Grow As We Go - Reflective Essay

 

     My introduction to the Great Books Program was not like other members’ experiences; I did not attend Scholar’s Day or meet Dr. Jacobs at College Bound. Instead, I received a phone call from the great (Lord) Dr. Fullman the summer before I started college, and I was confused as to why this man was calling me and how he received my phone number. I soon learned that he was a Great Books professor, and he explained the Program to me in an attempt to persuade me to join. After hearing about the wonderful opportunities to grow and learn, I was ready to begin, but I was also terrified at the thought of talking in front of others (I still am!). Moreover, the Great Books Program has blessed my life intellectually, emotionally, and most importantly, spiritually. If I had not joined the Program, I do not think I would have continued to be a Christian. 

Prior to entering the Great Books Program, I knew how to read and annotate books well, but I did not know how to discuss and write about the books I was learning about and reading in class. Even though I had always been in an advanced English class, I never truly grasped what it meant to read well and comprehend the information until Great Books. In the first course, I learned more than I thought possible; I learned about Socrates, Plato, Marcus Aurelius, and others, and I had never heard of any of those authors before. I was morally deficient in the area of philosophy; I knew nothing. In the following courses, reading Dante, Pascale, Candide, Nietzsche, O’Connor, and others broadened my horizons and taught me about other views beyond the Christian bubble I was raised in. I solidified my beliefs through reading Nietzsche’s decimation of Christianity and realizing he was wrong.  

Besides growing in knowledge, I grew in emotional stability because I knew if I said something wrong or unintelligent, there would be no judgment because we were all learning. For once, I felt like I was on a level playing field and that others were not above me in their understanding. We were all struggling, and we were willing to struggle together and act as life preservers when one of us was drowning. The camaraderie and friendship found within the Program has made the experience manageable and enjoyable. Even though I do not talk much in class or make my opinions known, I do know that there is no judgment in what I, or others say. 

In the final course, we discussed books that have greatly impacted Christianity, and before taking the course, I was not excited about reading these books. They did not seem to be as interesting or complicated as other philosophy books we covered in previous classes, and I was worried that each book would rehash what the previous author stated without adding any new insight. I was wrong in my assumption, and each book created nuances and added upon each idea from the previous book. The Desert Fathers was my favorite book because of the bite-sized nuggets of wisdom the monks wrote with immense spiritual significance. C.S. Lewis’ The Problem of Pain kicked and strangled my comfort zone through its discussion of pain and the goodness of pain; it was one of the most challenging books for me to read. Throughout all of the courses, but GB V specifically, I have grown in my faith. I now know why I believe what I believe. I took more thought into what I believe as well. I am not passive in my faith anymore, but instead I am active because I can articulate the reasons behind my faith.  

After over two years in the Great Books Program, it was finally time for the GB V retreat. As a young GB I, the retreat sounds mystical and unattainable; I could never imagine completing all of the courses because they seemed far away and slow-going. The retreat was the talk amongst veterans and novices alike, and it was usually discussed with reverence and anticipation. Leading up to the retreat, I was nervous about the emotional aspect because of warnings from previous GB V students as well as Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Fullman; I do not like to share personal information with people for fear of judgment and pity. I know it is a problem, and I am working on it. I know that the Program is a judgment free zone in terms of intellect and ideas, but personal life is a different territory.  However, on the retreat, I learned more about those around me in conjunction with myself, and I had a great time. I did have a silent meltdown during the second meditation time, but I needed to feel those emotions and rid my system of them before I could truly enjoy my time.  

The retreat allowed me to confront the way I view myself in conjunction with others and well as God. I knew that the way I saw myself did not match how others see me, but letting go of prejudices and expectations I placed on myself was hard, and I am still working on it. I also knew that God does not see me as worthless and not deserving of his love; that was only how I viewed myself, and this retreat opened my heart to the love I need in order to grow and mature spiritually. It is one thing to know God loves you, but it is harder to accept the love when you know all of the sinful deeds and thoughts that have occurred in life. Because of the retreat, I am learning to accept who I am in Christ instead of who I am on my own. 

