I haven’t been this excited about a book or series of books in a while. Back when Mortimer Adler (How to Read a Book) was with the Encyclopedia Britannica he edited a series of books called The Great Ideas Today. Basically, the old elitist (note: I think that’s a good thing) wanted to popularize academic excitement. Taking his list of the 50 great ideas he and Robert Hutchins rounded up the important scholars and authors of the day and had them produce essays on a theme. This would be followed up by an essay from the editors on what the Great Books can say about the subject and a literary section featuring exciting work in literature. These were apparently published every year (I say apparently because I don’t really know).

I bought three of the things on the weekend, at the library “Giant Used Book Sale.” The sale wasn’t exactly giant. Sure, 5 dollars for as many books as can be carried in a stretched out grocery-store bag was kind of cool—although some of the bags were slimy-dirty—but the selection wasn’t really there. For instance, my son and I were excited to find an animated Rikki-Tikki-Tavvi film in the A/V section, until we realized it was Beta. Beta! Anyway, The Great Ideas Today.

I’m sort of a Mortimer Adler nut. His How to Read a Book was kind of influential on me—I’m sure you noticed. He’s even had me reading Aristotle. Consequently, I almost fell over when I saw The Great Ideas Today. I mean, look, here’s the volume I’m reading now: 1963, Does The Conquest of Space Increase Man’s Stature? Not, is it good to spend money on space exploration? Not, what will we find out there? But, what will the conquest of space do to the noble animal? And what does this mean in terms of the book? Well you get Aldous Huxley and Paul Tillich, amongst others, essaying on it. You get the classical-minded editors writing an essay on The Tempo of History, the speeding up of the world. Plus, an essay on Saul Bellow and an unabridged Death of Venice by Thomas Mann. Aldous Huxley and Paul Tillich on the Space Race? Yes! And it annoys them in interesting ways I can’t immediately argue with? Yes!

The other two volumes discuss Heroism and Tradition. I’m in heaven. If you ever see these volumes lying around at a used book sale, put them in a slimy grocery bag and take them home. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.

Bonus link: In looking for information that would help me pretend I know what I’m talking about I found Mortimer Adler’s Favorite Books. Cool.

So in an effort to be even more divisive (as well as possibly ridiculous and/or ignorant and/or quixotic—take your pick!) I will now record my progress through C.S. Lewis’ Four Loves. It’s been on my shelf for a while. Now seems, to me, a perfect time to read it. Don’t you think? It’s like, just my whole modus operandi, isn’t it?

But first travel back in time with me to the day I bought it and the events leading up to it, mainly who I was hanging out with. A friend of mine was working out, building up muscle mass, particularly on his biceps in preparation for receiving a tattoo. Of course, the bizarre swirl of events whirling around me that I call life being what it is, his tattoo was going to be a stack of his favorite books down his arm. I’m not a fan of tattoos generally, but it’s kind of a neat concept. Permanently scarring my flesh in the name of books that changed my life might not be for me—I’m somewhat embarrassed now of my over-enthusiasm for Generation X—but the idea is good.

Anyway, Four Loves, I’m sure you’ve guessed, was one of the books. How am I not supposed to buy a book that makes the tattoo list? So buy it I did. That was about four years ago. I don’t think my friend ever did get that tattoo. And me, obviously, I never read the book. Until now. Sort of.

I have the flu and I’m overworked (secret projects!)—but Lewis, you cost me a reader! And in my usual embarrassing manner I’m probably going to lose more. That is to say, I’m not liking it. More accurately, I don’t like the first chapter. It’s all I’ve managed to read. Like I said, embarrassing. There’s more to come I think, and I’m sure I’ll warm up to it, but if you like Lewis you might want to look away.

I’ll leave you with this telling quote from the always interesting Elliot in the comments on Lewis vs. Chesterton:

…the formal apologetics of both sometimes bring out the agnostic/atheist in me because they can be so… I dunno what the right word is. Bombastic? Over-reaching? Like, they seem to imply that if you want to think correctly you’ve got to take their particular extensive systematic theology on board, and it includes a dislike for tinned meats, pacifism, vegetarians, feminism and modernist poetry, which are all signs of creeping heresy.

