Friday, April 20, 2018

The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery

I can’t compete with my writer friends’ achievements, but I can support them by reading and promoting their books. 

This 2018 medieval mystery was written by my graduate school classmate at the University of Denver Joyce Tally Lionarons. Retired as a medieval professor and scholar at Ursinus College in Pennsylvania, she now applies her talents to the detective genre.  It’s clear from reading this book that she has not only done extensive research in medieval literature and language, but has also done her homework when it comes to the geography; the social, political, religious, and law enforcement structure; even the medical practices of thirteenth century York, where The Golden Crucifix is set.  In addition, she brings to life a tangible sense of the street life at the time; the reader is immersed in the sights, smells, sounds, and the very tastes of the time and place.

Most literary scholars date the origin of the detective genre to Edgar Allan Poe’s “Murders in the Rue Morgue” (1841), but, of course, some find earlier examples of stories with similar characteristics. (See

The eighteenth century is sometimes referred to as the Enlightenment period in Western history because of the rise of science and rationality as sources of knowledge, as opposed to folk traditions, superstition, religion, and anecdotal evidence.  However, in the second half of that century the Gothic genre of literature, or tale of terror, rose in popularity.  Poe, of course, is probably best known for his horror stories. 

So, why the post-Enlightenment popularity of both Gothic and detective fiction?  One theory is that it relates to the debate over human nature.  Are we rational creatures for the most part, in a world subject to natural law, able to exercise reasonable control over ourselves and our environment, as Enlightenment thinkers would have it, or are we largely irrational creatures in a world governed by mysterious, supernatural forces beyond our control?

The Gothic plot usually begins with a protagonist in ordinary reality who encounters some kind of irrational phenomenon or experience that results in either death or madness or escape.  Even if the protagonist escapes the irrational forces, however, they are not defeated and are just lying in wait for their next victim.

Keep in mind that the irrational forces can also be within the psyche of the protagonist him or herself, whether in the form of madness, uncontrollable impulses, or deliberate malice. This genre could be said to provide an outlet for our human fears of the unknown (including ourselves) or a reinforcement of those fears, or both.  Thus the term “tale of terror”.

The detective story plot also usually begins with some kind of rational order that is disrupted by a crime, usually a murder, often violent.  In this case, however, the detective comes to the rescue by applying close observation, physical evidence, witness testimony, logical analysis, and other investigative (similar to scientific) techniques of arriving at truth, solving the mystery, and restoring order.  In this genre rationality triumphs, thus reassuring its readers that our rational nature can overcome the irrational forces in the world.

In the medieval world the rational and the irrational were understood in terms of a supernatural conflict between God’s ideal of a virtuous and orderly world, on the one hand, and Satan’s mission to destroy that world.  Disorder and death come about because of evil represented by Satan and because of human sin. Redemption and salvation from evil come from adherence to the teachings of the Bible, the Church, and religious authorities, not from secular rationality.

The Golden Crucifix takes place in a world of filth in York, where the river Ouse is “a damp reek made up of decaying fish and the accumulated waste of the city.”  The opening scenes introduce us to a world of lust and greed, in which traffickers in stolen goods are juxtaposed in the next scene with the wealth of the Church on display in a Twelfth Night procession. The treasures of the secular, in this case, criminal wealthy and those of the Church are surrounded by the filth of the streets, where prostitutes, pick-pockets, panhandlers and scrabbling poor freely range in a daily struggle for survival.

Such is the ordinary reality of that world, but there is some semblance of law enforcement, and when a prostitute is found murdered and the Golden Crucifix, a valuable article in the Church treasury goes missing, the local Coroner Matthew Cordwainer takes responsibility for solving both crimes along with other local authorities.  Cordwainer is sixtyish, troubled by an arthritic hip, aided by a walking stick, and helped both at home and through the streets by a young manservant.  He shows respect to both secular and religious leaders and gives lip service, at least, to religious observances.  However, despite their sinful ways, he values the humanity of the prostitutes and is determined to bring the murderer to justice. 