Overall, the Great Books Program has been a blessing beyond my expectations. The relationships I have cultivated with my peers as well as the professors has been life-changing, and I could not imagine not knowing those special people. I have gained more knowledge and insight into beauty, philosophy, and Christianity, and I am forever grateful. Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Fullman, thank you for creating this incredible program, and thank you for allowing me to take part in it. I love y'all.  

The Imaginative Logician

  

       In Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton deems logic without imagination to be a danger. At first glance, his conclusion does not seem to make sense because one tends to associate logic with intelligence and concrete knowledge and imagination with fairy tales void of rules and full of contradictions. However, through the discussion of the logician and the poet in “The Maniac” and the discussion of fairytales in “The Ethics of Elfland,” Chesterton concludes that pure logic does not allow for one to attain true knowledge and the addition of imagination allows one to accept what cannot be explained by reason alone — the spiritual aspects of the world. 

In “The Maniac,” Chesterton demonstrates the essential nature of imagination and the insanity inducing powers of reason. He begins by stating, “There is a notion adrift everywhere that imagination, especially mystical imagination, is dangerous to man’s mental balance” (12), and this statement does not ring true. Imagination allows for the acceptance of things beyond the physical world — God and Heaven; without imagination, Christians would not be able to imagine the grandeur of Heaven or the omnipotent nature of God. The logician goes mad attempting to rationalize what cannot be bound by reason and suffers from “mental exhaustion” (13) because “to accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain” (13). Man cannot understand every aspect of the world. The poet, on the other hand, has no problem understanding the notion of Heaven because he accepts that he does not know everything, nor can he know everything. He “asks to get his head into the heavens” (13) instead of trying to place himself in the heavens. 

In his attempts to rationalize away the world, the logician succumbs to madness because “their incessant calculations of their own brains and other people’s brains is a dangerous trade (13). In attempting to partake in the big picture rather than the details, the logician “seeks to cross the infinite sea, and make it finite” rather than “floating on the infinite sea” (13) and accepting what he does not understand. When trying to rationalize and uncover the truth of God, the logician searches for answers to every question, but cannot find all the answers in reason. The answer lies in accepting what cannot be known and seen because of faith in what cannot be seen, and this act of faith allows the poet to accept and understand what the logician cannot. Instead of focusing on the minute details, the poet ponders the bigger picture and allows imagination to fill in the details that do not matter as much. The logician struggles because “danger does lie in logic, not in imagination” (12) because of the obsessive qualities reason leaves with the logician, and this obsession breeds insanity. 

Similarly, in “The Ethics of Elfland,” Chesterton argues that fairy lands abide by a set of rules and boundaries. When one thinks about a fairy tale, one assumes that anything can happen because the fantasy world is far removed from reality; however, this statement is false. In stories such as “Beauty and the Beast,” “Jack the Giant Killer,” and “Sleeping Beauty,” there must exist a limit to the fantastical elements — the Beast must be loved before he is deemed lovable, Jack must kill the giants because they are gigantic, and that death can be softened through sleep (45). Within these stories, certain sequences of events must occur before the story can progress because even in the midst of imagination, there must be some semblance of logic in order to maintain an established balance and order. 

Chesterton calls this balance and order the “Doctrine of Conditional Joy” (50), and in this doctrine, statements such as “You may live in a palace of gold and sapphire, if you do not say the word ‘cow’” (50). The conditional “if” sets a boundary and does not allow for something to occur that goes beyond the conditions and limits of the statement. Even in a world where pumpkins can transform into coaches and palaces are constructed out of jewels, the things themselves cannot be anything beyond what they are because “according to elfin ethics all virtue is in an ‘if’” (50). A sense of rationality exists in fairyland, no matter how minute or hidden it may appear. 

