This book is one in my ongoing series of books that I read while waiting for my turn in the courtroom.
Before Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote the first of his Tarzan books, he primarily wrote science fiction. A Princess of Mars was serialized in 1912, and released as a complete book five years later. Recently, the book was turned into a movie, John Carter, which was a bit of a flop.
Burroughs
was a largely unsuccessful middle aged man who bounced between low
paying jobs in Chicago and Idaho, and never seemed to find regular
wages. During a time of minimal employment, he started reading pulp
magazines, and decided he could write better stories than those he was
reading. A Princess of Mars, which was originally entitled Under the Moons of Mars, was his first commercial success. Ten sequels would eventually follow, but it was the Tarzan stories that would make him a superstar.
A
couple of other interesting facts about Burroughs: he signed up as a
war correspondent during World War Two - in his late 60s, making him one
of the oldest war correspondents ever. Second, the San Fernando Valley
neighborhood of Tarzana (a mere 10 miles from where I was born) is named
after Burroughs’ ranch of the same name, which he named after his
character.
I
would say that this book is definitely the cheesiest thing I have read
this year. I knew that going in: it is, after all, pulp. That said, the
writing is better than the average representative of that genre, which
is probably why Burroughs has inspired and influenced science fiction
writers for the last 100 years. There is little about the writing itself
that is wince-worthy, but not much that is better than good either. In
fact, this book would serve as an excellent example of the difference
between competent writing and poor writing, on the one hand; and between
competent writing and excellent writing on the other. It does its job,
but doesn’t transcend. In this genre, that isn’t a bad thing.
The
basic gist of the story is that John Carter, a human from Earth, finds
himself inexplicably on Mars. He is initially captured by the savage
“green martian” race, earns respect and makes a key friend. He also
meets a captive member of the more civilized “red martian” race, falls
in love with her, and eventually makes his escape with her. Later, he is
able to more completely rescue her and win her heart. He also manages
to bring some civilization to a branch of the “green martian” race.
On
the plus side, Burroughs creates an imaginative world, complete with
two contrasting civilizations. The Mars he envisioned: a planet in decay
after a glorious past, with the survivors of a massive climate change
clinging to survival has endured as a science fiction meme, and its
influence can be seen in so many later stories.
His
portrayal of the “green martian” civilization is interesting as well.
They do not bond with each other or with their offspring, which are
scientifically selected and incubated, and no one knows which children
belong to which parents. (In some ways, this is a more “primitive”
version of the vision in Brave New World.
It is easier in this case, because Martians all lay eggs, rather than
birth live young.) This lack of emotional connection leads to a violent
society, focusing on war and on glory, but never on love or friendship.
The change in their society occurs because one of their warriors dares
to fall in love, and later bond with his daughter.
The
sour note in Burroughs’ vision is the rather obvious modelling of the
“green Martians” on Native American stereotypes. This is hardly unique
to Burroughs, of course. Many adventure writers from his era and before
tended to have colonialist and racist prejudices that were taken for
granted by readers of the era. Rudyard Kipling and H. Rider Haggard come
to mind. The tired old trope of “white man enlightens the savages” has
been with us for centuries - as has the competing and equally tiresome
“myth of the noble savage.”
I
find it interesting that the movie (and some others that likewise
attempt to revive old school science fiction) had difficulties at the
box office. In the last few decades, the technology to bring imaginary
worlds to life has been perfected. It would have been unimaginable to
attempt to duplicate the beasts and Martians until recently. However,
public taste has changed. A story like this would have worked in the
1950s, but could not have been made convincing given the state of
special effects at the time. However, the plot seems silly to our modern
tastes, and we are too jaded by CGI to really care about whether the
effects match Burroughs’ written descriptions. Hollywood far too
frequently forgets that a compelling story trumps star power and special
effects, no matter how expensive. If the story doesn’t speak to us,
it’s just explosions and adrenaline.
I
should also mention the fascination that nudity held for writers like
Burroughs and Haggard. Part of the mystical appeal of the “savage” was
the lack of clothing. This story keeps to this tradition, although there
is nothing graphic. A kiss is as sexual as it gets - unless you count
an egg in an incubator at the end. However, some of the book covers are
more than a bit suggestive.
Not a bad read, but nothing particularly special, in my opinion. A good adventure tale, but not particularly deep.
