Review: C.S. Lewis's "Out of the Silent Planet"

         One of the greatest things about kindles and other electronic readers is their ability to make books cheaper. Older books, in particular, ones that have seen better days in regards to a wide reading public can still find themselves placed before new generations of readers looking for inspiration from famous authors.

          I picked up a copy of C.S. Lewis’s Out of the Silent Planet, for under two dollars, on my kindle. I was looking for a quick, inexpensive read just before Christmas, and the only previously read book on my shelf that I look forward to reading in the near future is Robert Penn Warren’s rather large novel All the King’s Men. I was drawn to Lewis, in particular, I suppose, because I had just been to see the Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (a movie that does not live up to its sequel series’ adaptation to film, nor to the book itself, for that matter). The movie had me thinking about Tolkien and his close friend Lewis, a fellow Inkling. While I had explored most of Tolkien’s writings about Middle Earth, I had only read a slim margin of Lewis’s most popular books; I had only read his Chronicles of Narnia. After consulting with a friend about which of Lewis’s books I should engage next, I decided upon Out of the Silent Planet, the first book in the Space Trilogy.

          The pithy tale begins with Cambridge philologist Dr. Elwin Ransom, while he is on a walking tour of the English countryside between Cambridge terms, stumbling upon the estate and work of an old schoolmate, and current entrepreneur, Mr. Devine and his companion, a scientist named Professor Weston. Devine and Weston lure Ransom into their country house, under the pretext of offering hospitality, but then they drug him and take him aboard their spaceship. During their journey, Ransom is unable to ascertain to which planet they are going, but he is able to distract himself from his situation by reveling in the allure of space, which is brighter than he ever imagined it could be. Then, before landing, Ransom discovers that Weston and Devine plan to turn him over to the sorns, who, they suppose, want a human for some sort of sacrifice. Ransom begins plotting his escape, and after landing and seeing the sorns, which turn out to be extremely tall, humanoid creatures, and the shark-like hnakra, he flees.

          Ransom soon encounters another of the planet’s native creatures, the seal-like hross, Hyoi. Hyoi introduces Ransom to the other hrossa, sentient beings known for their culture and poetry. Ransom’s skills as a philologist enable him to learn the hrossa’s language. From the hrossa, Ransom learns that the planet, which he later discovers is Mars, is called Malacandra by its inhabitants, and that it supports three races of sentient beings that live in harmony with each other: the hrossa, sorns, and pfifltrigg. He also learns of the phantom-like eldil, who bear messages from the god-like, Oyarsa. The hrossa encourage Ransom to travel to Oyarsa, but he refuses, remembering that the sorns were going to take him to Oyarsa; he fears that Oyarsa will kill him. Ransom becomes respected among the hrossa, and he joins them in a hunt to kill the hnakra, which threatens the hrossa’s peaceful way of life. Along with Hyoi and another hross, Whin, Ransom kills the hnakra, but only after an eldil appears to him, telling him to go to Oyarsa. Immediately after killing the hnakra, Hyoi is shot and killed by Weston and Devine. Whin tells Ransom that Hyoi’s death is the consequence of disobeying the eldil, and Ransom departs to find Oyarsa.

          During his journey to Oyarsa, Ransom meets Augray, a sorn, and learns that the séroni do not wish to sacrifice him. His fear of the séroni was based on a prejudice that all alien life-forms are brutal savages. He learns, instead that, while the hrossa are the planet’s poets, the séroni are its intellectuals, and the pfifltriggs are its artists, miners, metal- and stone- workers.

          Ransom’s meeting with Oyarsa is marked by the appearance of Weston and Devine, who have been captured by the hrossa. Weston declares his belief in man’s superiority to the creatures of Malacandra, and reveals his plans to perpetuate the human race through constant planet-hopping. Devine is merely interested in the planet’s stores of gold, which he would use to make himself rich. Oyarsa determines that Weston, at least, loves his fellow creatures, even if he is unable to understand how to love all hnau (intelligent life-forms), whereas Devine is only selfish and greedy. He determines to allow the three humans to return to Earth, but only after warning Ransom to keep the other two men in check, and revealing to Ransom that the Earth, which is called Thulcandra, is the silent planet, because its Oyarsa rebelled against the spirit of the universe, Maleldil. Thulcandra’s Oyarsa was contained, but he contaminates his planet’s hnau. Oyarsa tells Ransom that things may soon change, and the silent planet may soon be able to rejoin the other planets in accordance with the will of Maleldil.

