This is really beautiful, Adrian, and so instructive. As you may have gathered, I am not a Christian (though raised Catholic, briefly ;-), but I am always striving to better understand the tradition and what it holds for people of faith that seems to have escaped me. Personally, I'd love to see some rendition of "Peter's Pants." Also, I was not expecting the lovely mention. Thanks for that!
You’re very welcome, Jacquie. Your own insights on Substack have been a continual nourishment and joy. And I hope it’s also apparent that my version of faith is more like an astonished unfolding than anything insufferably doctrinaire. BTW, am currently in talks to bring Peter’s Pants to the stage, possibly as a musical. But it’s all very hush hush.
You touched on a matter I’ve been fascinated with for years now. Earlier this year I shared my view on Flannery O’Connor’s works in a Substack comment field. It was not only NOT well received but, in my opinion, willfully misinterpreted by a bunch of logomachists. The more vituperative and condescending responses emanated from Catholics in their 20s and 30s who seemed to think I had only read summaries of Flannery O’Connor’s works. Here is more or less what I had tried to argue.
I think it is nonsense to call a fiction writer a [choose any religious affiliation] author. Writers are notoriously ambiguous and their religious affiliations can change over the course of their life. (Witness Milton!) There’s a book called “The Life You Save May Be Your Own” which follows the biographies of four prominent American Catholics, including Flannery O’Connor. After reading it, I thought less of Thomas Merton, who came across to me as a popinjay posseur. He seemed to have thought that by wearing the “trappings” of a Trappist he’d get more people to read his writings, which he believed rivaled the works of Joyce.
I fell out of faith years ago, but I don’t feel any particular hostility toward Catholicism. I’m rather proud of my upbringing and appreciative of the classical education it endowed me with. But had I wanted to, I could have subdued certain aspects of my writing (the vulgarity, etc.), highlighted other aspects of it (the woo-woo mysticism), and branded myself a Catholic writer. This would have opened up certain online communities to me that I am now permanently barred from, or, at the very least, regarded with suspicion. It comes across as a bit “Deepak Chopra” to me, but I think it’s more common than people think.
I love Flannery O’Connor’s work. I have not only read every page she ever published but some she didn’t, such as her embarrassingly racist letters spangled with the N-word that were released by the Library of America in 1988. I’ve toured the house she was born in, located in Savanah, Georgia, near the Basilica of St John, and the house she moved to in Milledgeville in 1940. She could only live on the ground floor due to her lupus. Her Bible is still preserved in her bedroom. The tour was a moving experience.
But this leads me to what I was trying to say in that ill-fated comment field: I think it’s ridiculous to call fiction writers “Catholic” or presume someone who professes to be a Catholic is writing “Catholic fiction” because good stories (at least in my view) are rarely seen through such a neat confessional lens. I find the stark brutality of Flannery O’Connor’s writing engaging but not particularly pregnant with Catholic morality or messaging. The convict’s reprehensible actions at the end of “A Good Man is Hard to Find” (I was told by a nun in the ‘80s) were part of the “mystery of redemption” and was something not to be explained but pondered. I think that’s bullshit. Evil is evil. Last year there was an article circulating on Substack that set my teeth on edge. It was titled something like, “Should we as Catholics pity and pray for Hitler?”
I think it would be interesting to conduct a thought experiment. Take one of Flannery O’Connor’s more controversial novellas, like “The Violent Bear It Away,” strip the author’s name from the book, and invite a group of Catholic and non-Catholic readers, who have never been exposed to her writings, to go through it and write down their observations and discuss what they think the author’s religious background was, and what was the moral she was trying to convey.
In that story a child prophet—of the “Children of the Corn” type—goes off on a religious quest after burying his mad grandfather and setting the cabin he grew up in on fire. He is picked up on the road by a drunk child abuser in the Christ-haunted South, who has his way with him and throws him in a ditch. The child is apparently unfazed, and continues on his journey. He wanders into a town where an unmarried man is raising a deaf and dumb son. The child prophet convinces the man that he would be happier without this accursed son. The man is persuaded, and later listens from the upper window of his house as his son is murdered by the boy prophet in a boat on a lake adjacent to the property.
The story is chilling but so absorbing. Stylistically it’s superb. However, what I resent is the presumption (among many) that a story like that “Couldn’t be written today.”—Why? And why is it that, because Flannery O’Conner wrote it, the story is acceptable and has the whiff of sanctity. If an unknown (or a non-Catholic) writer had presumed to write such a tale today, there would not only be calls for said writer to de-platformed but the writer’s works would be banned, and in some places the author could be prosecuted.
Oh Daniel, that's some fine heartfelt commentary that, rest assured, finds a welcome home on this stack. You probably already know I'm not in the badge brigade. I'm going to do a separate reflection on my illicit spiritual relationship with Ms O'Connor. Suffice to say, any friend of Flannery. My forthcoming June fiction piece will, by some curious fate, also address some of the idiocies you've touched on above. And may I finish by extending a returned blessing for the addition of 'logomachists' to my active vocabulary.