Later another prostitute, and then a local “madam” are found murdered. The Prioress of the nunnery is stalked and attacked, though she survives.  Cordwainer navigates the world of the victims, the streets, the criminal traffickers, law enforcement, and the Church as he unravels the knots that tie the thefts, the murders, and the attack on the Prioress all together.  He relies not only on observations, interrogations, and rational analysis, as in the typical detective story, but also on his knowledge and experience as long-time resident and Coroner in the city. As one comes to expect in detective stories, there are multiple suspects with means, motive and opportunity and it is Cordwainer’s dogged, persistent, methodical investigation that eventually untangles the knots and restores order, such as it is.

Full justice is another story as the Church has one jurisdiction, secular authorities another, and the methods of both interrogation and punishment in secular law enforcement fall far short of humane treatment.   

The medieval mystery plays focused on Biblical stories and religious miracles, the mysteries of God’s world.  While this supernatural world view provides the backdrop to The Golden Crucifix, the novel unfolds in an all too natural and mortal world, leaving us, as in the conventional detective story, with a reassuring sense of rationality overcoming crime. It also suggests, however, that in a world of human weakness, hostility, aggression, and lust for both power and pleasure, social disorder will endure. Thus, we are additionally left, as in the Gothic tale of terror, with a sense that malignant forces still lie in wait, though they may be more human than supernatural.  

That is not to say there are no model citizens, and Cordwainer is one, but he seems to forever be hobbling through town with his bad hip trying to stay upright as he traverses the mud, the ice, animal droppings, and human filth that fill the streets.     

Joyce Lionarons has published two additional Matthew Cordwainer medieval mysteries:  Blood Libel and The White Rose.  Enjoy!

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Evangelicalism and the Decline of American Politics

This 2017 study by Jan G. Linn offers a history of evangelicalism in American politics since Jerry Falwell founded the Moral Majority in 1979 and a theory of why the influence of evangelicalism has been so destructive to our political process. 

It could be fairly stated that Jerry Falwell is the man who put Lynchburg, Virginia, where Jan and I were both born, on the national map.  Jan grew up in Falwell’s neighborhood.  At one point I lived in the same neighborhood as Falwell’s Thomas Road Baptist Church.  So, as Jan says in the prologue to his book, “This is Personal.”

Jan Linn graduated from E. C. Glass High School in Lynchburg in 1963, the year before I did.  I knew who he was because he was a well-known football player for the E. C. Glass Hilltoppers (Lynchburg is known as the “City of Seven Hills” or the “Hill City”).  I did not know him personally, but in my junior year I sat diagonally behind him in Mr. Racer’s Economics class.  Mr. Racer was a Republican who often railed against President John F. Kennedy in class.  Jan would raise his hand and argue with Mr. Racer. I can’t remember now the substance of those arguments, but I was struck that he would speak up and challenge the teacher.  Though I never personally said anything, as the daughter of a staunch Democratic father, I secretly admired and sympathized with Jan, even though I didn’t necessarily understand the issues being debated. 

As Jan recounts in the book, he was raised as an evangelical himself, and he went on to become a Disciples of Christ minister.  I also was raised as an evangelical (though I went to a different church) and went on to become a college English professor and a Unitarian Universalist.  Somehow Jan and I both ended up in Minnesota.  He founded a ministry near the Twin Cities and I taught at St. Cloud State University (about an hour or so away from Minneapolis) for almost 30 years.  It wasn’t until we were both retired that a fellow E. C. Glass classmate put us in touch with each other.  Since then we’ve met a couple of times with our spouses and enjoyed some good conversations about growing up in Lynchburg, religion, politics, and, of course, Jerry Falwell.

This is the second of his books I’ve read.  It is well-researched and documented, well-argued, and well-written with clarity, sharp intellect, and passion.  See his publication record here: Jan also regularly comments on religion and politics in his blog:

Evangelicalism and the Decline of American Politics, not only provides a history of the evangelical movement that Jerry Falwell started, but also an overview of different definitions of evangelicalism, an analysis of our current political dysfunction, and a theory of how evangelicalism, or what Jan calls “partisan evangelicalism,” has contributed to that dysfunction. 

