Saturday, November 10, 2018

No Truth to the Darkness



I have long though I didn’t like dystopian fiction per se.  After a discussion that followed my husband and I beginning to watch, and then abandoning, a popular video series, I had a realization.  I don’t dislike dystopias; I dislike dystopias with no room for final order.



A clarification: I don’t mean that things need to end happily for the characters for me to enjoy the story.  Nor do I mean that there needs to be some obvious solution around the corner which will resolve or even ameliorate the horrible state into which things have sunk.  What I do mean is that the dystopia needs to have, even in its brokenness, indications that there is a mastering wholeness within which it is housed.  In other words: a dystopia should show original sin run rampant.  Most dystopias I think rather show the absence of God.  That is what I find repulsive and terrifying.



I am afraid I cannot quantify exactly what it means for a work to “show the absence of God.”  I am certainly not requiring that he appear like Aslan in the Narnia Chronicles, nor even asking for the sort of numinous hints which Tolkien gives in The Lord of the Rings.  And obviously there are lots of books which don’t intrude on territory that demands a sense of the divine; books which are purposely kept small and human by their writers.  Indeed, I think the vast majority of books are like this; and some books I very much enjoy—and which are vast in their own way—are included.  Anne of Green Gables; the Rex Stout mysteries; Cheaper by the Dozen (except perhaps for its closing reference to mumblety-peg, which is curiously redemptive); the works of Jane Austen and Dickens.



But there are other works which in one way or another signal a sense of the divine: the works of Shakespeare, Evelyn Waugh’s Sword of Honour Trilogy (a darn sight more than Brideshead, actually), The Wind in the Willows, even something as horrific as Brave New World.



And then there are other books in which the divine is not merely unmentioned but absent.  I hardly know how else to describe the distinction.  It is as if the story requires a numinous presence, however slight of subtle, and instead there is a hole which, however small, leaves a mark upon the book, not merely as a matter or irreligiosity, but as a flaw in its artistry.  Dorothy Sayers talks in her masterwork The Mind of the Maker about what it means to be faithful to the story one is working on (not her phrase, but the best I can remember at the moment to convey what she means).  My best guess for the works with God-shaped holes is that their “father” (Sayers’ term) included the Father, but they would not (Matt. 23:37).  And that rejection colors their whole works, down to their “spirit,” such that the reader can feel sometimes a sense of oppression.



(Michael O’Brien has written about a sense of oppression after reading certain works.  I agree with him that it is possible to feel such a thing, and that it is not always subjective—or at any rate, that it is something real about the works, even though only certain readers seem to feel it.  But I am not convinced by his idea that this is a demonic thing—at least, it is not more demonic than most rejections of God by sin are—it is rather a matter of the “spirit” being lacking.)



What sort of stories do I have in mind?  I can only point to examples where I felt, in one way or another, this sense of loss.  I don’t mean, by the way, to say that these books are immoral (they aren’t) or shouldn’t be read (they should) or that I don’t like them (I do, for the most part—I just find I must read them in very small doses to avoid feeling depressed).



The books include the Harry Potter series by book four (yes, yes, I know, shoot me! but I do enjoy it), Peter Pan (there’s a reason a series on this blog tackled, *ahem* is tackling its interpretation), and the recently acclaimed Station Eleven and Winter’s Tale (neither of which—full disclosure—I was able to finish, so it is possible that their holes were eventually filled).



Again, I’m not calling for Aslan.  I only know, as if by feel or smell, that there is something subtly off about these books, as there is about the walls and ceiling of the room were Mark Studdock finds himself in That Hideous Strength.



It is a subtle thing I’m talking about.  It is all the difference between Hamlet with “Let be,” and Hamlet without it.  But I do not mean by that example to say a mere word would change things for these books; the words are simply illustrative.  It is an atmosphere, a tone, a spirit.



I stress again, it is not a matter of these books being “dystopian” (as you can see, most of them aren’t), nor even of their being dark.  Rather, it is that the darkness, in missing something critical to its own very existence, is a darkness without truth.

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