The morality of elfland mirrors that of Christianity because the rules and regulations God sets in place in the real world exist within fairy worlds. Imagination, perhaps considered miracles today, work in tandem with logic in order to bring the inhabitants closer to the benevolent Creator. If reason solely reigned, the magnificent and sometimes mysterious nature of God and his creation could not be realized because of the inability to accept what cannot be concretely known. The fact that Christians cannot physically see God, but can see the evidence of him through creation, rests solely on the faith of imagination; reason seeks to deny the existence of God. The creation of conditional relationships and statements between God and Christians — one may achieve eternal life if one believes that Jesus Christ is the Son of God — allows for the continuation of the contract between the greater power and the lesser beings; this power dynamic hinges on the regulation set forth. 

In order for imagination and reality to co-exist, both must work together to create a harmonious world. If logic tips the scale, madness ensues because of the logician’s obsessive tendencies to overthink and overanalyze the world. If imagination tips the scale, nothing can be known for sure because there is no pre-established set of rules; everything runs amok because everything can. There must be order in the midst of imagination in order for the world to make sense. If Christians wish to experience the joy of imagining what heaven is like and ponder the truth of the Almighty God, they must utilize a small sense of imagination since heaven is never explicitly explained in the Bible and the full nature of God is something the human mind cannot fully comprehend.

The Faithful Faithless

    Dante’s Paradise splits heaven into nine rings before entering the Empyrean, or the highest ring where God dwells. In canto three, Dante introduces the first ring, the moon, which houses the souls of those who have neglected their vows while on earth, and few of the souls mention that they were taken and married against their wills. However, they did not attempt to stop their situation; they willingly went along with the marriages. As a contrast, in canto five, Agamemnon and Jephthah are mentioned as having great faith because they kept their vows and sacrificed their daughters. In placing the neglectful souls in the furthest ring from the Empyrean, Dante illustrates the value of maintaining a consistent faith because breaking a vow to God shows a lack of trust that He will bring one out of frightful situations.

When Dante first enters the moon, Dante listens to the stories of nuns, Picarda in specific,  who was taken against her will and married; she says,”Then men more given to evil than to good / from the sweet cloistered garden ravished me / God knows what, after that, my life became” (31. 106-108).  Even though she was taken against her will, she still made a holy vow to God to remain chaste and faithful for the duration of her life, and she broke that sacred vow. Upon hearing her story, Dante puzzles over why Picarda has been placed in the lowest of the heavenly levels, and Beatrice says,”For when the will’s unwilling, it’s not spent, / but acts as nature in a leaping flame” (39.76-77); if Picarada’s heart had truly wanted to maintain her monastic vow, she would have found a way to escape even though her husband would most likely have followed her. In this case, taking her own life would have been an acceptable act because still she would have kept her vow, but instead, she did not attempt to flee or end her current situation. 

The will and intention of each person involved is the main focus; if one truly does not want to give up their vow and have no intention of giving it up, a way will be found to avoid it. Picarda says, “Because we were neglectful in our vows / and left them empty then in some respect, / this place which seems so low is given us” (27.55-57). She knows what they have done is wrong, and they should have fled from the evil of marriage when they had the chance. Dante asks Beatrice ‘“If my good intent endures, / how can another’s violence diminish / the measure of my merited reward?’” (35.19-21). Even though what the men did was wrong, and the nuns kept their vows in their hearts, their inaction says it all. They did not make an active attempt to flee the wicked husband and return to the monastic life. The keeping of a vow must not only be inward, but outward as well because the inability to display the love and devotion one has given to Christ does not fulfill the momentous and important promise made to God. 

In canto five, Dante mentions Jephthah and Agamemnon , two men who sacrificed their daughters because of their vows to God and the goddess Artemis. Dante says, “Be faithful, and not addled in the eye, / as Jephthah was in offering his first sight” (49.64-65) and “the same’s the case / with the Greek chief and his stupidity, / whence Iphigenia wept for her fair face” (49.68-70). Even though the act of murdering a child is not an acceptable one, the two kings made a vow to the one they believed in, and they kept their vows even though it caused them pain. Unlike the nuns who neglected their vows because it would have been too hard to escape; they were not ready or willing to give in to something uncomfortable for the sake of God. Their vow was not as important as their own comfort. If a pagan, though fictitious, can sacrifice his beloved daughter because the goddess tells him to, then the nuns should have been able to keep their monastic view even if it caused deep discomfort. 

