The Redemption of Sara Louise Bradshaw: Jacob Have I Loved, by Katherine Paterson

At this time of the year, I often find myself drawn to children’s books, or young adult books, probably for multiple reasons. I often feel that I have challenged myself in the books I’ve read during the rest of the year, and I’m looking for something a little less demanding. Perhaps in the chaos of the holiday season, I need something short and simple. There’s another reason I gravitate toward Newbery Award winners when the weather turns cold, to be honest. I’m also looking for books that I can read quickly, so I can boost the number of books that I’ve read during the year.

Isn't It Good...Norwegian Folktales

A book of Norwegian fairy tales, East of the Sun and West of the Moon and Other Tales, was mentioned in The Paideia Program by Mortimer Adler, which is how I first became aware of it. I found my way to The Paideia Program through reading most of what I could by Adler back in the 1980’s, and became infatuated with his proposal for reforming education long before I had children of my own.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon and Other Tales is a collection of folk tales, gathered by P.C. Asbjornsen and Jorben E. Moe, who were the Norwegian Brothers Grimm, apparently, as they collected folk tales from Norway, and put what were mainly oral stories into a written form. Some of the stories are very familiar, but some are very unusual. As a good Midwestern boy of German heritage, my fairy tales tended to be straight out of the Brothers Grimm, so this was the first time I’d heard some of these Norwegian tales.

Why I Can't Like the Ginger Man

I tried. Really, I did. I tried to like the Ginger Man, both the book by J.P. Donleavy, and the main character, Sebastian Dangerfield, but it is just not possible for me.

Early in the book, we get to see Dangerfield at his worst. His relationship with his wife and child is neglectful at best, and abusive at worst. In fact, the abuse is extravagant, both physically and emotionally.

We aren’t given much of a honeymoon period with Dangerfield. Early in the book, we are exposed to the worst of his character. Here’s a passage from page 21, when his wife returns from a trip out of town to find Dangerfield passed out drunk amid the wreckage of their home.

Second Guessing the Modern Library

The time I’ve spent with Sebastian Dangerfield has been tumultuous. I almost feel like one of the people that Dangerfield uses and abuses. He certainly plays on the sympathies and prejudices of the other characters in Ginger Man, and he even does the same with his readers.

Dangerfield, who has been joyfully running from one scheme to another, has been looking forward to an inheritance when his wealthy father dies. However, his wealthy father apparently knows his progeny too well, and the stipulations placed on the inheritance at his death are grievous. I was almost disappointed to hear that we as readers were in for more of the same that we’ve been exposed to during the first ninety percent of the book, when Dangerfield learns that his father has dies and left him a fortune that is locked up in trust until Sebastian turns forty seven. (Ironically, the exact age I am right now.)

Sympathy for the Devil

As I have spent more time with the novel, I am getting more of an appreciation for Donleavy’s Ginger Man, and am coming to terms with Sebastian Dangerfield, the reprehensible main character. Here’s what I can say about my experience reading the book so far. (After all, the blog’s subtitle is “My response to what I’m reading”, so my goal isn’t to necessarily give a review of a book, but more of a reaction to it.)

The novel is written untraditionally. I do not know if it would be considered “stream of consciousness”, but if it’s not technically that style of writing, it is reminiscent of it. At times, it is told in first person, but most of the time it is from a limited third person narrator’s voice, with access to what the main character is thinking and feeling. Even more pronounced than the movement between voice is the frequent use of sentence fragments. Here is an example from the opening paragraphs:

I'm Really Not a Prude, But ...

I came across Ginger Man, by J.P. Donleavy, on the Modern Library’s list of the 100 Best English Language Novels of the Twentieth Century. I was not familiar with it previously, and have not encountered many who are familiar with it since. At this point, about a fourth of the way through it, I doubt that I will be recommending it.

The main character, Sebastian Dangerfield, is a roguish anti-hero along the lines of Shakespeare’s Falstaff, though without Falstaff’s brilliance and charisma. Of course, it’s hardly fair to compare Donleavy to Shakespeare. It’s hardly fair to compare anyone to Shakespeare, and to fault a character for falling short of one of the most brilliant characters in literature is especially out of line.

I have really struggled with this book so far. I don’t think of myself as someone who needs to like the main character in order to enjoy the book. Take Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, for example. The main character there isn’t particularly likeable, but my reaction to that book wasn’t as visceral or negative as what I’m experiencing reading Ginger Man. Or, the other book that has come to mind several times while reading Donleavy’s work is A Fan’s Notes, by Frederick Exley, where the main character is living a half-life of alcoholism and deception. Or, even Wuthering Heights, where Heathcliff and Catherine are not likeable in the least, but Bronte’s tale of passion is less distasteful to me than Ginger Man has been so far.