Hey, I like over-reaching! But I think Elliot is getting close to what it is that bothers me, essentially, with Lewis. Time will tell.

A short defense full of holes:

For me, the appeal of C.S. Lewis lies in his ability to imbue the physical with the spiritual. Or more properly his readily apparent belief that the physical is imbued with the spiritual. Next to that you have his interesting and much quoted work in apologetics set in refreshing plain-talk—not dumbed down, just great simple writing. For me, G.K. Chesterton just does this better. He’s more poetic, more paradoxical in more interesting ways, and far, far funnier—and at the same exact time far, far more serious.

Now, of course, I haven’t read everything by Lewis nor have I read everything by Chesterton but, well, there you go. To better illustrate where I’m coming from I also prefer Charles Williams over Lewis and Chesterton. Williams is a far worse writer and communicator but his failures give you more to chew on and more to think about than the above two combined.

I do realize that this is a lot like saying I prefer Red Skelton over Jack Benny (and I realize saying that makes me seem far older than 29)—that is, who cares? I don’t know though, there has to be someone out there like me. What do you think?

I’m so going to lose my spot in the Christian Literary Appreciation Society for this. And I was going to make assistant secretary this year and everything.

I was lucky to read the New York Public Library Special Illustrated Edition of Frankenstein. It successfully ruined my mental image of Frankenstien’s monster as Boris Karlof or, I think, Robert Deniro (?—I never saw the movie but I did watch a surprising amount of Entertainment Tonight for a few years). It’s full of pictures. Pictures of Frankenstein over the years, from the original illustrations, to stage actor T.P. Cooke, to a fifties Pulp version. Not surprisingly, there’s no Karlof. Why bother?

But, surprisingly, there was Lynd Ward. In my mind now, the creator of the definitive Frankenstein image. I think it’s the grotesque classical proportions in tortured pose that does it.

There’s not a lot of information around on the first Ward edition (you can buy it here for $350 USD) but there is a handsome a frightening edition of it available at Schocklines. The cover is blood red. That means it’s extra scary.

If you’re looking for illustrations of Frankenstein, by the way, you really have only one destination, Artwork of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. It’s pages like that one that make me remember why we love the internet.

Today is Remembrance Day in Canada, the day when we remember the fallen in war. I quote a friend of mine from a discussion over lunch:

Look, it’s at least as important as Easter, or Christmas. I mean, I may not be able to tell you if you’re going to Heaven or Hell, right? But I can sure as Hell tell you we wouldn’t be sitting around talking about this if it weren’t for the people we’re remembering that day.

Reading Frankenstein has made me re-realize one of the things I best love about reading. That weird interconnectedness that happens between authors and books from different times that all gets centered inside you and wants to come rolling out on, like, you know a blog or something. I really haven’t felt that feeling in a long while.

So, how’d it happen? Well, like I said, I’m reading Frankenstein. Suggested to me here in my comments. In my mind, a perfect book to read as autumn falls around me and the near-arctic winter of prairie Canada quickly puts a stake in. The weird connections the internet affords must be putting me in this frame of mind. Hypertexts lead to Hyperthemes?

Anyway, the weird connections. Frankenstein joins in a theological fantasy symphony with Moby Dick and Never Let Me Go, both two books that needed Frankenstein to join them together in my mind. Madmen, false Adams, things that should not be, loss, loneliness, Giant whales that represent our hatred of God. They all share these things. Wait, alright I guess only Moby Dick has the whale. I suppose Never Let Me Go wasn’t exactly perfect then. Mr. Ishiguro? More whale next time, please.

I love that about reading though. When the gears start turning in your head and peeling back the sky. The more great books the better. The more true-weirdness that the best provide. The more whale the better.

OK, I guess the whale isn’t going to get replicated anytime soon. Are there whales in Frankenstein? Don’t spoil it for me.