As
regular followers of this blog recall, I participate in an online book
club, hosted by my friend Carrie at readingtoknow.com. This is our
second year, and we are focusing on classics - an even mix of adult and
children’s books. This month’s selection was chosen by me.
What does one do if one is unjustly deprived of fortune, reputation, and indeed, one’s own name?
Or,
if one is Hamlet of Denmark, one might dither until it is too late, and
end up as one of many dead in a Shakespearian tragedy.
Or,
if one is the Count of Monte Cristo, one might swear eternal revenge,
and proceed to carry it out under a false name, punishing one’s enemies
in one of the greatest revenge tales ever.
But what does one do if one is a female in the Victorian era? And what happens if said female chooses option number three?
It
is always interesting to reread a book many years after a first
reading. I thought about this book, and determined that I must have read
it around age 18 or so. Or closer to my birth than my current age.
Ouch. I’m getting old.
When
I read this, I had not yet begun law school, so I missed many of the
delightful legal references and quotable lines. I think that this book
may have been at least partially responsible for my eventual decision to
enter the legal profession - and to eventually make estate planning and
probate a key part of my practice.
This
book was also an important milestone in my reading. I believe it was my
first foray into Victorian literature beyond Charles Dickens; I would
become acquainted with my favorite Victorian, Anthony Trollope soon
thereafter. This was also my first acquaintance with a strong heroine in
a fully adult book. (I love Anne of Green Gables - at least the first
four books, but those are geared toward children and teens.)
Of
all the Wilkie Collins books I have read, I still have affection for
this particular book because of its ambiguous characters, its
transgressive heroine, and the complex issues presented.
Like
many books of the era, it takes awhile to get into the plot itself. The
first hundred pages or so set the stage of a typical upper class
English family. The father has a significant inherited fortune, and
there are two daughters. Norah, the eldest, is practically an old maid
at 26, and is less attractive and vibrant than her younger sister, the
tall and gorgeous Magdalen. It is Magdalen who chooses the third option
and seeks to repossess her fortune at whatever cost necessary.
The
basic plot is driven by a legal issue. The parents are not legally
married, because the father entered a disastrous young marriage abroad,
but was unable to obtain a divorce. The parents lived together as
husband and wife, but never made it legal until the first wife died.
After the legal marriage, but before they can make a new estate plan,
both die under tragic circumstances. This leaves the girls disinherited
and without a name. Due to previous family quarrels, the nearest
relative, who inherits the fortune, casts away the girls, considering
himself morally justified as the “divine retribution” for the sins of
the parents. (Mankind has a history of attempting to prevent
illegitimate children by brutally punishing the children. As the family
lawyer, Mr. Pendril says, “I am far from defending the law of England as
it affects illegitimate offspring. On the contrary, I think it a
disgrace to the nation. It visits the sins of the parents on the
children; it encourages vice by depriving fathers and mothers of the
strongest of all motives for making the atonement of marriage; and it
claims to produce these two abominable results in the names of morality
and religion.” Modern laws have remedied this result, at least, but I
could go on at length at the way that welfare laws - particularly the
Medicaid rules - punish marriage still today.)
Before
this tragedy, the family enjoys some typical amusements, which end up
being portents of the future. First, the girls accompany their father to
a concert. As an orchestral musician myself, I snickered at the
description of the scene wherein the audience seemed confused about when
a symphony ended. While it was common at one point to clap between
movements - and individual movements were often encored immediately - by
Collins’ time, it had already become gauche to fail to wait until the
very end for applause.
Later, Magdalen is convinced to take part in an amatuer production of Richard Sheridan’s play, The Rivals. (While I have not read The Rivals, I did read Sheridan’s other masterwork, The School for Scandal.) The Rivals
is notable for the character of Mrs. Malaprop, who uses the wrong words
to comic effect. It is also notable for matrimonial schemes involving
impersonations and fraud. Magdalen takes naturally to acting, and steals
the show. Both this fact and the subject matter of the play will be
important later in the book.
During
this time, Magdalen falls in love with Frank Clare, who she has known
since childhood. Frank’s father is a scandalous free thinker - and the
references to his favorite philosophers escaped me when I first read
this, but were amusing on the second reading. Frank is, as his father
fears, irresponsible and flighty. Magdalen correctly decides that he
would be best served by marrying money.