In short, conservative evangelicals hold fast to a rigid Bible-based, authoritarian world-view, based on divine command, which cannot be questioned or compromised without falling into iniquity.  The Bible is their supreme source of knowledge; any other source of knowledge, such as science or rational thought, is flawed by human imperfection.  Whenever any other source of knowledge, no matter how fact-based, empirically supported, or logical, contradicts the Bible, it is dismissed as misguided.  There simply is no room for compromise or critical thinking.  Bible-based beliefs are absolute.  When this kind of absolutism finds its way into politics, then all hope of conclusions and solutions democratically arrived at by a diverse populace of different religions, philosophies, and world-views is completely lost.  For partisan, conservative evangelicals, a deal with a non-evangelical is a deal with the devil.  Thus, we have obstructionism, stalemate, and a break-down of democratic civic processes of decision-making and problem-solving. 

Ironically, this kind of narrow, rigid evangelicalism is not shared by the majority of Americans.  There are liberal Christian evangelicals such as the followers of Jim Wallis of Sojourners magazine, non-evangelical Christians, believers in other religions, believers in no religion, all of whom are American citizens with voting rights.  However, the conservative evangelicals, who don’t necessarily believe in separation of church and state and who place the Bible above the Constitution, have strategically taken over some of our political institutions, both locally, statewide, and nationally.  The Republican party can hardly make a move without approval from its evangelical base. 

Jan calls for a return of evangelicalism to the tradition of Christian scholarship, the message of the Bible (as opposed to literal absolutism), the Christian contemplative tradition, spiritual humility, and the words of Jesus Christ to love our neighbors and even our enemies.

As one sees today the twisted ways in which evangelical voters defend the likes of Donald Trump, there seems little room for hope that such a return can happen.  Perhaps the evangelical mind-set will have to be out-numbered and out-voted by the reasonable Moderate Majority as opposed to the absolutist Moral Majority.

Meanwhile, it is gratifying to know that Lynchburg, Virginia, produced an intelligent, sensible, humane Christian, who believes in the Constitution and separation of church and state as well as the Bible and the Christian message.

Sunday, November 19, 2017

From Somalia To Snow: How Central Minnesota Became Home to Somalis

“On a Sunday morning in December 1990, I ran outside to play with my close friends. Before I finished drawing the lines of my hopscotch on the ground, I saw rebels hiding behind the walls. Some men began digging trenches…As I completed the last line of my hopscotch, my mom grabbed me by the neck with all her strength, her eyes wide and full of fierce determination and a mother’s instinct to protect her child…Within minutes, the city streets filled with the sound of artillery. The men who had dug trenches fired heavy rounds that rocked our house, rattling the ceiling and sending loose plaster upon our heads…My family huddled together like panic-stricken sheep.”

Hudda Ibrahim’s family was among the lucky ones who were able to survive being caught in the crossfire between Somali rebels and government forces in Mogadishu.  After a two-day ordeal, the family was able to escape to their car and drive away. “The bullets striking the back of the car were thunderous.”

After many years, during five of which Hudda was separated from her family, they were resettled in St. Cloud, Minnesota.

Since then Ibrahim has become a leader in the St. Cloud, Minnesota, Somali community, teaching English at St. Cloud Technical and Community College and writing this book (2017) to educate non-Somalis about Somali history, their refugee and resettlement experiences, their culture, customs, and religion; their struggles in an alien world of American culture (including their adjustment to Minnesota winters!); their local business ventures; and their health challenges. Recently she has initiated a series of “Meet Your Muslim Neighbor” dialogues between refugees and traditional U.S. citizens in St. Cloud.

The book is a straightforward, matter-of-fact account that addresses many of the myths, stereotypes, and questions that non-Somalis have about their new neighbors.  One of Ibrahim’s achievements is her ability to take on sensitive and controversial issues directly, without apology, confrontation, or ill-will.  She is neither overly defensive of her people nor resentful of the barriers and at times hostile reception they have received.  A hallmark of her work is the mutual understanding she displays on both sides of the cultural divide.

It is a book that educates without alienating anyone.

In addition to the standard techniques of chronological narrative and factual exposition, the book uses excerpts from interviews Ibrahim has conducted among Somali refugees in St. Cloud.  These first-hand reports lend credence to her accounts and allow us to hear a range of voices, from the authoritative Imam to the college student who recalled asking on her first day in the U.S., “Where is the snow?”

