I Know Next to Nothing of Paul Claudel

This is going to be a brief and inconsequential post, useful perhaps only as a forgotten note scribbled and found in a book years later, or as a purposely-bent tree branch growing askant the forgotten path to the door of a forgotten mine. Perhaps I'll see it later and remember, go down that path, explore what once seemed to betoken riches, if only I had the time to seek them.

I know next to nothing of Paul Claudel. I have heard the name. I can tell he's French, just from the name, probably not from memory. But having once again renewed my subscription to The Chesterton Review, I have in its pages come across an article reprinting a reprinting of a translation of an excerpt of his works. First is cited Job: "For he wounds, but he binds up; he smites, but his hands heal" (5:18): the paradox of God in that most imperious and pitiful of books. Then comes another paradox, a startling image, I suppose of Claudel's: "We meet again those wise and gentle hands that not so long ago were thrust into us through the gaping cleft in our being ...." Thomas's hands nearly did this to Him for their loss of faith; what does it mean that His hands have done it to us? It is not for a lack of faith, for we are not believed in, but known. Thomas sought faith as knowledge; he wanted to know instead of, or at least before, believing. (As it was, he chose the lesser form - he knew far more than I or any of us have known, but he finally refused the opportunity to touch, to make more sure of what he saw and heard.) God has knowledge, knows us inside and out, has no need to believe because he knows us, having made us.

"The left hand sustains, presents, and adjusts, and the right hand creates."

"How can we resist the hands that molded us and that know more than one way to resume their potter's work?"

The comparison for me, an American who's taught American Literature, is inescapable: how much greater is this God than Jonathan Edwards's God? I don't know Edwards as deeply as I should; and I have been at pains to make sure my students understand that his sinners in the hands of a famously irate God are at the center of a paradox, being held up and sustained above the flames by His mercy; and I have at times taught parts of his "Divine and Supernatural Light" to show that Edwards is not a cartoon (sometimes I even think he is a proto-Romantic, out there in the woods in his booth, praying); but these lines from Claudel seem so much more true. God is not reluctant to keep us, constrained by His better nature, or in keeping with a tacked on and capricious quality called mercy, to act against His wisdom in condemning us. He positively wants us. He desires our love. Does He weep for our love as He did in the Garden?

I wish I knew my theology better. I might know whether I could even consider answering that last question.

Two Queries at Random

1. Why does Bartleby.com have a copy of "The Passionate Shepherd," but not one of "The Nymph's Reply"?

2. Why is it that, no matter how many spaces I put in the last post between "The Passionate Shepherd," complete with its hyperlink, and the next sentence, the distance appears to be nil?

Imitation

Having read a good chunk of Gregory L. Roper's The Writer's Workshop, and having used it a bit in a class I teach (already named "Writer's Workshop," thought not by me) I've had two thoughts. First, I thought I would work my way through the book itself. This will both help me get a better feel for teaching it, as well as give me some writing exercise. I've also thought that I might well follow the instructions into other writings, do what Chesterton does somewhere in his poems, and imitate some of the great poets out there in there efforts. The thought I had today was to write a new response to "The Passionate Shepherd." It was apparently done many times before Although Raleigh came along and had pretty much the last word with his "Nymph's Reply," I'm sure it's been done since, according to the indispensible Wikipedia, by such luminaries as John Donne and Ogden Nash. The Donne one is about fishing apparently, and is called, "The Bait." I'm sure it's devestatingly clever, but I was up too late last night and I'm rather confused and unable to process at the moment. So anyway, at some point I'll get around to putting together my own version. This of course comes with the caveat for my faithful and long-suffering readership that it's probably not going to happen anytime soon, much as you may be salivating, or otherwise expressing your impatience, over it.

Dappled Things, the Magazine

I'd also like to take a moment of my procrastination to remind my wide readership of the existence of Dappled Things, a Catholic art and literary magazine. The Advent/Christmas edition, most of it available online, has some impressive work. The short poems "The Carp" and "The Numbers," by Cristina A. Montes and John A. Di Camillo, respectively, are marvelously compact statements of great depth and mellifluousness (an unsatisfying word, if there ever was one - saw the word "mellifluity" online, but could find no definition - that, or "mellifluidity," might be useful neologisms). Brendan A. McGrath's "Ghetto Sunrise," were I a priest working in a thankless parish, would hang in my bedroom or sacristy.

Also, the works of Daniel Matsui, who's been featured in a number of Dappled Things editions, is worth recommending. Were I rich enough to build my own chapel, or a priest in charge of decorating a church, I'd consider hiring him to design windows or frescos (assuming they still fresco, otherwise murals). From this issue, his "Crucifixion" is his most attractive and ornate. I do not love the faces of his "Tree of Life and Death," but I like the symbolism, especially the juxtaposition in the tree of the symmetrical crucifix with the assymetrical angel of death. My favorite of the works available on his website, one which I think was published earlier in Dappled Things, is his "St. Jerome." I was familiar with the first version only, but I do like the second version also, lower down on the same page. I am comforted by the familiar lion, made curious by the whimsical litter at his feet, and enjoy the grace of the silouhette behind him. Also striking is his "St. Bartholomew," seemingly inspired not only by the medieval work he claims as his primary inspiration, but also, in the muscle-and-bone face, by comic books. (I hope he does not regard this as an insult, as it isn't. My untrained eye sees a resemblance, and I suppose it would be hard for most anyone interested in drawing to remain at this point un-influenced by the comics.) Looking at it again, I notice for the first time and appreciate his use of Greek letters, Phi and Theta, in his Latin captions. Perhaps his intent is to remind us of the way the Church brought the Greek and Roman cultures with it into modernity. Perhaps Bartholomew spoke Greek and Latin. In truth, I don't know the reason, but they are stylistically pleasing.

