June 26th, 2005
|02:02 pm - A bumpersticker and a book review|
I was driving home in slow traffic and noticed this bumperstick in the window of a car ahead of me:
If you're not completely appalled,
you haven't been paying attention.
This, of course, made me curious and I looked for any other indication of what this particular driver might consider appalling about our current society/politics/culture. Nada. Not even a cross, or rainbow, or peace sign dangling from the rearview mirror.
I thought, Huh.
Then I thought, they may be right. There is much in this world that is completely appalling, unless you have no moral conscience or artistic sense whatsoever. But they're not completely right.
I need a bumpersticker that reads:
If you're not completely amazed,
you haven't been paying attention.
This world may be desolate in many ways, but it is also unutterably beautiful.
And yes, this does connect to the book review, of Lois McMaster Bujold's The Curse of Chalion.
I'm aware that most of my friendslist has read this book (or I assume so), but I just finished it for the second time and am even more impressed than I was the first time.
I'm not going to bother commenting on the excellent writing, the tight, compelling plot, or the sheer complexity of the world-and-characterbuilding, because with Bujold I find that those are a given. They certainly don't flag here.
But the center of the book, what was spun out into the breaking of the curse, and into the character of broken-down, ready to be used Castillar dy Cazaril, is something incredibly rare even in fantasy novels.
The gods are real, in Chalion and its world. Many authors have created gods, godesses, rituals and religion for their imagined worlds. Much of it is quite creative and fascinating. The Quintarian faith is no less so...but it rises above the rest by the fact that it is not treated as a side note to the story, nor as something purely created by the society in the story.
The five holy ones do affect the world of matter, taking up souls at death, answering prayers in life, and working through the willing and open human soul to effect miracles of protection, of justice, of restoration.
As a Christian, it is startling to be reading along, enjoying the created world, and to run smack into some pretty orthodox--or at least, very familiar experiential--theology. Cazaril, trying to come to grips with being chosen to host a miracle, says: "If I must ask of every action not only if it is wise or good, but also if it's the one I'm supposed to choose, I shall go mad. Madder. I'll end up curled in a corner, not doing anything at all, except maybe mumbling and weeping." His advisor Umegat has this answer, "You cannot outguess the gods. Hold to virtue--if you can identify it--and trust that the duty set before you is the duty desired of you. And that the talents given to you are the talents you should place in the gods' service. Believe that the gods ask for nothing back that they have not first lent to you. Not even your life."
Or this: "In choosing to share one's will with the gods, was it enough to choose once, like signing up to a military company with an oath? Or did one have to choose and choose and choose again, every day? Or was it both?"
Or this: "This wasn't prayer anyway, it was just argument with the gods. Prayer, he suspected as he hoisted himself up and turned for the door, was putting one foot in front of the other. Moving all the same."
And as complicated and painful as it is for Cazaril to complete his quest, to open himself and surrender his will fully so that the Lady of Spring can lift the curse itself, it does not destroy him. It changes him, certainly; how could one see the face of God and not be altered? "'I have not the words for what I saw'," Cazaril tells his friend. "'Talking about it is like trying to weave a box of shadows in which to carry water.' And our souls are parched."
All of us are parched so, desiring to see what lies beyond us, above us--desiring, in whatever way we feel it, to see the face of God.
Then along comes a book like this one, to give us a few fragmented words and rich metaphors to use in weaving our own boxes of shadow. This is the kind of book I would someday want to write--my dream being to make something, anything that can carry these drops of water to another soul, can remind him or her that we are not the roots of our own being.
And that therefore there is hope.
Current Mood: awake
|Date:||June 26th, 2005 10:51 pm (UTC)|| |
My bumpersticker should contain something suggesting "weirded out", but I suppose "amazed" pretty much covers it. :-)