The interviews for the book were completed before the infamous mall stabbing in September 2016, when a young Somali American man attacked several people in the local St. Cloud Crossroads Shopping Center. (  As Ibrahim recounts in her Postscript the community came together--Somalis, traditional St. Cloud residents, college students, city officials, other leaders, and faith communities—to mourn together, bind our collective wounds, and begin the work of both healing and recommitting ourselves to build stronger relationships across our differences of history, religion, and culture. 

A march was organized to demonstrate our unity, using a banner with the word “United” in English, Spanish, and Somali.  A local group distributed “Love Your Neighbor” signs which sill dot our cityscape on the property of homes and churches.

We still have a vocal minority of “nativists,” who are hostile to immigrants and refugees (,  but Ibrahim’s book makes an important contribution to cross-cultural understanding both in St. Cloud and in the nation.

Thursday, October 5, 2017

"The name--of it--is 'Autumn'--"

The name—of it—is "Autumn"—
The hue—of it—is Blood—
An Artery—upon the Hill—
A Vein—along the Road—

Great Globules—in the Alleys—
And Oh, the Shower of Stain—
When Winds—upset the Basin—
And spill the Scarlet Rain—

It sprinkles Bonnets—far below—
It gathers ruddy Pools—
Then—eddies like a Rose—away—
Upon Vermilion Wheels—

--Emily Dickinson

How many people do you know who would associate the spectacular red displays of fall color with blood?  The conventional view would be of nature in red apparel putting on a vivid show of beauty.

But Emily Dickinson did not see the world conventionally.  Her poems are more likely to disrupt and challenge our conventional views of reality.  (See blog posts September 2009)

“The hue of" Autumn “is Blood”; the tree line upon the hill is “an Artery”; and “along the Road” it is “a Vein.”  Fallen leaves “in the Alleys” are “Great Globules,” while falling leaves are a “shower of Stain” and “Scarlet Rain” (which, like blood, is spilled).  Is it the blood of violence and death?  Menstrual blood that sheds potential life? Is it the “stain” of human sin and guilt?

In the third stanza the imagery becomes more innocent, as leaf fall “sprinkles” ladies’ “Bonnets”; it “eddies like a Rose and whirls away “Upon Vermilion Wheels.”  But even here “It gathers ruddy Pools.”

Is this representation of fall an image of that ancient “fall” from innocence that recurs in nature and in every human life?  Is it a harbinger of the death of nature in winter yet to come?  Written in 1862, is it an image of bloody civil war?

Regardless, even the more playful images of leaves sprinkling bonnets and wheeling away on the wind, cannot save this poem from suggestions of the dark side of human experience—violence, death, evil.

Even if we interpret references to arteries and veins as images of life coursing through our bodies, this life leaves a stain when it is spilled in falling leaves.

What are we to make of this virtual riot of red?

It certainly seems to suggest that, just as Dickinson explored psychological pain as no other poet before her had done (see Sept. 19, 2009, blog post), she also explored the dark underbelly of nature’s beauty—nature red in tooth and claw, violence, death, the “fallen” side of creation (including human nature).

Another poem about Autumn, “These are the days when Birds come back,” treats Autumn as a “fraud” that can sometimes fool us into thinking summer is still with us.  She compares the reprise of summer warmth in Autumn to a “Sacrament of summer days” and a “Last Communion,” a remembrance of summer’s death, just as holy communion commemorates Christ’s sacrifice.

While Dickinson has many poems that celebrate nature, it seems the dark side was never far from her mind.

However spectacular the displays of fall color, she seems to have been ever cognizant of the coming winter.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Dream Eater

Recently I saw the film Wonder Woman, which draws on ancient Greek mythology to depict an intersection of mortal and immortal dimensions in a World War I setting.  Like Wonder Woman, Koi, the main character of this 2017 novel by my daughter’s friend, K. Bird Lincoln, brings super-human powers into the human realm.  And they both pit female power against the male deities that would control them and the rest of humanity.

