Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc

Over spring break I glanced at a book on my bookshelf and surprised, picked it up. I had no idea that Mark Twain wrote a book about Joan of Arc; even more surprising, that he thought it was his best work. I figured it was his big chance to poke fun at organized religion; his humorous disdain of it is rather well-known. But most surprising of all, I noticed the book was published by Ignatius, a Catholic publisher (so it couldn't be too irreverent), and as I was reading, I realized Mark Twain adored this girl. After reading his book, so do I.

Personal Recollections is told by her first page and secretary, Sieur Louis de Conte, who was purportedly with her from childhood to martyrdom. But such details are irrelevant; the obvious hero (excuse me - heroine) is Joan of Arc from the first page to the last, working her will despite any and all obstacles. She convinces and charms all who speak to her; after her review of Blois Camp, I was ready to follow her myself.  The work is similar in some ways to The Stars My Destination in that it is giant refutation of Tolstoy's account of history, but it is far more effective in this vein than Bester's work. Joan of Arc had a mission and a world-changing directive. If time is a river and us commoners are but small grains of sand or pebbles, she is a gigantic boulder. Flawless character, passionate, resolute religious faith, extraordinary nobility, and unbelievable courage are only a few of her traits. When reading of the conclusion of her trial I sank down and wanted to weep, and this feeling arises in me but exceptionally rarely.

Equally impressive is Twain's restraint. He does not use this book to express his criticism or reservations of the Catholic Church, though he has both and both are real. Joan of Arc has neither, and in distancing himself from her via de Conte, Twain keeps his silence. Joan was neither feminist, lesbian, nor transvestite opposing oppressive Catholic traditions and he does not write her as being such; rather her nature comes to us as it was made clear to him over twelve years of research in France.

I had heard something of her exploits before, and admired her through Chesterton's brief mention in Orthodoxy, but reading Personal Recollections floored me. Many of her deeds are common knowledge: raising the siege of Orleans, the Loire Campaign, Patay, The Bloodless March, Rheims, but seeing her ride down her path like a thunderbolt was awe-inspiring. It is true, as one reviewer complained, that the battles lack suspense; I minded that not at all, for I was under her spell and swept along with her in victory after victory. I am not a partisan concerning the Hundred Year's War, but I admire greatness in all its forms, and St. Joan of Arc, a poor peasant girl of eighteen, is the greatest solely human being I know of - man or woman, and Mark Twain enabled me to see that.

"Whatever men call great, search for it in Joan of Arc and you will find it."

The Chronicles of Prydain

I love fantasy. I always have and I always will. I never passed into the middle phase where Lewis says we are too old for fairy tales and must wait till we are old enough again; I grew up on Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia. Sometime later, in my early adolescent years, I discovered Lloyd Alexander's The Book of Three. Over winter break I read it again, along with the later four novels that comprise the five-part series. The Chronicles of Prydain is a work which so far has grown with me. I may not learn anything new from here on out, but will always retain a fondness for it. 

The Prydain books are about what it means to be a man, and it traces the life of one such man from impetuous boyhood through the suffering required to achieve self-knowledge, wisdom, and greatness. In particular I loved the fourth volume, Taren Wanderer, where the hero undergoes a quest of self-knowledge. He is unable to perform that which he most longs to do, which naturally resonated strongly with me, for precisely that occurred to me as well. 

Alexander may be a modern democrat with Christian-esque views of greatness, but his work is fabulous, moving, and even tragic at times. And yes, in the end, Taran becomes great. 

Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

Ms. Locke, my language tutor, gave me a special present this semester. During the week we would translate Flaubert's Un Coeur Simple at an accelerated pace in order to take Fridays off and read...Proust! It was the first book I had bought that I was not sure I wanted to own, for all other books are those I know from other sources or works of the same author; I'd buy anything of Plato and know I'd love it, for example.

I was nervous. Here I was with $17 worth of book and not at all sure I wanted it. So I read the first assignment, and predictably, was blown away. In Search of Lost Time is undoubtedly one of the greatest works of novel fiction I have ever read. Not only will I keep Swann's Way, but I will buy and read all other volumes of the seven-volume series, waiting until 2018 till the final volume of the new translation is released in the United States. This isn't as bad as it sounds (though copyright extensions truly anger me), since I likely won't read the next three volumes for at least some years.

How can I be the same after reading such beautiful meditations on experience, memory, and names? I will never look at the world the same again, nor underestimate my contribution to the way I experience the way things are.

"The places we have known do not belong solely to the world of space in which we situate them for our greater convenience. They were only a thin slice among contiguous impressions which formed our life at that time; the memory of a certain image is but regret for a certain moment; and houses, roads, avenues, are as fleeting, alas, as the years."