The inaction of the nuns does not demonstrate great faith, or faith at all. Dante says,”If violence means that he who suffers lends / no contribution to the violent, / then these souls can lay claim to no excuse” (39. 73-75). Because the nuns did not try to run away, they were, either indirectly or directly, contributing to the violence, they cannot give the excuse of being forced from the nunnery. In the same way, Jephthah and Agamemnon did not make excuses as to why they could not take the lives of their daughters; they accepted the fact because of their unwavering vow. Instead of focusing on the act itself, Dante focuses on the greatness of faith both men exuded. Even though they would have been better off neglecting their vows in favor of saving their children, they kept their vows because of their faith while the nuns valued their own well-being over spiritual promises.  

Dante places the neglectful nuns in the lowest heavenly level because of their failure to willfully keep and maintain their monastic vows, while Jephthah has been placed in the level above because of his great faith even though he valued honor too much. Through Dante’s placements, one can understand the importance of true faith and keeping one’s vows. Even though the consequences of keeping the vow may be uncomfortable, violent, and unpleasant, the eternal reward is much greater than the temporary, earthly one. In putting one’s faith in an incorporeal God instead of corporeal beings, like evil men, the overall outcome will be richer than the greatest reward earth can buy because earthly things will fade while spiritual things, like vows, are forever. One cannot simply neglect and let go of something as sacred and important as a vow without repercussions. Even though the nuns are still in Paradise, they are in the lowest level, and perhaps, if they stayed faithful and true to God, they would have been placed in a level closer to the Empyrean.   

Beneath the Skin

In a world full of instant gratification, it can seem hard to live a satisfying life according to God’s will; we tend not to deny ourselves of the cravings and desires that arise at any given moment. We should be striving for solitude amidst a world teeming with noise and self-serving intentions. In The Desert Fathers, the early Christian monks illustrate the principles and practices modern Christians should aim to implement in their lives, even if their practices may seem a bit extreme. 

In chapter four, the monks focus on self-control; they speak about how avoiding temptation and foregoing fleshly pleasures allow them to draw closer to God. The main form of self-control the monks practice is fasting; Hyperichius says, “Fasting is the monk’s control over sin. (46.27) and “When the monk’s body is dried up with fasting, this lifts his soul from the depths. Fasting dries up the channels down which worldly pleasures flow” (47.27). In removing food and starving the body of what it needs, the soul finds more time to meditate on God’s word and on the iniquity which flows from the mind. If the temptation and fleshly desire is wiped out, the want to defy God’s word is no longer at the forefront of the mind, if done correctly. Fasting, without meditation and reflection, is simply starving the body of what it needs to survive; fasting, with meditation and reflection, allows the mind to put aside what it wants in order to concentrate on what the Lord commands of us. 

Another example of self-control is when a hermit resolutely decided to not partake in the drinking of any liquid. Whenever he was thirsty, he would dangle a vessel full of water in front of his eyes (67.31). Instead of giving in to his fleshly desire for water when it is dangling in front of him, he shows the strength of self-control needed for great faith. His response when asked why he did this was, ‘“So that if I do not taste what I long for although I can see it, my devotion will be greater and I shall be granted a greater reward by the Lord’” (67.31). If we deny what we can see, it is easier to believe in what we can’t see; devotion to someone we cannot see (God) is difficult if the bodily pride and desires are not kept in check. The lack of physical restraints because of a conscious denial authorizes the spiritual opening of faith in an incorporeal God. Even though depriving oneself of something as vital as water may seem extreme, the idea of foregoing a bodily necessity for a short period of time in order to focus on our relationship with God is something every Christian can adopt into their daily lives.  