When
I first read the book, I didn’t really understand why Collins bothered
writing the character of Frank Clare. He is a motivating factor in
Magdalen attempting to regain her fortune, of course, but he abandons
her soon into her quest, and appears at the end only when he has married
a far older widow for her money.
What I did not realize at the time was that Collins has cleverly turned gender expectations upside down. Frank does exactly
what a proper Victorian female was expected to do. He was a gentleman
without a fortune, but a handsome face. What should a girl do? Marry an
older man with money, of course! But Frank is castigated for his lack of
fortitude in seeking an alternate means of making a living. (As he
should be: he is an irresponsible and rather ungrateful slacker. Although he also resembles the young Wilkie Collins a bit.)
However,
Magdalen has exactly what Frank lacks, which is determination and
fortitude. Frank takes the passive, “female” approach, while Magdalen
opts for the “male” approach. Although she has fewer options, she
basically opts to imitate the Count of Monte Cristo and win back what is
hers by whatever means are available.
If the genders had been reversed, both Frank and Magdalen would have taken socially acceptable attitudes about their fate.
Of
course, this is a Collins novel, so Magdalen’s attitude will lead her
to go beyond any reasonable course of action, stooping to shocking lows
and nearly destroying herself in the process. What makes her unable to
embrace the “female” approach? Surely she could, with her good looks and
vivacious personality, charm a handsome and wealthy suitor despite her
illegitimate birth.
I found the musings of the old governess, Miss Garth, to be interesting on this point.
Does
there exist in every human being, beneath that outward and visible
character which is shaped into form by the social influences surrounding
us, an inward, invisible disposition, which is part of ourselves, which
education may indirectly modify, but can never hope to change? Is the
philosophy which denies this and asserts that we are born with
dispositions like blank sheets of paper a philosophy which has failed to
remark that we are not born with blank faces—a philosophy which has
never compared together two infants of a few days old, and has never
observed that those infants are not born with blank tempers for mothers
and nurses to fill up at will?
The
“nature” versus “nurture” argument is as old as time, and both extremes
have been used as justification for evil acts. Racists and eugenicists
have always pointed toward nature as an excuse for the superiority of
some. In contrast, the Stalinists, as I noted in my post on Iron Curtain, believed in human beings as a completely blank slate - and that by changing the nurture, one could change the nature.
Certainly,
Norah and Magdalen are strong arguments for nature as a determining
factor. One of the surprising things about being a parent was that I
found that I had far less control than I had thought. My children have
been pretty well set in personality since birth, really. I have five
children with strong wills and characteristics of their own, totally
different from each other.
Old Mr. Clare, curmudgeon extraordinaire, has no high opinion of his child, but neither does he think much of women.
"These
are the creatures," he thought to himself, "into whose keeping men
otherwise sensible give the happiness of their lives. Is there any other
object in creation, I wonder, which answers its end as badly as a woman
does?"
Mr.
Clare underestimates Magdalen, of course. And Magdalen herself has yet
to realize what she can do. Late in the book, as she finds herself
falling for Captain Kirke, (did Gene Roddenberry steal the name?), she
thinks, “Oh, if I could be a man, how I should like to be such a man as
this!” That is, a man who is both strong and decisive, but also gentle
and kind. Magdalen is capable of both, but she simply cannot be passive,
which is the very thing society demands of her.
So,
does Magdalen have a defective nature? Or does is she just not cut out
for the role that society has set for her? The novel ends with a
conventional Victorian ideal. Norah’s approach wins in the end. By being
the good girl, patiently resigned to her fate, she is eventually
rescued by a wealthy man. This is ludicrously unlikely to have really
occurred, as Collins is clearly aware. In fact, he sets up the scenario
exactly so that it is unrealistic. Norah is the unattractive sister, and
she is already age 26 when the story opens. By the time of her
marriage, she would be around 28, if I am counting the months correctly.
Certainly past the average age of marriage, and unlikely to have caught
the eye of a dashing young gentleman.
(Side
note: I shouldn’t be unfair to Norah here. While she must play the part
of the Good Victorian Girl, she is more human than I remembered from my
first reading. She is too good and perfect to be realistic, of course,
but she has her moments of humanity. She is jealous of Magdalen’s beauty
and charm. When she objects to Magdalen’s infatuation with Frank Clare,
she knows that mixed with her good sense is also a certain amount of
envy. She isn’t exactly an angelic Dickens female.)
