suspect that there are many hidden gems here and there. I simply don't think that they are being particularly widely-read.

One of the worst things known to man where the field of literature is concerned is to finished a four-hundred page book with a feeling of emptiness inside. It's unsettling. It's the way I would imagine it to feel if you finished a lovely Christmas dinner only to feel like you hadn't eaten anything at all.

Another unsettling thing is to read the latest fad novel, and, to think back on it four months later, scratch your head and say, "What was that about, again?"

Literature, in conveying one aspect of Truth or another, is meant to be memorable. It is meant to teach a lesson, to set forth an example that is memorable enough to remain in the memory for years--but it must do this unconsciously.

When I was little, I had a lot of trouble swallowing pills. No, I don't mean bad novels, but I mean real pills, like Advil or tylenol. When I was trying to learn how to take pills successfully, my dear cousin (Hi! :-D ) mentioned that she used to take pills by putting them into a spoonful of cake icing and swallowing it. The offensive Advil in question was tucked in there, amidst all the sugary goodness--quite hidden, but there all the same.

It is in that same way that literature is meant to convey Truth--subtly--beneath the level of initial perception. The truth of the Faith can be effectively conveyed through a good piece of literature--not obviously, but present all the same--and, perhaps, even open minds (who otherwise would not consider the Church twice) to the idea of the fullness of the Truth. To be sure, a good novel is not the skeleton-key to converting the masses--but if it can soften people, even slightly, to the concept of the Truth, then it has fulfilled one of its (many) purposes.

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II

CAVEAT EMPTOR

Of course, it should go without saying that if Good Things can be conveyed in such a way through literature, bad things also can be conveyed. The good news about that is that if one has this understanding of the purpose of literature--to convey Truth--then one is much more aware of what is being communicated. That is to say--to a well-formed conscience, and with a careful reading, piece of literature should not pose a problem.

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III

The curious thing, perhaps, is that this figuring of Truth can show up in unexpected places. There are several ways in which literature can show truth, both broad and narrow. On a broad level, a Truth which can be conveyed by any writer of any Faith, there is Good, and there is Evil.

The existence of good and evil is a broad, typically universal truth (let us presume for simplicity's sake that there are no relativists writing any fiction; at any rate, when there is no right and wrong, how is there a protagonist and antagonist?). It can be written effectively by almost any author, and easily conveys the very fundamental truth of good and evil's existence.

Then there are narrower truths, each of which paradoxically contain the broader truth (e.g. the existence of good and evil). Take, for example, love. Books have been written about love--finding it, keeping it, regaining it, etc. ad nauseam. Assuming, of course, that we are referring strictly to real love, then it also contains the existence of good and evil within it--as love itself is a good.

Then, within love, there is self-sacrificial love, the love that dies and dies again, all for the good of another. Dying to give life. As the various little truths--tiny semblances of Christ found in self-sacrificial love--get smaller and smaller, they still contain all the same truths of the broad brush of "good and evil". Paradoxically, the more specific the Truth portrayed, the more of the broad truth it contains.

It is one thing to say "this is a great battle between good and evil!" and quite another to actually portray that battle in the world of subtleties. Any given author nowadays has crafted a book about some epic battle between good and evil, usually with heavy doses of neopaganism and other assorted crockery that would've make the Inklings break out in a fistfight. Yet the more specific a truth that a book contains, the more of the total truth it contains. Because almost any author can write about the broadest of truths, the conflict between good and ill, there is more room for things to go astray. But as it gets more and more specific, and the more complex it becomes, the more Truth it contains. At some point, it becomes clear whether or not a particular Truth is being written of through the eyes of the Church. As a result, it is essential for Catholic writers to be careful in their writings.

(Now, bear in mind, this is not to say that a principle battle between good and evil cannot be written about smoothly, effectively and conveying a great deal more Specific Truth than in other works. For the most part, it depends upon the author.)

In such a way, the subtleties of everyday life can be brought across effectively. Many of the villains of the world are not dark lords, demons of the ancient world--they are Wickhams. There are Saurons, to be sure, filled with greed, hatred and malice, but there are more Wickhams--smooth-talking, persuasive charlatans. Sometimes the battle between good and evil is outward, external--dangerous. Sometimes, though, it is much more subtle.

"To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless." --G.K Chesterton, the "Prince of Paradox"

Sometimes--like in a classic piece of fairy-tale lore--it is choosing to love the unlovable.