Cribbed Comments on India

A moment, a few hours, of procrastination on a Sunday morning, brings with it an e-mail from Site Meter, which brings with it a reminder that I have a blog, which brings with it a weak desire to someday do something with it, which brings remembrance that I wrote some sloppy reflections on India in e-mails to family, which ushers in the somewhat guilty decision to keep this poor crippled work crawling along with a few cutandpasted paragraphs, with apologies to anyone who happens to happen upon them:

From Christmas Eve:
My wife and I are here safe in smoggy Delhi. We haven't seen much of the town yet, having gotten in last night at around 11:00 and having just finished up breakfast in the hotel. She had a masala omelette while I had a bunch of unidentifiable but rather tasty Indian delicacies from the buffet. Everyone has been very friendly, the service is extremely attentive, and "Jingle Bell Rock" has played consecutively at least six times in the lobby of the hotel. I'm hoping to catch an afternoon Mass, but it sounds like they only had them in the morning - something we didn't find out until it was too late. Nonetheless, we'll go into the Sacred Heart cathedral (apparently the oldest cathedral in the city) and spend some time praying. Hope you're all well. I'm missing getting up in the morning and watching everyone open presents, but we had lots of fun at our early Christmas parties, for which we both thank you.

Mother, we enjoyed our Christmas Stollen in the hotel room last night after we met here. It was a wonderful treat.

From December 26:
We flew into Khararajho (sp?), India, today, to visit ancient Hindu temples, rediscovered 150 years ago after being hidden for 500 years in the jungle, covered with carvings, many of them erotic and even pornographic. We only spent about half the day sightseeing, but the flight took up the other half of the day, so we are tired. I am happy to be out of Delhi, as the air here is fresh and the roads much cleaner than in the capital. Delhi I'm sure has tons of urban culture, but it's so big that we didn't see much of it, and the slums and dust are psychologically oppressive (though I'm sure they're not so oppressive for me, in my hotel, as they are for the people living in them daily). Hope you're well, and will write to you later.

From January 2:
We are in Varinasi this morning, called the holiest city in all India, and watched the pilgrims and residents make their ablutions in the river Ganges [at dawn]. We saw the remnants of some cremations and watched a family take the body of an infant out to the middle of the river for burial. What was also quite interesting was the old town, a warren of twisting streets not big enough for a single car to pass through. I would like to write and tell more, but I'm in the so-called "business center" of the hotel, which is really just some manager's computer, and I don't think I should monopolize it for long. We'll be home soon, and my stomach will get a chance to relax finally (I've been fine, up until just today, when I started having some trouble). I've loved the trip, but I look forward to home.

From January 2 (later, to other family members):
We are in Varinasi right now, called the holiest city in all India. Its old town is fascinating, a warren of streets that is positively medieval (with the exception of the motor scooter horns screaming from around the corner as they scud through the lanes). The people walk along, yielding right of way to the occasional cow, buying morning breakfast ("poori & bhaji" - a potato and pea curry served on a tortilla-type bread) and tea at cubbyhole stores that open from the walls. As frequently as the stores, one comes across shrines or tiny temples, their sometimes unrecognizable gods splashed with orange paint. In at least two locations (we saw only a small part of the old town), two-hundred year old trees sprout from behind and above and around a shop, and grow at an irregular angle, twelve feet above street. The river Ganges is a sight, lined with empty sand flats on one side and piled temples and "ghats" - steps designed for pilgrims' ease of bathing in the river - on the other. The river is shrouded in fog as the sun rises, and it only slowly becomes visible as a big pink ball over the empty east bank of the river. The river is bobbing with ancient boats filled with tourists (mostly quiet) and pilgrims, and the ghats populated by half naked men, some of them saddhus - Hindu holy men - taking their morning bath in the filthy water. Some women are also present, though not at the cremations taking place at two locations along the banks, for they mourn too loudly, apparently, for such a place as the Ganges.

This is not complete, but I had best get going. Hope all are well, and can't wait to see you again. India has been fascinating, but Chicago beckons.

From January 5 (at home):
My wife and I went off to India for the break, which was a bit exhausting but utterly fascinating. We were visiting her father who was finishing up a three-month teaching in the south of the country. He came up north to Delhi, where we met up with him and my mother-in-law, who had met him in the south a few days before, and commenced on the Golden Triangle tour of the most holy (Hindu) and otherwise famous sights of India. These included the "Taj," as they invariably call the Taj Mahal, the pornographic temples at Kajuraho, the cremation sites on the Ganges at Varanasi, the deer park where the Buddha preached his first sermon, and innumberable fortresses and palaces. It was all interesting, but the relentless differences between Indian culture and our own, not to mention a few microbes in my case, wore us down, and we are happy to be back. Hope you're both well.