I worked myself up into a white heat as I was writing that, so I’m only now seeing the solecisms and grammatical errors peppered throughout my comment. 😂 Thank you for looking past those and picking up the drift of what I was trying to say.
I think “The Pope’s Laundry” sounds like an intriguing premise for a novel. You could even set it partially in the late 1970s during the 33 day tenure of Pope John I whose mysterious death was worked into the plot of “Godfather III.” Perhaps the nun witnessed something she should not have seen or discovered a clue she found bound to suppress.
I don’t know if I could ever get the laundry scene in Paddington 2 sufficiently out of my mind to write it! And now my joking with Jacquie has added dancing musical trousers to the mix. It would end up being The Da Vinci Code meets The Producers meets Fantasia. Father Act?
I read the Elie book too. Interesting you came away with a diminished sense of Merton. It deepened my regard for each of them. But I know what you mean, Daniel: even in the most humble, there’s something unavoidably deliberate about trying to be remembered.
Adrian, the context and thought you give this subject here is gorgeous. I love how you've managed to put this topic into such a magnificent literary conversation. You mention so many of my favorite works. There is real wisdom here, Adrian. Great insight into a timeless question; maybe one of the ultimate questions for writers of faith!
Thanks so much, Danny. Yes, literary conversation is a great way of putting it. And so many great works left out (for another dive!). I've been wrestling with these themes my whole fiction writing and faith life and these are definitely my sparks to the tarmac. Really appreciate your untakes. More laundry to follow.
Well-wrestled for a part one, Adrian! I'd definitely read that story you satirically outlined, for what it's worth.
I'm with you in seeing faith as more a literary lens than as requirement of fictional content — it's more likely to expand the faithful imagination than restrain it. Ditto on suffering: it's the chief topic for any writer, and its depiction can dovetail almost perfectly with the Christian discernment of peace in trial. But it can be unwelcome to readers to imply that suffering is valuable or can become valuable in time, I've found.
Thanks Kevin. I hear you. All the works I most appreciate leave the matter for the reader to discern and echo on long afterwards. I'm going to start exploring my favourites in greater depth here. Hey, this Peter's Pants story idea is really taking on a life of its own. I've never known such a thing as customer demand before! Well, other than for my silence.
Discern is the key word. Every piece of fiction that depicts while leaving room for readers’ minds has felt more confident and subtle (though, as you mentioned, that’ll always risk misinterpretation).
This is really beautiful, Adrian, and so instructive. As you may have gathered, I am not a Christian (though raised Catholic, briefly ;-), but I am always striving to better understand the tradition and what it holds for people of faith that seems to have escaped me. Personally, I'd love to see some rendition of "Peter's Pants." Also, I was not expecting the lovely mention. Thanks for that!
You’re very welcome, Jacquie. Your own insights on Substack have been a continual nourishment and joy. And I hope it’s also apparent that my version of faith is more like an astonished unfolding than anything insufferably doctrinaire. BTW, am currently in talks to bring Peter’s Pants to the stage, possibly as a musical. But it’s all very hush hush.
That's one of the many reasons I so value, appreciate, and enjoy your thoughtful writing. I can already visualize the choreographed dance numbers now!
😂 thinking of the tagline: trousers made from faith, and trust, and pixie dust.
:-) perfect!
You touched on a matter I’ve been fascinated with for years now. Earlier this year I shared my view on Flannery O’Connor’s works in a Substack comment field. It was not only NOT well received but, in my opinion, willfully misinterpreted by a bunch of logomachists. The more vituperative and condescending responses emanated from Catholics in their 20s and 30s who seemed to think I had only read summaries of Flannery O’Connor’s works. Here is more or less what I had tried to argue.
I think it is nonsense to call a fiction writer a [choose any religious affiliation] author. Writers are notoriously ambiguous and their religious affiliations can change over the course of their life. (Witness Milton!) There’s a book called “The Life You Save May Be Your Own” which follows the biographies of four prominent American Catholics, including Flannery O’Connor. After reading it, I thought less of Thomas Merton, who came across to me as a popinjay posseur. He seemed to have thought that by wearing the “trappings” of a Trappist he’d get more people to read his writings, which he believed rivaled the works of Joyce.
I fell out of faith years ago, but I don’t feel any particular hostility toward Catholicism. I’m rather proud of my upbringing and appreciative of the classical education it endowed me with. But had I wanted to, I could have subdued certain aspects of my writing (the vulgarity, etc.), highlighted other aspects of it (the woo-woo mysticism), and branded myself a Catholic writer. This would have opened up certain online communities to me that I am now permanently barred from, or, at the very least, regarded with suspicion. It comes across as a bit “Deepak Chopra” to me, but I think it’s more common than people think.
I love Flannery O’Connor’s work. I have not only read every page she ever published but some she didn’t, such as her embarrassingly racist letters spangled with the N-word that were released by the Library of America in 1988. I’ve toured the house she was born in, located in Savanah, Georgia, near the Basilica of St John, and the house she moved to in Milledgeville in 1940. She could only live on the ground floor due to her lupus. Her Bible is still preserved in her bedroom. The tour was a moving experience.