In conjunction with self-control, the act of being quiet and distancing yourself from others in order to listen to the voice of God is introduced in chapter two. Antony says,’”He who sits alone and is quiet has escaped from three wars: hearing, speaking, and seeing: but there is one thing against which he must continually fight… his own heart” (2.8). Solitude allows the mind to concentrate on what is most important — God. Eliminating the distractions that other people possess limits the temptation of following those who may be acting in a way that does not please God; instead, the heart is the sole culprit of temptation. Evagrius says,’”Cut the desire for many things out of your heart and so prevent your mind being dispersed and your stillness lost’” (9.10). Without the other temptations, we are forced to examine the contents or our hearts: our desires, our thoughts, our intentions, and confront what we often try to avoid. 

If we place our minds on spiritual effects instead of physical or material effects, solitude cleanses the mind of disorder and chaos brought on by noise. It says, ‘“So it is with anyone who lives in a crowd; because of the turbulence, he does not see his sins; but when he has been quiet, above all in solitude, then he recognizes his own faults’” (16.11). The failure to recognize and trap the parts of oneself that impede the spiritual and emotional growth found in a relationship with Christ allows the Christian to decay and fall into temptation. Living in solitude, even for a short period of time, allows for self-reflection and mediation which in turn leads the way for growth and spiritual maturity. If the noise and bustle of city life inhibit one’s spiritual journey, the confinement and separation of oneself may be what is necessary to realign with God’s word. 

While the consensus seems to be that this is a manual for monks written by monks, every follower of Christ can glean a piece of wisdom from this text. Even though the monks’ way of life may seem extreme to the modern world and contemporary Christian, there are nuggets of truth and practical wisdom embedded within The Desert Fathers. If one is struggling with the temptation of fleshly pleasures, fasting, or perhaps another act that deprives the self of something it craves may provide a path to clarity and revelation through the deprivation of the body in order to elevate the soul. If noise and the constant temptation to defy God’s will and turn away from one’s faith prevails in one’s life, solitude and fervent prayer may relieve the ache inside the soul. 

Modern Christians tend not to partake in meditative activities such as these because of the culture we live in, a culture of instant gratification and pleasure. The thought of struggling and inwardly searching for misdeeds and mal intentions is uncomfortable, and we as humans do not like to partake in the uncomfortable. The monks, like modern-day Christians, strive for godliness and a pure relationship with Him; being provoked to partake in spiritual activities that do not yield instant results is hard to endure, but we must. Who knew that 12th-century monks understood the modern struggle?  