Magdalen
herself also succumbs at last to the societal ideal, by falling in love
with a man twice her age who will rescue her. (Collins makes a big
point of the age difference - at the same time as he notes Frances
Clare’s marriage to an older widow. I doubt this was accidental. Although the Victorian reader would probably not find it bothersome, we moderns find this idea a bit icky - at least I do, and Collins portrays Kirke as uncomfortable as well.)
Thus,
the ending of this book is ostensibly happy, but tragedy lurks below
the surface. In reality, we know that it would be more likely that Norah
would live out her life as a governess, and probably end it in the
workhouse. Magdalen would die of her fever, and the insufferable Noel
Vanstone would live to hoard his wealth for his eventual children. As in
Shakespeare’s A Winter’s Tale, we escape disaster, but only by unbelievable coincidences and turns of the plot.
Not
only does the plot turn on a legal issue, there is much in this book
about lawyers and clients. Collins studied for the law prior to his
writing career, and was actually admitted to the bar, although he never
practiced.
Thus,
unlike many authors (and even more television shows), he writes
accurately. One of the curses of being a lawyer is that we wince
whenever we watch courtroom dramas or read about legal cases. The
ignorance is usually laughable, but we can’t even do that. Collins gets
it right, however, and his portrayals are quite familiar.
First
of all, Mr. Pendril is an ideal lawyer. He is scrupulous in his
confidentiality and management of potential conflicts of interest. (The
other attorney, Mr. Loscombe is likewise admirable for his
professionality.)
Collins
also notes a tendency of elderly clients to fail to plan their estates,
because doing so would mean contemplating their own death. In Michael
Vanstone’s case, “He announced his own positive determination not to
die.” Until he did, of course. I see this all the time in my own
practice. Clients are afraid that if they go see an attorney, they will
die. Well, they will die, but not because they saw an attorney. And then
everyone else will be left with the mess.
As
a final legal note, additional trouble was caused by a legal document
drafted by a non-lawyer. As is common with such documents, it had the
opposite effect from what was intended. Again, I see this all the time.
As Mr. Loscombe puts it, this “constantly happens when uninstructed
persons meddle with law...”
My friend Carrie, in her review of this book, noted that she initially
groaned when Captain Wragge was introduced, but later decided he was the
best character in the book. I agree. Captain Wragge has to be one the
most memorable characters in literature, and it is his duel with the
equally formidable Mrs. Lecount that is, in my opinion, the best part of
the book.
Magdalen and Captain Wragge. Illustration by John McLenan (from my edition of the book).
Captain
Wragge calls himself a “moral agriculturist,” that is, a swindler. He
separates fools from their money, by whatever non-violent means he can
find. While usually motivated by pure greed, he eventually becomes fond
of Magdalen while he helps her further her own schemes. However, it is
once he meets the equally unscrupulous and scheming Mrs. Lecount that he
finds he is fighting for pure principle. As the two of them try to gain
the upper hand and stay a step ahead of the other, it becomes a
“wizard’s duel” of duplicity.
Magdalen
and Mrs. Lecount also have a duel going. Lecount seems motivated both
by a desire to get the money she feels she deserves, but also a
self-righteous desire to see Magdalen get her just deserts as a bastard.
Her low opinion of Magdalen leads her to form an “astonishment...which
is akin to admiration” upon learning that Magdalen has sought only to
recover her father’s fortune and stopped there. (Lecount is led by this
admiration to hate Magdalen even more.)
One
more thing that I had completely forgotten since the last time I read
the book was that Wragge eventually goes from being a swindler of the
usual sort, to a swindler of the medical sort; or, as he puts it,
“medical agriculture.” Selling what we would now call “alternative
medicine,” in the form of pills, he uses language which is so familiar
today. “Down with the Doctors!” Nothing mainstream can be trusted, and
so forth. Nothing has changed about the nature of medical swindles - or
about swindles in general. Captain Wragge delivers a penetrating line as
he leaves the book forever:
“Don’t think me mercenary - I merely understand the age I live in.”