A Song of Ice and Fire

It's almost shocking how little modern, populist literature I read nowadays. Almost invariably this gives me pleasure; I am not a plebe in a coffee shop who thinks he's sophisticated for reading Chomsky and Vonnegut with the New York Times on the side. I hate the term 'sophisticated' anyway, having connotations of Subway lurking in my subconscious. But every now and then I hear of a book which captures my attention. A Game of Thrones caught my eye so on impulse I bought it from the bookstore.

My qualms are minor; atheists really shouldn't write about religion for their work is unconvincing, and Martin's style of "I'll-kill-off-major-characters-to-make-you-worried-about-the-ones-that-really matter" wearies the soul. I doubt Martin would be careless enough to kill Jon or Arya (my personal favorite) merely to flout the system. If he does, I shan't care for the series anymore, nor do I find his method to work for me; I merely become angry when the Young Wolf and his mother dies, and the enemy - and there is an enemy, despite what popular criticism would say - prevails.

But these are minor qualms. The writing is vigorous, gritty, and often dark, sometimes oppressively so. Occasionally I wish there were not quite so much graphic sex depicted, but few writers have written so evocatively of the North. The battles of the Wall, the freezing isolation, the perennial darkness; the honor, the courage of the Stark family, who could not love such things?

I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.

Alfred Bester, The Stars My Destination

I discovered The Stars My Destination through the unceasing and fervent recommendations of Ty Schintzius. He said it was the best science fiction novel he'd ever read. I ordered it for him and read it a few days later. Now I almost fully agree. Only a masterpiece like Dune could equal it, and Bester's work may top it anyway. Not surprisingly, the novel is ill-known; but in an age where the most-watched YouTube channel is some mid-adolescent squeaking in a chipmunk voice, one can expect little from hoi polloi. At any rate, novel is one giant F.U. to Tolstoy's War and Peace, for history is not a blind, unintelligible force; here, one man changes the future of all mankind. In the same vein, the novel is concerned with the understanding of man; what he is and what he may become. What it is that makes someone a man is still unclear, for Gully Foyle doesn't quite seem like a man (more like a wolf, oftentimes); thus, it seems Bester doesn't really answer these questions (yet, that is; more careful readings might reveal something later). But he does suggest that whatever man's true nature is (and perhaps it is more animalistic than we might expect), it is forever and always tied to greatness. 

Gully Foyle is my name

And Terra is my nation

Deep space is my dwelling place

The stars my destination.

Statement of Purpose

I have decided to alter this blog and update it more frequently. Each book I read shall from here on out be noted, and one or two key ideas derived from it acknowledged. The inspiration for this came from other book blogs out there, but there are few such sites with such a focus on classical texts and philosophy, in addition to fine literature. I shall fill this hole.

Book projects for now:

• Continue reading the Metaphysics, especially the central books, the fourth, and the twelfth. Read Aquinas' commentary.
• Finish Blood Meridian.
• Finish The Brothers Karamazov (why I have never finished such a masterpiece eludes me).
• Read volume two of the Icelandic Sagas.

My first focus will be on books I read on my own time, but seminar readings shall also make an appearance.

To kick it off, here is the first entry: Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, State and Revolution. My first true foray into Communist thought. Crude, materialist Hegelianism at its worst, but an extremely informative reading on Communist theory. The progression from capitalism to communism is beautifully drawn, making it quite compelling even to one who despises Marxism as I do. Capitalism leads to revolution, then to the dictatorship of the proletariat, to socialism, and finally to pure communism. Lenin writes we cannot know how long each stage will last in this necessary historical dialectic, thus explaining why countries having Communist revolutions never seem to get beyond dictatorship.

Unfortunately, the feeling I had reading the short essay was one of unrelenting, oppressive, gray atmosphere. All was colorless and unlovely. This feeling alone suffices for my dislike of Marx and his ilk; there is no humor, no life in writings like these. Lenin was a good Marxist qua materialism so this does not really surprise me.

State and Revolution serves as an admirable introduction to Communist thought. I am interested in pursuing the topic further, and will read the Manifesto (of course!) and Marx's Revolutions of 1848, in addition to some of his more theoretical works. After all, one must know thine enemy, and Communism is little different from the Eastern despotism that so threatened Athens.

New Books, New Year

I did finally finish the Roman Catechism. It truly was the best introduction to Catholic thought I have yet read. Perhaps at some point I shall read the catechism from 1994, but I think no major doctrinal changes occurred over the past four hundred years. Perhaps I will check anyway.

Regardless, I am now in the last fortnight of my break. In ten days I shall fly back to Santa Fe and resume studies. During this time I wish to finish the Divine Comedy and Gulliver's Travels, the former on my perennial book list - it is the new year, after all - and the latter for seminar on the 19th. I hope to read the Iliad this or next month, which leaves the Republic or the Physics and The Lord of the Rings.

I have finished the Inferno and the first part of Gulliver's Travels. I like Dante much better than Swift (who can be so scientific about fantasy? It is amusing but tedious), but perhaps I have always preferred his theme to satire - man's search for God is the most important thing on this earth, and few have treated it as powerfully as the Ghibelline poet.