Unlike Wonder Woman, Koi, a Japanese American, has grown up in the human world of contemporary Portland, Oregon.  She is only partly aware of her paranormal/supernatural/mythological ancestry and lives in fear of human touch, which triggers her power to read people’s dreams. Also, while Wonder Woman invokes Western myth, Dream Eater draws on non-Western sources--Japanese, Middle Eastern and Native American. 

Because of her fear of human touch, Koi has isolated herself, even from her family.  In an effort to build a normal life, despite the continual flashes of other people’s dreams, she begins working toward an accounting degree at Portland Community College.  One day she crosses paths with a Japanese Kitsune (fox) shape-shifter, who, she later learns is on a mission from the mythic “Council” to retrieve her father.  At about the same time, Koi bumps into a professor and reads his dreams of murder.  Later, the professor enlists Koi’s help in translating her family’s obscure Japanese dialect.  Meanwhile, Koi’s sister, Marlin, who has a real job, calls on Koi to take over temporary care of their father, who apparently suffers from Alzheimer’s, so she can get some work done.  It seems the Kitsune, Ken, has experience with elder care, so he offers to help, not revealing his ulterior motive. 

From this point on the narrative resembles an action adventure, which is played out as much in Koi’s body as in external reality.  Her proximity to Ken stirs erotic sensations while the professor arouses fear and horror.  When the professor kidnaps Marlin, Koi and Ken, with Dad in tow, are off on an adventure involving rescue, encounters with such mythological powers as the Middle Eastern Ullikemi and Native American Thunderbird, deception, multiple battles, and eventually Koi’s discovery of her own superhuman powers.  Throughout it all, we vicariously experience Koi’s psychic drama, as well as the physical action.  There is constant turmoil, made all the more chaotic by the ambiguity of just who is good and who is evil, who is the ultimate power and who is the surrogate.

Allegorically speaking, this urban fantasy can be read as a coming of age narrative, in which Koi, innocent of her full power, encounters the evil in the world, discovers her true identity and learns that she can not only read dreams but eat them, that is, take their power into herself, and, if the dreams are evil, she can use that power to fight evil.  In other words, she discovers, not only the evil in the world, but also her own capacity for evil.  The moral allegory is thus no simple tale of good vs. evil, but a complicated interrogation of power, in which good must know evil in order to defeat it. 

The novel is also a budding love story, as, parallel to the action adventure, Koi also battles her increasing attraction to and attachment to Ken.  Her journey of self-discovery becomes a sexual awakening, as well as a lesson in the power of relationships and interdependence, thus overcoming her initial isolation.  And it is not only the relationship with Ken that ultimately breaks through Koi’s isolation, for her primary motive in the action adventure is to rescue her sister and protect her father.  Thus, as her relationship with Ken develops, her family relationships are restored.  She is able to honor both her Japanese Baku (dream eater) father and her human Hawaiian mother, and thus her own hybrid nature.

What is most striking about the novel, besides the blending of non-Western mythological traditions, is, as noted earlier, the way in which so much of the action takes place in Koi’s body and psyche.  Her sensations, including physical cravings for coffee and dark chocolate; distinctive smells, especially spices; powerful images and sounds; erotic attraction; emotional turmoil; and the non-human sensations of dream fragments, dream-eating, and ultimately the wielding of dream power.  Dream-eating is paralleled by human hunger for pizza, burritos, and her father's Bi Bim Bap. All this is conveyed in a language that juxtaposes contemporary vernacular with ancient traditions, just as Koi’s human self is juxtaposed with her mythic self.

At one point Ken makes specific reference to Joseph Campbell and his book The Power of Myth, based on the PBS documentary with Bill Moyers, and its theory of universal patterns that cross the boundaries of culture and society.  Thus, Japanese Baku are paralleled by Morpheus in Western myth, Ojibwe dream catchers, Slavic Nocnitsa, and medieval succubi.  Campbell would argue that universal cross-cultural images and narratives reflect shared human experience and a common human nature. 

With the rise of postmodernism in the later 20th century, Campbell’s theories fell out of favor.  Postmodernists highlighted difference in human experience, culture, and society, even going so far in some cases as to deny human nature.  Human belief and behavior is individual, arising out of culturally specific influences, distinct social environments, and unique individual experience. 