And
this is why all swindles have been the same in all places and times in
history. No matter what is being sold, it preys on the fears and
insecurities and greed of the age. This holds true for financial scams
(which I often see in my practice), medical scams (which I discussed in
my post on The Flying Inn by G. K. Chesterton), and spiritual scams (which I discussed in my post about Tolkien and witchcraft).
One
final thought on a line from this book. There is a scene in which
Madalen is intentionally slighted by her fellow servants (she has taken a
job as a parlor maid). Despite the fact that she outranks them (which
they do not know), she still feels the cut deeply.
Resist
it as firmly, despise it as proudly as we may, all studied
unkindness—no matter how contemptible it may be—has a stinging power
in it which reaches to the quick.
And
this is to a large degree what fuels Magdalen. Her relatives, first her
uncle and then her cousin, and then Mrs. Lecount, cut her and Norah off
without feeling, because of an old family grudge. The girls must be
punished for a quarrel that occurred long before they were born, and had
no way of curing. They all get satisfaction from being unkind to
Magdalen and Norah, and that is what stings. Surely all of us have felt
at one time or another, the cut of a “studied unkindness.”
Although this book is less well known that Collins’ more famous works, The Woman in White and The Moonstone, it is a gem worth seeking out and reading.
Source of book: I own a marvelous hardback edition of this book. Illustrated by Alan Lee.
Reading
this book with my kids brought back lots of memories. The unpleasant
one I address in a footnote. But most of them are good. I was introduced
to Tolkien when I was around age ten or so, when my dad read it to me
and my siblings. (He also introduced us to C. S. Lewis’ space trilogy,
and created a PG rated version of Tom Clancy’s Red Storm Rising on the fly.) I would read The Lord of the Rings soon thereafter on my own. Along with the Narnia books, The Arabian Nights, and the usual fairy tales, Tolkien’s works would form the backbone of my experience with fantasy and magic.
"On the Edge of Mirkwood" - Alan Lee's illustration in The Hobbit.
For the few who do not know, Alan Lee's marvelous illustrations were so good that Peter Jackson hired him (and the equally amazing John Howe to direct the art concepts for the movie versions.
The Hobbit,
much more than its successors, is a children’s book. The plot is
exciting - and easy to understand as a child. The characters, although
memorable, are not overly deep. Except perhaps Bilbo Baggins. The issues
faced by the characters are clear enough, but lack the nuance that
Tolkien would develop in his later works. The humor is direct and a bit
broad sometimes, and there is little that went over the heads of my
kids. I had to explain a few words here and there, and a few ideas, but
they kept up just fine, and laughed and shuddered at the appropriate
times.
Needless
to say, they loved this book. I enjoyed it too, as I have each time I
have read it. (I also got to see the first of the Hobbit movies at this time, so it was interesting to compare them.)
I
think that the character of Bilbo is particularly well suited to
children’s literature. He is a reluctant adventurer who oscillates
between excitement and fear. Often, he wishes he was back home, but
cannot resist the part of him that enjoys the danger. He starts off
naive and largely helpless, but gains experience and skills as he goes.
He expands his universe from the tiny world of the Shire to include much
that is good and noble, and much that is evil and treacherous. Thus,
despite Bilbo’s nominal status as a middle-aged man, he is easy to
identify with as a child. The Hobbit is thus an adventure and a coming-of-age story rolled into one.
While
the plotting and descriptions are good, the characterization is a bit
weak - again, to be expected in a children’s book. Bilbo is well
developed, and we get a bit of a glimpse of Thorin, the tragic hero.
Gollum is unforgettable, of course, and we are allowed to see inside his
head, although not nearly as much as in The Lord of the Rings. Gandalf has his moments in the first part of the book. But the dwarves all tend to run together.
On
the other hand, Tolkien shows flashes of the his descriptive powers in
the scenes with Gollum and Beorn, and in the extended episodes in
Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain.
I
loved reading the part of Gollum to the kids - and I think I do a
pretty good job. “Thief, thief, thief! Baggins! We hates it, we hates
it, we hates it forever!”
And,
of course, the poetry. Tolkien’s poems roll off the tongue much like
the old ballads that they imitate. There is music there, even when no
tune is given. My children so far seem to have inherited at least a bit
of my poetic bent, particularly my eldest daughter, who steals my
Wordsworth book from time to time. Here is the Dwarves’ song before they
set out on their journey. It absolutely must be read aloud.
Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold.
The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.
For ancient king and elvish lord
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought, and light they caught
To hide in gems on hilt of sword.
On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun.
Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day
To claim our long-forgotten gold.
Goblets they carved there for themselves
And harps of gold; where no man delves
There lay they long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves.
The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night.
The fire was red, it flaming spread;
The trees like torches blazed with light.
The bells were ringing in the dale
And men looked up with faces pale;
The dragon’s ire more fierce than fire
Laid low their towers and houses frail.
The mountain smoked beneath the moon;
The dwarves they heard the tramp of doom.
They fled their hall to dying fall
Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.
Far over the misty mountains grim
To dungeons deep and caverns dim
We must away, ere break of day,
To win our harps and gold from him!
My very favorite of the poems is “The Road Goes Ever On and On,” but in the version Bilbo sings at the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring, rather than the Hobbit version.
Finally,
Tolkien captures a vision of goodness that has always spoken to all of
us who never expect or intend to be heros on a large stage. Those of us
who really prefer to do good in little, everyday ways. And those of us
who love a good meal, friends, and a song. As Thorin puts it on his
deathbed:
“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”
Bilbo
is effective precisely because he isn’t a traditional hero. He knows he
can’t win in direct battle, so he must use his wits - and the fact that
gold has little effect on him. He would prefer a warm bed, good food,
and a few smoke rings to treasure and power.
In
reading this to my kids, I was reminded of the charm that it held when I
was first discovering the world of magic and imagination. I also
remembered with fondness the evenings spent listening to my dad make
worlds come alive for us.
Note on a book burning:
Most
of us who grew up in the 1980s in conservative Christian homes remember
the paranoia that swept through regarding a supposed conspiracy by toy
makers and television to indoctrinate children into the occult. My mom
was heavily influenced by two books in particular, The Hidden Dangers of the Rainbow,
which alleged a new age conspiracy that would eventually take over the
world. In addition to other rather dubious claims, it considered yoga to
be the gateway drug into the occult. (Frank Peretti’s novel, Piercing the Darkness would dramatize these fears.) The other book was Turmoil in the Toy Box,
by author Phil Phillips. (Not to be confused with the American Idol
winner of the same name. Or the Nineteenth Century lawyer and
congressman. Or the Irish archbishop, or the archeologist. Also, he does
not appear to be a relative of Douglas or Howard Phillips.) This book
purported to find the occult in everything from He-Man (arguable - assuming your kids know advanced symbolism) to the Care Bears and Mighty Mouse. (really?) The biggest bogeyman, however, was Dungeons and Dragons.
I remember being paranoid about that. Not that I actually knew anyone
geeky enough to play it at the time - that happened in Law School, and I
discovered that most of what was said about it wasn’t actually true.
Phillips would also write a book about the satanic dangers of Halloween.
(This idea has had a huge influence on conservative Christianity.) Later, he would write books specifically warning of the dangers of Power Rangers and Barney.
I should also mention televangelist, sensationalist, and “exorcist” Bob
Larson here as well, who saw demons everywhere, and helped stir up the
panic about toys and games. And about a satanist conspiracy. (He also
was part of the “rock music is satanic” movement of the 1980s - although
he has since changed his mind. I imagine it was easier to sell the idea
of hidden messages in Black Sabbath and Stryper than in Train and
Brandon Heath. I talked about the real
origins of that movement here.) What was it about the 1980s and
satanist conspiracy theories anyway? It’s not like any of us actually
knew any real satanists. Did more than a few dozen exist? Our county
(and others) had those now-reversed “molestation ring”
cases where kids were led psychological coercion to allege ludicrous
satanic ritual abuse. Innocent people spent a decade or more in prison
as a result of this panic...
Since I was never into modern television (except Mighty Mouse,
apparently), and greatly preferred Legos and books to everything else
toy related, this never really affected me in a negative way, at least
personally. But I am sure I said some unkind things to kids who did play
with these toys. To my knowledge, none of them ever got into the
occult.
I
would later find out that this paranoia extended far beyond cheesy
kids’ television and stuffed bears with hearts on their tummies. For
Bill Gothard, many objects contained malevolent powers - and the worst
offender was Cabbage Patch dolls. They caused infertility. (I am not
making this up.) And so, a purge of the household was necessary. (It
occurs to me, after having had five children in seven years, that it
would be cheaper and far less painful to put a cabbage patch doll under
the bed than to get a vasectomy. Except that birth control was
considered evil as well.)