Watch What Happens

Watch What Happens

    Every well-crafted story needs a hero; the hero may not be the typical muscular, ultra-strong savior, but instead may be a quiet and thoughtful individual who thinks through problems logically and does not run headfirst into danger. Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit, does not fit into a stereotypical hero. He is quiet and longs for the peace and quiet of his hobbit-hole; he does not typically like adventures. Thorin Oakenshield, a dwarf and the rightful King under the Mountain seems like your typical hero; he is strong, brave, and craves the power of his birthright. However, Thorin Oakenshield is not the true hero of The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins is. By making Bilbo Baggins, a shy and peaceful hobbit the hero of The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien illustrates the importance of not undervaluing those who at first glance may seem unimportant because they may end up being the most important asset.
    The Hobbit starts off with a description of a hobbit-hole and hobbits themselves. Hobbits are ordinary, “there is little or no magic about them” (Tolkien 4), and do not partake in adventures. Bilbo Baggins’ mother, Belladonna Took would occasionally go off adventuring, and she passed down her sense of adventure to her son, albeit only a sliver. Bilbo’s Took blood makes him special and peculiar in the eyes of his fellow hobbits because he has a small and deeply buried natural disposition towards adventuring which does not reflect typical hobbit-ness. Even though this small pull towards adventuring makes Bilbo unique, he is still a hobbit who does not want or like adventures as far as he is concerned.
    After Gandalf and the dwarf company show up unannounced at Bilbo’s hobbit-hole, Bilbo makes an important decision: he joins the company despite his fear and uncertainty because Thorin and his company have asked for his help, and Bilbo feels obligated to help those who need his help. He embarks on a journey/adventure to reclaim a mountain from a Smaug, a fierce dragon. The company deems him a “Burglar” (Tolkien 23) despite never explaining how or why he is to fulfill his title; he does not know what he will be burglarizing, but he follows along anyway. The Tookish part of him longs for the uncertain yet exciting future.
    After encountering trolls, goblins and Beorn, a skin-changer, Bilbo and the dwarves head into Mirkwood, a dark and evil forest filled with giant spiders and home to the elven-king. In Mirkwood, Bilbo demonstrates his effectiveness as an unlikely hero. Upon first entering the forest, the dwarves heed Gandalf’s warning to “DON’T LEAVE THE PATH!” (Tolkien 152), but eventually are sidetracked by hunger and thirst. After veering off the path, they encounter giant spiders, and these spiders proceed to tie up and attempt to eat the dwarves. Bilbo escapes being eaten because of the magic ring he found in the goblin caves. Because of his invisibility, Bilbo is able to distract the spiders by singing:
Old fat spider spinning in a tree!
Old fat spider can’t see me!
Attercop! Attercop!
Won’t you stop,
Stop your spinning and look for me? (Tolkien 173)
His taunting is heard by the spiders, but not seen, and this gives Bilbo the perfect opportunity to cut the dwarves free from their sticky spider webs. Even though Bilbo deceives the spiders and the dwarves with his ring, he inevitably saves the dwarves’ lives. A small, shy and respectable hobbit turns a potentially deceitful act into an act of heroism because of his willingness to help his companions despite the harm that could befall himself.
    Bilbo’s most courageous act occurs right before the battle of the five armies; he takes the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, and one of Thorin’s most sought after possessions. He thinks to himself, “‘Now I am a burglar indeed! But I suppose I must tell the dwarves about it… They did say I could pick and choose my own share; and I think I would choose this, if they took all the rest!’” (Tolkien 257). This thought lends itself to the impression that he is wicked and underhanded, but in the end, he uses his “share” of the treasure in order to stop the senseless fighting that is bound to ensue because of Thorin’s inane pride over the treasure. Bilbo’s intentions are not wicked in nature; he is only trying to help and save his friends and avoid a battle which ultimately claims the lives of Thorin, Fili, and Kili. His ability to think ahead and attempt to problem-solve allows himself to become a respectful burglar.
    Bilbo Baggins is not the typical hero; he is not a strong and muscular warrior. He is a quiet and thoughtful hobbit who values respect and civility over brute strength and wickedness. While he does have his moments of deceitfulness, the underlying intentions behind his actions are respectable and kind. Gandalf says, “he has more about him than you guess” (Tolkien 150), and he is right. Behind the short and meek exterior lies a heart of gold and a solid foundation on which the dwarves thrive and “come to respect” (Tolkien 240). Cunning and deceptively thoughtful, Bilbo Baggins truly embodies the hero; a hero is not known just for the exterior, but the interior: the motives, thoughts, and reasoning count for more than one would think. While an unlikely hero, or burglar, from the start, Bilbo blooms into a well-rounded character.