Rather than reducing this debate to an either-or choice, I prefer a both-and approach.  While cultural, social, and individual differences are significant, they are not necessarily definitive, and it is our shared humanity that enables cross-cultural communication and understanding.  While we are always mired, to some extent, in our own history, experience, and culture, we are capable of transcending, to some extent, those limitations in order, not only to co-exist, but also to participate in a shared human community.

Whatever cultural limitations define Wonder Woman and Dream Eater, they both serve as images, not only of female power, but also of the intersection between the human realm and that of imagination, of history and myth, of time and infinity, society and vision.  They both participate in Joseph Campbell’s universal hero myth of trial and quest.  And they both interrogate, not only female power, but all power, using power-from-within and power-with to defeat power-over.

Dreams, like myth, exist in a borderland between human reality and mysteries beyond human comprehension.  In Dream Eater dreams are the gateway to self-discovery, empowerment, connectedness, and higher consciousness.  Eating becomes a trope for fully participating in both worlds.  As Koi says in the end, "That's what people did, wasn't it?  Eat evil, battle dragons, and then go home and make sushi."  So, as K. Bird says, “Dream without fear…”  And, when back in reality, “…drink coffee without limit."

Sunday, February 12, 2017

Faith Bass Darling's Last Garage Sale

Last April we moved my 93-year-old Mom to a retirement community and put her house up for sale.  We spent all of last September cleaning it out for the buyers, going through drawers and closets, giving things away to relatives and neighbors, donating to Good Will, selling some things, filling up a large refuse container, and claiming a few items for ourselves. Back home, when I reported on this experience, a Buddhist friend recommended this 2012 novel by Lynda Rutledge.  “I learned a lot about attachment and detachment from reading this novel,” my friend said. 

Faith Bass Darling is a wealthy widow in Bass, Texas, who is suffering early symptoms of Alzheimer’s.  At midnight on December 31, 1999, she awakes to a what she thinks is the voice of God telling her to sell all the accumulated possessions in the mansion she has lived in all her life, the valuable antiques and art works, precious heirlooms, and family memorabilia.  The next morning she begins pulling as much as she can out onto the lawn and selling her “goods” for whatever few dollars and cents anyone who stopped by would offer her.

The local antique dealer is appalled, tries to salvage what she can and calls Faith’s daughter to come immediately from where she lives a hundred miles away.  The local sheriff’s deputy and the local Episcopal priest also get involved.  All of these folks have a history with the Darling family, and just as Faith battles her memories, so do they. 

My Mom has the usual garden-variety age-related memory issues, but no dementia.  We spent hours going through her possessions, trying to be patient with her reminiscing as each newly discovered item triggered a chain of memories.  She struggled with detachment, as she had limited room in her one-bedroom apartment.  Children and grandchildren, likewise, had limited space.  She had to learn how to let go, to detach.

Faith Bass Darling’s memories come and go.  Sometimes she remembers her family’s past, her husband’s abuse, her son’s death, her daughter’s estrangement, and her husband’s death.  Sometimes not.  Sometimes she associates certain memories with her possessions, sometimes not.  She seems to always know she is on a mission to cleanse her home, her past, her very self from the burdens they carry. 

Similarly, the daughter, Claudia, who at one time considered herself a Buddhist, must cleanse herself of her unhappy family memories: the resentments, the grief, the pain and suffering of absence and loss, not to mention the burden of her own life failures and mistakes.

John Jasper, the deputy sheriff, had been the best friend of Claudia’s brother, Mike, and bears responsibility for his untimely death.  Not only is John Jasper burdened by that guilty memory, but also by the memory of Mike’s father, Claude, verbally abusing both his son and John Jasper himself. 

Bobbie, the antique dealer, Claudia’s best friend growing up, had admired the treasures in the Darling house from childhood.  She knows the full material value of Faith’s possessions, but may not fully appreciate the emotional and psychological cost of those “goods,” the extent to which one can be “possessed” by possessions and the memories associated with them.  Bobbie is focused on resale value, and, like the calls that come in on her lost cell phone, she misses Faith’s need to exorcise her painful memories.