This
idea of destroying “evil” objects extended to books too. Books with
magic in them were the equivalent of Simon the Sorcerer’s magic scrolls.
So, at the peak of my family’s involvement, we burned our Tolkien
books. I did not agree with this decision, and didn’t watch the whole
thing. Since they were cheap paperbacks had seen better days, it wasn’t a
huge loss. I can tell you that books don’t burn very well by
themselves, unless you take them apart page by page. Otherwise, they are
pretty much the same as a log. For some reason, we spared our C. S.
Lewis - although many others considered these occult as well.
Fortunately, this insanity passed, and we all went to see the Lord of the Rings
movies in the theaters when the came out. I would say that, since that
time, the more mainstream Christian groups have moved on to new issues
(and new panics), while the most conservative elements - particularly in
the home schooling movement - have broadened the forbidden list to
include pretty much everything in culture more modern than the Victorian
Era. And it even can get more restrictive than that.
My
wife’s family never destroyed any books. (My wife didn’t read Tolkien
until after I introduced her to him, although the rest of her family read them before the movies came out.)
The group they were in, however, was extremely restrictive
on reading material. (Many within Gothard’s group are this way as well,
but not all.) For some of them, the only acceptable reading materials
were the Bible and missionary biographies. Fiction was out, because it
was “telling lies.” Because, you know, the story didn’t really happen.
Particularly suspicious were magic and talking animals. Not only did it
not happen, but it couldn’t happen in our world. Even those that allowed
fiction tended to seek out books like Elsie Dinsmore,
which portrayed their view of appropriate child behavior. Certainly no
book could be allowed that had a child tell a lie or disobey! And the
illustrations were not exempt from this paranoia either. If a girl’s
skirt was too short (you know, like the actual clothes little girls wore
when the book was written), they drew a longer one. Can’t have those
knees showing.
It
still amazes me that there are people - plenty of them - that cannot
fathom that fantasy and magic, and indeed imagination - are vitally
important a child’s development. And to an adult’s mental health. They
really cannot believe that children can tell the difference between
fantasy and reality. The use of the impossible, the fantastic, and the
unfamiliar to illuminate the possible, the everyday is a crucial feature
of imagination. We can see the issues more clearly when we remove the
trappings of our particular situations. We don’t really think that a
wizard and dwarves will invade our house and sweep us along on an
adventure. We know that we will probably never have to fight off
car-sized spiders. We won’t be literally looking for vulnerable spots on a real dragon. But that doesn’t mean that we learn nothing from The Hobbit. As G. K. Chesterton put it in Tremendous Trifles:
Fairy
tales, then, are not responsible for producing in children fear, or any
of the shapes of fear; fairy tales do not give the child the idea of
the evil or the ugly; that is in the child already, because it is in the
world already. Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of
bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the
possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever
since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a
St. George to kill the dragon. Exactly what the fairy tale does is this:
it accustoms him for a series of clear pictures to the idea that these
limitless terrors had a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies
in the knights of God, that there is something in the universe more
mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear.
So
for me, this era is a reminder of the power of cultural panic, which we
still see today about food and medicine in addition to an ever-changing
array of moral and spiritual “conspiracies.” It’s comforting to direct
our natural fears of somehow ruining our children (which are difficult
to raise!) into the avoidance of an outside malevolent influence. It’s
easier and more comforting to believe that evil comes primarily (or
entirely) from outside of ourselves. I doubt that anyone missed out on
much by being denied the latest disposable plastic action figure, but
the general idea of isolation from anything “outside” is damaging. When a
child discovers that yoga is not, in fact, a gateway drug to the
occult, and that the toys of his or her childhood were the result of a
marketing conspiracy, rather than a demonic one, it does tend to lead to
skepticism of other claims. And when good books are burned because of
irrational fear, something in the soul dies. Fear becomes a barrier to
the enjoyment of a great story, and future opportunities to learn and
explore are circumscribed by the terror of contamination. And so, one
retreats further and further into the bubble of “likemindedness” until
everything in life becomes black and white - and very little of the
white.