          Lewis presents his tale against the backdrop of a yet undiscovered universe. He creates the universe from his imagination, reflecting on the way light could work in space, and different forces of gravity could create different landscapes and creatures. (Everything on Malacandra is taller and thinner than its counterpart on earth). After the advent of the space race, and our current knowledge of the landscape of space, Lewis’s vision can seem comic and outdated, but no more so than Vernes’s visions of the deep sea, or Wells’s aliens should. Lewis’s universe is as complex, though perhaps not as vivid, as Tolkien’s Middle Earth, and it is equally a product of a creative mind.

          The book is also unapologetically, and at times heavy-handedly, allegorical. In it, Lewis creates a vision of mankind from an outside perspective. Mankind is a “bent,” to borrow the hross phrase, bunch. Nonetheless, mankind is not irredeemable; Oyarsa points out that Ransom is not a bent man, though, throughout the tale, Ransom often gives in to prejudice. Oyarsa also alludes to better times to come, times when mankind will join all other hnau in proper duty to Maleldil. Men will be redeemed.

          The narrative is straight-forward, and not extremely complex; it is an enjoyable tale, and a rather quick read, but not one that I would recommend unless you have an interest in Lewis, or particularly enjoy allegorical fiction. The text certainly caters to aficionados. I am inclined to read the other two books in the trilogy, but I have no pressing desire to start on them. The book served as a good filler between more interesting novels, and I enjoyed its rendition of a pre-space race universe. If you are interested in Lewis, I would suggest reading the Chronicles of Narnia saga first.

JCM

28 December 2012

Review: Yann Martel's "The Life of Pie"

           I am meeting Pi for the second time. I first read Yann Martel’s critically acclaimed novel nearly six years ago, when I was a high school senior taking a creative writing course. The book was an assignment of sorts: I could read and present on any award-winning novel or group of short-stories that I chose. I chose The Life of Pi. I enjoyed the novel, then, which is part of the reason that I decided to read it, again. My second reading was precipitated by the premiere of the novel’s movie adaptation. I have no designs to see the movie; I might never see the movie. I have nothing against movie adaptations in general, but most movie adaptations fail to do the novels they adapt justice, and too many people only experience novels through the movies. (I’m sure that there are novels that I only know anything about because of their movie adaptations). I am re-reading The Life of Pi, because the movie’s premiere reminded me of how much I had forgotten about the book, and so I set out to reclaim the life that my memory had lost.

          The novel comes alive through Martel’s vivid descriptions of the Pondicherry Zoo, the Patel family, the Pacific Ocean, and Pi’s observations. Martel brings to life a landscape that most people, including myself, would think desolate, monotonous, and boring. Through Pi, he brings to light the liveliness of the Pacific Ocean, turning the teams of fish into a thriving hive of city-folk, and rendering clearly the relationships among the men and animals of his novel’s microcosm.

          I have heard that the novel is criticized by some readers for starting out too slowly, and I admit that the first part of the novel, before the real adventure begins, can be burdensome, but it is also absolutely necessary. Reading the book a second time has allowed me to see how well it is put together, how details are not wasted, but are referred back to later. Having picked up on this during my first reading, I am more apt to see the economy of language Martel uses. The first part of the novel introduces Pi, establishes his spiritual journey, and explains, in an off-hand way, how he has come by all his knowledge about animals and their habits. At first, this information may seem excessive, anecdotal, and unnecessary, but as the novel proceeds, everything that Pi learns in the overture becomes important, as he struggles to survive on the Pacific Ocean with a Bengal tiger, hyena, orangutan, and wounded zebra, after the Japanese cargo ship, the Tsimtusm sinks on July 2, 1977.

          If the novel is flawed, its flaws are minor. At times, Pi, who is sixteen during his ordeal, and much older when he relates his story to the novel’s fictional writer, comes across as much too childlike for a man of his years. Martel tries to allow Pi’s voice to speak through his frame novelist, but, at times, he fails to render Pi’s adult voice, and one imagines that Pi’s words and thoughts come from a much younger child. Nonetheless, Pi’s insights are vivid and his outlook is uniquely his own. He steps out of the page and into life. One can forgive him for sometimes speaking like a child, given what he has experienced.