Word to the (Un)Wise

Word to the (Un)Wise

    Religion pervades Flannery O’Connor’s stories; it may not be the central theme, but it still trickles into the details. In both “Good Country People” and “A Good Man is Hard to Find”, the idea of religion or at least a belief in something, or nothing at all, drives the stories. Through the theme of religion, which twists Christian characters into hypocritical and undedicated shells, O’Connor reveals the connection between faith and actions.
    The idea of a “good” person permeates both stories; characters search for a good country person and a good man, respectively. Neither of these types of people is found in the main characters. In “Good Country People”, Mrs. Hopewell is a self-proclaimed “ Chrustian” (O’Connor 278) and her daughter, Joy/Hulga is an atheist; she does not believe in anything science cannot prove. Mrs. Hopwell describes herself as having “no bad qualities of her own but she was able to use other people’s in such a constructive way that she never felt the lack” (O’Connor 272), which gives an insight into the so-called Christian woman’s mind. She elevates herself above others, and she strives to save others from themselves. Her goal sounds Christ-like and sacrificial, however, her aspirations are for personal gain instead of the betterment of others. She does not act or think as a “Chrustian” (O’Connor 278) should, instead she acts as one would think a non-believer would act, selfishly and undedicated.
    Hulga, on the other hand, believes in nothing, but she passionately believes in nothing. Unlike her mother, Hulga dedicates herself to her beliefs. She changes her name from Joy to Hulga so her mother could not “turn her dust into joy” (O’Connor 275). She takes a name that is beautiful and bursting with religious connotation and changes it to something like “ the ugly sweating Vulcan who stayed in the furnace” (O’Connor 275), and this name change demonstrates her convictions and passion or what she believes in. Even though Hulga does not believe in God, or any god, she still believes in something; she believes in science, which she thinks points to the idea of nothing. She desperately wants to believe in something good, but she cannot bring herself to believe. Her lack of belief in God does not constitute a lack of faith, instead, her belief in nothing, and her actions and negative attitude reflect her faith which is more real than her mother’s Christian appearance.
    In “A Good Man is Hard to Find”, the grandmother manipulates her son, Bailey, his wife, through their children, John Wesley, and June Star; she excites the children into believing there is a house that she visited when she was a young lady down a nearby dirt road. She tells the children, “‘There was a secret panel in this house’” (O’Connor 123) which thrills the children with the idea of seeing something they have never seen before, and the ensuing shouting irritates Bailey to the point of fulfilling his mother’s wishes. She succeeds in fulfilling her selfish desires to relive her glory days as a southern young lady. After finding the dirt road, the family has a car accident, which prompts a visit from The Misfit, a notorious serial killer. Upon meeting The Misfit, the family does not recognize the criminal, and The Misfit does not think about harming them. However, upon the grandmother exclaiming that she knows who he is, he decides to kill the family.
     The central confrontation between the family and The Misfit revolves around religion. The grandmother implores him not to hurt the family by saying, “‘I know you’re a good man at heart. I can just look at you and tell’” (O’Connor 128) which does nothing to change his mind. This instance is the first time the grandmother attempts to appeal to The Misfit’s humanity, but to no avail. After he kills her family, she mutters, ‘“Jesus, Jesus’” (O’Connor 131) and attempts to connect with whatever shred of human decency he has left, but instead of catching the bait, The Misfit says, ‘“Jesus thrown everything off balance” (O’Connor). His statement reveals the status of his faith or lack thereof; he knows about Jesus but does not believe because he was not there to witness the resurrection. Later, he says:

         If He did what He said, then it’s nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow               Him, and if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can — by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. (O’Connor 133)

In his mind, his statement justifies his actions; if Jesus was not resurrected, then he can do whatever he wants. He desperately wants to believe, he says so, but he has to see something to believe in it, and he did not, and will never see Jesus’ resurrection. Therefore, he cannot believe in Jesus. The grandmother responds with, “‘Maybe He didn’t raise the dead’” (O’Connor 133), and this statement exposes her faith or rather lack of it. She uses Jesus when convenient and when it serves her best interest; she does not truly believe. In a way, The Misfit’s belief is better because he concretely follows his faith, unlike the grandmother. 

    In her short stories “Good Country People” and “A Good Man is Hard to Find”, Flannery O’Connor uses religion as a tool to reveal the connection between faith and action. True faith requires action, and one witnesses this in Hulga and The Misfit. The Christian characters fail to have true faith, their faith is based on convenience and empty words. In the end, Mrs. Hopwell and the grandmother only serve themselves instead of the God they claim to serve.