Father George A. Fallow is struggling with his faith at a time when Faith most needs him.  She needs him to affirm her mission from God and to actually perform an exorcism on her house.  Like the rich young man who asks Jesus how he can get to heaven and is told to go and sell all he owns, Faith wants to know that she too is following a divine command that will save her soul.

At a crucial moment Father George finds the right words for Faith:  “The problem isn’t ‘things.” It’s the thing.  Everybody has one big, blinding thing that’s in the way.”  For Faith it is the memory of her husband, Claude, and the role she had played in his death.  When she returns to the scene of that memory, both in physical space and in her mind, she is able to free herself.

For Claudia it is the family heirloom ring, which her mother thinks she has stolen.  When Claudia recovers the lost ring, she redeems herself.  For John Jasper, of course it is the memory of his role in Mike’s death.  When he finally brings himself to revisit the scene of that tragedy, he is finally able to unburden himself.  For Bobbie it is her lifetime envy of the Darling wealth and the memory of having broken a valuable item while visiting in the home, all of which has contributed to her own career in antiques.  Her role in salvaging some of the Darling “goods,” and especially the elephant clock, is her redemption.  Father George has lost his faith, not only in religion, but also in the power of words, including the Word of God, by which he has made his living.  When he finds the right words for Faith, his faith in himself and the power of words is restored.

Alzheimer’s could be considered a form of exorcism, a purging of all the memories we might want to erase, but it also purges the good memories, not to mention one’s identity.  A quote by Milan Kundera serves as a headnote to the novel: “What is this self? It is the sum of everything we remember.”

As Faith loses her memory, her possessions, and herself, she seems to find a new freedom.  At the same time, she becomes the catalyst by which the other characters transcend the past and renew themselves.  Fittingly, the action of the novel takes place on December 31, 1999, the end of one century and the beginning of the next, Y2K, the new millennium.  At the stroke of midnight, 2000, an explosion occurs, a destructive force that is also a cleansing.  One life ends and others begin anew.

As my Mom struggled with the process of detachment, I found myself, not only reliving family memories with her, but also reflecting on my own accumulation of possessions.  Back home at our house, we made a pact to throw away at least one item a week from the basement, the garage, a closet, or other storage area.  This cleansing, this stripping away of that which weighs us down has become a weekly ritual.  As these material traces of the past disappear, I am reminded of the need to revisit the past, especially the dark times that have been hidden away in the closets and drawers of the mind, to clear them out in order to make room for new life.

At another level, the novel speaks, not only to memory, but also to history.  The American South, and the American nation, also have that “one big, blinding thing that’s in the way.”  And that thing is race.  John Jasper is an African American whose friendship with Mike Darling has been forged on the high school football field.  They have transcended, at least on the personal level, the racist divide.  Mike’s father, however, cannot even let John Jasper sit in the front seat of his truck, and when the abuse he inflicts on both boys boils over into racist epithets, an explosion occurs, an explosion that kills Mike and nearly cripples John Jasper, an explosion that destroys the budding attraction between John Jasper and Claudia, as well as the Darling family ties.   The new millennium occurs as Claudia has reconciled with her mother and renewed her relationship with John Jasper, offering hope of healing, not only in their personal lives, but in the future of the South and the nation.

It is said that “elephants never forget”; thus it is fitting that an antique elephant clock dating back to the eighteenth century, one of the most valuable pieces of property in the Darling mansion plays its own role in the novel.  That clock has marked time in Claudia’s bedroom as long as she can remember.  The clock becomes a symbol of memory, as Faith loses hers, and the other characters revisit theirs.  Bobbie salvages the clock before it is sold in the garage sale and sends it to an appraiser in Houston.  As she and Claudia and John Jasper are finally released from the past, they travel together to reclaim that clock, a possession worth keeping for the memories it represents as much, perhaps more, than its material value.

And that is the other side of cleansing and detaching, for as we cleaned out my mother’s house, she and I had to decide what we could let go and what we could keep, not for any material value, but for the meaning and memories worth keeping.

Sunday, December 18, 2016


This short story by Jeanette Winterson was first published in 1988.  It dramatizes contemporary gender wars by retelling one version of the myth of Orion, a mighty hunter, in which Orion meets Artemis, a mythic female hunter, rapes her, and is killed by her with a scorpion. 