But this leads me to what I was trying to say in that ill-fated comment field: I think it’s ridiculous to call fiction writers “Catholic” or presume someone who professes to be a Catholic is writing “Catholic fiction” because good stories (at least in my view) are rarely seen through such a neat confessional lens. I find the stark brutality of Flannery O’Connor’s writing engaging but not particularly pregnant with Catholic morality or messaging. The convict’s reprehensible actions at the end of “A Good Man is Hard to Find” (I was told by a nun in the ‘80s) were part of the “mystery of redemption” and was something not to be explained but pondered. I think that’s bullshit. Evil is evil. Last year there was an article circulating on Substack that set my teeth on edge. It was titled something like, “Should we as Catholics pity and pray for Hitler?”
I think it would be interesting to conduct a thought experiment. Take one of Flannery O’Connor’s more controversial novellas, like “The Violent Bear It Away,” strip the author’s name from the book, and invite a group of Catholic and non-Catholic readers, who have never been exposed to her writings, to go through it and write down their observations and discuss what they think the author’s religious background was, and what was the moral she was trying to convey.
In that story a child prophet—of the “Children of the Corn” type—goes off on a religious quest after burying his mad grandfather and setting the cabin he grew up in on fire. He is picked up on the road by a drunk child abuser in the Christ-haunted South, who has his way with him and throws him in a ditch. The child is apparently unfazed, and continues on his journey. He wanders into a town where an unmarried man is raising a deaf and dumb son. The child prophet convinces the man that he would be happier without this accursed son. The man is persuaded, and later listens from the upper window of his house as his son is murdered by the boy prophet in a boat on a lake adjacent to the property.
The story is chilling but so absorbing. Stylistically it’s superb. However, what I resent is the presumption (among many) that a story like that “Couldn’t be written today.”—Why? And why is it that, because Flannery O’Conner wrote it, the story is acceptable and has the whiff of sanctity. If an unknown (or a non-Catholic) writer had presumed to write such a tale today, there would not only be calls for said writer to de-platformed but the writer’s works would be banned, and in some places the author could be prosecuted.
Oh Daniel, that's some fine heartfelt commentary that, rest assured, finds a welcome home on this stack. You probably already know I'm not in the badge brigade. I'm going to do a separate reflection on my illicit spiritual relationship with Ms O'Connor. Suffice to say, any friend of Flannery. My forthcoming June fiction piece will, by some curious fate, also address some of the idiocies you've touched on above. And may I finish by extending a returned blessing for the addition of 'logomachists' to my active vocabulary.
I worked myself up into a white heat as I was writing that, so I’m only now seeing the solecisms and grammatical errors peppered throughout my comment. 😂 Thank you for looking past those and picking up the drift of what I was trying to say.
I think “The Pope’s Laundry” sounds like an intriguing premise for a novel. You could even set it partially in the late 1970s during the 33 day tenure of Pope John I whose mysterious death was worked into the plot of “Godfather III.” Perhaps the nun witnessed something she should not have seen or discovered a clue she found bound to suppress.
I don’t know if I could ever get the laundry scene in Paddington 2 sufficiently out of my mind to write it! And now my joking with Jacquie has added dancing musical trousers to the mix. It would end up being The Da Vinci Code meets The Producers meets Fantasia. Father Act?
I read the Elie book too. Interesting you came away with a diminished sense of Merton. It deepened my regard for each of them. But I know what you mean, Daniel: even in the most humble, there’s something unavoidably deliberate about trying to be remembered.
Adrian, the context and thought you give this subject here is gorgeous. I love how you've managed to put this topic into such a magnificent literary conversation. You mention so many of my favorite works. There is real wisdom here, Adrian. Great insight into a timeless question; maybe one of the ultimate questions for writers of faith!
Thanks so much, Danny. Yes, literary conversation is a great way of putting it. And so many great works left out (for another dive!). I've been wrestling with these themes my whole fiction writing and faith life and these are definitely my sparks to the tarmac. Really appreciate your untakes. More laundry to follow.
I look forward to reading “Peter’s Pants” in Part two of The Papal Laundry ..
😉
Well-wrestled for a part one, Adrian! I'd definitely read that story you satirically outlined, for what it's worth.
I'm with you in seeing faith as more a literary lens than as requirement of fictional content — it's more likely to expand the faithful imagination than restrain it. Ditto on suffering: it's the chief topic for any writer, and its depiction can dovetail almost perfectly with the Christian discernment of peace in trial. But it can be unwelcome to readers to imply that suffering is valuable or can become valuable in time, I've found.
Thanks Kevin. I hear you. All the works I most appreciate leave the matter for the reader to discern and echo on long afterwards. I'm going to start exploring my favourites in greater depth here. Hey, this Peter's Pants story idea is really taking on a life of its own. I've never known such a thing as customer demand before! Well, other than for my silence.
Discern is the key word. Every piece of fiction that depicts while leaving room for readers’ minds has felt more confident and subtle (though, as you mentioned, that’ll always risk misinterpretation).
Yes, I think misunderstanding comes with the territory when you’re about your art and your art isn’t about you.