Our Liar of the Underground

Our Liar of the Underground

     Every piece of literature relies on a narrator to tell a story; the narrator may be the author, a character within the story, or an omniscient presence outside of the story. Whatever the case may be, most of the time the reader can rely on the narrator to deliver events and thoughts honestly and without contradictions. But what happens when the narrator cannot be trusted? The reader must decide for themselves whether to trust the narrator or not. In Notes from Underground, Fyodor Dostoevsky introduces the readers to an unnamed narrator, the Underground Man, and through contradicting himself and idealizing situations does the Underground Man become an unreliable narrator and through the use of an unreliable narrator, Dostoevsky reveals a truth about mankind.
     The first words the Underground Man utters are “I am a sick man… I am a wicked man” (Dostoevsky 3), yet on the next page, he confesses “I lied about myself just now… I lied out of wickedness” (Dostoevsky 4). In terms of his sickness, he knows he suffers from some unknown ailment, but he refuses to seek treatment “out of wickedness” (Dostoevsky 3). Wouldn’t it seem rational for a sick man to seek medical help? Yes, however, the Underground Man rejects medical treatment in a twisted attempt to exercise his free will. He does not want to be beholden to anything, but in his attempt to be free, he morphs himself into a cynical, lying creature. Even though his contradiction may seem like a small and simple act of untruth, this profession immediately plants a seed of doubt in the readers’ minds and skews their perception of the narrator.
     The main contradiction throughout the story occurs between Underground Man’s arguments and an invisible audience with whom he interrupts his narration in order to counteract their preconceived objections. An example of this is when he illustrates his pleasure found in pain and suffering. He starts his argument with “‘Ha, ha, ha! Next, you’ll be finding pleasure in a toothache!’ you will exclaim, laughing” (Dostoevsky 14). He then goes on to argue that “there is pleasure in a toothache” (Dostoevsky 14) to an invisible, fabricated audience with whom he is arguing. In the middle of his argument, he interrupts his thoughts with “you still don’t understand, gentlemen?” (Dostoevsky 15). The entire fabrication of an audience with whom he can defend himself to demonstrates his dependence on the approval and reassurance of others which contradicts his earlier proclamation of being a wicked man (Dostoevsky 3).
     In Part 2, a younger Underground Man finds himself in the presence of a prostitute, Liza, and he acts differently than before. He asks her questions “Do you come from around here? Been here long? Do you have a father and a mother?” (Dostoevsky 88-89), and these questions provoke curt responses from Liza. He says “God knows why I wouldn’t leave” (Dostoevsky 89), and he knows the conversation will lead to nothing, but something about Liza refuses to let him leave immediately. However, he does eventually leave, but not before he gives her his address. Why does he do this? One cannot give a definitive answer because of the contradictory and somewhat spontaneous nature of the Underground Man. After leaving, he thinks about Liza incessantly and romanticizes saving Liza from her current situation (Dostoevsky 111). He says “I develop her, educate her. I finally notice that she loves me, loves me passionately” (Dostoevsky 111).
     He craves human interaction and love, but it also scares him to the point of inaction. When Liza eventually knocks on his door and enters his home, he treats her like a prostitute, not like the woman he “loves.” She returns his affections, but he cannot act upon his feelings for the pain of embarrassment or feeling something other than resentment and anger. They share an intimate moment, and instead of saying sweet words, he pays her. His romanticization came true and was his for the taking, but he fell through and destroyed his one chance at happiness.
     Through using an unreliable narrator, Dostoevsky allows the readers to come to their own conclusion about the state of the narrator. A more cynical reader may infer that Underground Man will never change, and keep turning in the cycle of resentment, anger, and fear he lives in on a daily basis. A more optimistic reader may infer that he can and will change since man, in itself, has the capacity to change and changes constantly.
     While mankind has the tendency to mold itself into the best version it can be, Underground Man is the exception. He does not embrace change; change scares him to the point where he would rather concoct scenarios that will never play out and build himself up to a level he and others will never be able to reach or maintain. Isn’t this what humans do as well? We tend to create impossible scenarios and build ourselves up or tear ourselves down in fear of change. Change scares even the most courageous of heroes because the comfort and stability we’ve known are suddenly pulled out from under us. This change in power from the one initiating experiences to the one at the mercy of a situation we don’t know the outcome of causes stagnancy in some individuals, as in Underground Man. Underground Man, like all humanity, fears the unknown and the resolution to what the mind concocts because it threatens the stability and comfort we enjoy.