Sounds like a feminist revenge fantasy, or at least a representation of an ancient, and ongoing, gender power struggle.  But it’s more than that.

Winterson knows the mythological literature in which heroes are typically male, often hunters or warriors, on a quest for an object or place in the world, or, in the case of religious heroes, for eternal life in another world.  Women in mythology, though they might be goddesses, are typically objects of desire (distractions from the quest), mothers, wives, or helpers to the male heroes.  While the men are out performing feats of strength and courage, women are more often at home tending the hearth.

Winterson explicitly presents the story of Orion and Artemis as “the old clash between history and home. Or to put it another way, the immeasurable, impossible space that seems to divide the hearth from the quest.”

If it’s a simple feminist revenge fantasy, then why is the story entitled after the male “hero,” and why is it Orion who gets immortalized in a constellation, where to this day “he does his best to dominate the skyline”?

If it is simply a representation of the ancient gender binary between quest and hearth, then how is it that Artemis rejects marriage, childbirth, and home-making in order to be a great hunter?  While the original story itself challenges this binary, it also reinforces the polarity as an either-or choice.

By invoking the myth Winterson also reinforces the ancient difference between male and female social roles, but she challenges it by having Artemis, not simply reject the traditional female role, but redefine it in terms of self-knowledge:

“She found that the whole world could be contained within one place because that place was herself… What would it matter if she crossed the world and hunted down every living creature as long as her separate selves eluded her?”

Artemis comes to realize that “Leaving home meant leaving nothing behind.  It came too, all of it, and waited in the dark.”  Quest and hearth are one.  The ultimate quest is the journey to the self.

This wisdom eludes Orion.  For him the quest is all about hyper-masculinity, power, and domination.  Thus his rape of Artemis.

Yes, Artemis kills him in his sleep, and while this act of revenge suggests a struggle between feminist power and masculine power, it is more than that.  After Orion rapes Artemis, he falls asleep, but after Artemis murders Orion, she wakes up:

“Artemis lying beside dead Orion sees her past changed by a single act…She is not who she thought she was.  Every action and decision has led her here.  The moment has been waiting the way the top of the stairs waits for the sleepwalker.  She had fallen and now she is awake.”

When she sees Orion’s body becoming food for lizards, she covers him with rocks to create a high mound, which, when she views it from a distance looks like a monument. 

By rejecting the social norms of her day, Artemis begins to awaken to self-knowledge and to recognize the false binary of quest and hearth.  The gender power struggle overtakes her, but, again, she awakens to new self-knowledge.  Her “burial” of Orion demonstrates respect for his humanity, despite his cruelty to her.  This act of redemption takes her to a new level: “Finally, at the headland, after a bitter climb to where the woods bordered the steep edge, she turned and stared out, seeing the shape of Orion’s mound, just visible now, and her own footsteps walking away.  Then it was fully nigh, and she could see nothing to remind her of the night before except the stars.”

The story offers three larger contexts in which to view the myth and the story that Winterson draws out of it. 

First there is the context of history: the ancient myth transformed into a modern feminist story in 1988.  What future transformations will unfold in history?  “Monuments and cities would fade away like the people who build them.  No resting place or palace could survive the light years that lay ahead. There was no history that would not be rewritten…”

Second is the context of medieval alchemy: “Tertium non data. The third is not given. That is, the transformation from one element into another, from waste matter into best gold is a process that cannot be documented.  It is fully mysterious.”  Artemis’s transformations from gender rebel to self-conscious individual to stargazer could not have been predicted, nor can future transformations to come.

Third is the context of astronomy:  “Every 200,000 years or so the individual stars within each constellation shift position.  That is, they are shifting all the time, but more subtly than any tracker dog of ours can follow.  One day if the earth has not voluntarily opted out of the solar system, we will wake up to a new heaven whose dome will again confound us.  It will still be home but not a place to take for granted.”  For now, Orion still dominates the skyline (though “he glows very faint, if at all, in November.  November being the month of Scorpio.”) But what of that “new heaven” to come?

This past November it seemed a new transformation was on the horizon, but it was not to be.  Orion still dominates the skyline.  But what of that “new heaven” to come?