Blue Like Jazz

Over a year ago, our pastor quoted from Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz in one of his sermons. I don’t remember the quote exactly, but I remember that it made me sit up and take notice. It sounded like the author was speaking directly to me. I made note of the book and author, and have been planning to read it ever since.

Sometime shortly after that sermon, someone gave me a copy of the book. They had an extra copy for some reason, and they thought that I would enjoy it. I happily accepted it, and then lost track of it.

Recently I came across the book on my shelf, and thought that it was high time for me to read it. I’m glad I did.

The subtitle of the book “Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality”, nicely hints at the tone of the book. Miller is clearly a committed follower of Christ, but he hesitates to call himself a Christian. Christians have done too many bad things over the centuries for Miller to be comfortable identifying himself with them.

In fact, in what I found to be one of the most moving passages from Blue Like Jazz, Miller describes a confession booth that he and some friends set up on a college campus during a weekend of heavy partying on campus. However, the confession booth had an usual spin. Rather than accept the confessions of others, Miller and his friends confessed their own sins, and the sins of the Christian Church.

It might sound easy to confess the sins of the church at large. After all, I don’t feel personally responsible for the Crusades, or for repressing scientific exploration, or for misusing religion to support racial segregation. Yes, I can easily confess those sins of Christianity to the world at large. We have done an awful lot in the name of faith that really is a misrepresentation of Jesus.

However, the confession got a lot more personal.

“Jesus said to feed the poor and to heal the sick. I have never done very much about that. Jesus said to love those who persecute me. I tend to lash out, especially if I feel threatened, you know, if my ego gets threatened. Jesus did not mix His spirituality with politics. I grew up doing that. It got in the way of the central message of Christ. I know that was wrong, and I know that a lot of people will not listen to the words of Christ because people like me, who know Him, carry our own agendas into the conversation rather than just relaying the message Christ wanted to get across. There’s a lot more, you know.”

Sometimes, it takes a lot of strength for me to say that I believe in Jesus. I find myself wondering what I even mean by saying “I believe in Jesus.” What I find so refreshing in Miller is his willingness to address this type of question and doubt and insecurity, and also his dedication to trying to follow Christ regardless of those questions.

It reminds me of one of my favorite passages from the New Testament. In the book of John, just before Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, Jesus tells his disciples to follow him back to a dangerous territory, where they had nearly been killed. Thomas, my all-time favorite disciple, says, “Well, let’s follow him, so we can die with him.” Despite Thomas’ confusion, and his logical brain telling him that nothing good can come of it, he still feels compelled to follow. That’s where I am, and Miller seems comfortable with the messiness and ambiguity of our faith.

Why Read Moby-Dick?

There are very few books that reward multiple readings in life, and Moby-Dick is one of them. I first read it in my twenties, and absolutely loved it. Now, twenty years later, I have accumulated more of the joys and bruises of life, and have more sympathy with and understanding of the narrator, and more appreciation for Melville’s poetry and humor.

Even in the chapters that feel digressive, where Melville distracts us with details of whale anatomy or the mechanics of whaling, Melville still cannot refrain from making the most mundane item into a philosophical discourse. It is like listening to a spectacularly good conversationalist. For example, here is a quote from Chapter 60: “The Line”, which is ostensibly about the rope attached to the harpoon.

“All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, every-present perils of life. And if you be a philosopher, though seated in a whale-boat, you would not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.”

That kind of writing can drive some readers crazy, but I think the key is to embrace it. The key is to not try to race through the story. Melville lingers in the telling. He’s clearly in no hurry to tell us the bare facts. He first needs to prepare us, both intellectually and emotionally, for the real impact of the story.

From the very first paragraph, Melville makes it clear that his narrator is in no hurry. If we are going to listen to this story, we need to know something about the kind of person that the narrator is, and to recognize ourselves in him. He’s someone who has clearly felt that quiet desperation of which Thoreau speaks. Who knows if Thoreau did not articulate the phrase after reading Moby-Dick?

That nameless restlessness and dissatisfaction that plagues the narrator is something with which we can all identify. In the first paragraph, Ishmael, as he asks us to call him, clearly states that his life is not what he wants, and he is willing to engage in a sea voyage as a desperate act to maintain his sanity. I found myself referencing that paragraph more than once over the years since I first read it. In fact, I probably think of it every November, as it prominently references the “damp, drizzly November in my soul.” That November can happen at any time of the year, but it’s usually toward the end of the year that I cast my eye back on where I have been, and turn it hopefully to the future.

Read the first paragraph of Moby-Dick. Savor the cadence, and the way Melville beautifully describes the human condition, right there on page one. I will definitely be reading this again, when I have gathered more joys and bruises.