          Pi’s spiritual journey is also one of the novel’s most touching aspects. Pi might not be the best Hindu, Muslim, or Christian in the world, but he is certainly one of the world’s most devout spiritualists. He has recognized that the essence of all religion boils down to hope, love, and respect. Pi is an avid vegetarian; he recognizes the value of all sentient life, and he struggles to kill the first fish that lands – almost literally – in his lap. Throughout the novel, he maintains his pious belief in the tenants of vegetarianism, but he does not forget that to survive on the ocean, he must cede belief to necessity. He fishes and captures turtles for both himself and the tiger, Richard Parker; nonetheless, he consistently affirms that he did not relish eating meat. Martel explores man's relationship with other members of creation. In one of the novel's longer episodes, he depicts a carnivorous man as the man most likely to be cruel, to kill, to have a complete disregard for life other than his own. For Martel, the overly carnivorous man embodies the worst in men. Meanwhile, Pi, though he dabbles in cannibalism, is left untainted. He is a carnivore only of necessity, and would rather be a vegetarian.

          Reading the novel a second time, has enabled me to see all of the theoretical implications that Martel has deployed. I enjoyed the novel purely as a well put together piece, complete with vivid descriptions, a good story, and a philosophical demeanor, during my first reading. Now, after being exposed to a wider range of environmental discourses, I am able to see the novel as a work of theoretical fiction that is highly successful, even though it does not support a worldview that I embrace. Part Three reiterates Martel’s points about animals and humans, about belief and spirituality. And yet, it also offers an alternative to Pi’s story, straight from Pi’s own mouth. The alternative provides a different cast of characters with a very similar experience to that he has told throughout the novel. This new story is given at the prompting of two Japanese officials who do not like his fantastical tale of survival, complete with the Bengal tiger. Pi’s alternative tale is more real, but incredibly disturbing. In the end, the reader is left to determine which story is factually true, just as the Japanese officials file a report, in which the official report is given with a large degree of salt. Or perhaps, the novel seems to suggest, the facts don’t matter. What matters is which story makes a better story, and as Pi asks the Japanese officials, if facts don’t matter, then which version makes the better story, the one with animals, or the one without animals?

          Pi’s greatest tool for survival is hope. He hopes and he prays and he perseveres. As the novel’s frame informs us, through the interjection of its fictional writer, this is a happy story, after all, even if much of it is marked by sadness, loss, and despair.

JCM

21 December 2012

Reading: Mary Ruefle's "Toward the Correction of Youthful Ignorance"

            Mary Ruefle’s Selected Poems sit on the shelf of my bedside table, and every once and a while, I pick it up, flip to a random page, and read a poem. I like to approach poetry in such a way, to meet it on my own terms, when I have the time to think through the lines, to read it once or twice, maybe identify an allusion or two. Meeting poetry on my own terms allows it to engage me on its terms: at the deepest level, in the most unexpected ways.

            But I digress.

            When I flipped open Ruefle’s Selected Poems yesterday, I found myself engaging, not just Ruefle, but also James Joyce. Before me sat “Toward the Correction of Youthful Ignorance.” Before me sat, like a Russian nesting-doll, the pith of “The Dead.” As I gazed at the gas-lit faces of Ruefle’s first stanza, I gazed at Gabriel and Gretta driving along the quay in a snowfall. I gazed past their faces. I saw the Morkans sisters in their eyes. I saw Bartell D’Arcy. I saw Freddy Malins and Miss Ivors. They all jaunted across the page, passing puddings and carved meats, dancing and drinking, debating the merits of the continent and the homeland. I simultaneously saw the past and future in Gabriel’s mind, heard the tapping of rocks on a rain soaked window, and saw the outline of a Michael Furey walking home to take his final bed.

            Then the young men thumped out of the classroom, swaggering and offering their juvenile condemnation of the work that they either could not understand, or did not want to understand. For what young man wants to worry about his own mortality?

            Lurking in Ruefle’s poem, lurking around the turn of the next stanza, the stench of death reaches out toward us; it reaches out to tell us that though we are young, we are not immortal. Ruefle guides readers past the yellowing corpses of dead or dying mothers, past her speaker’s hate of Christmas dinners, and into her speaker’s past. She tells the reader about the accident, not the accident itself, but the accident as her speaker witnessed it. Her speaker, as a young girl, wandering down to the highway, where she saw the windshield cracked, the blood still on the seat, and saw a beauty in it that she did not describe to anyone. She tells us that she did not think she would live to see her youth gone.

            Then she shifts again, and like the young men, her speaker is sauntering. Her speaker has grown into one who will not look upon death and find it beautiful, who won’t fear it, who despises the thought that there could be love in the world. The speaker accepts the world’s beauty, but she denies it love.

            But it is not the declaration against love that Ruefle leaves the reader with at the conclusion of the poem. The reader is left with one further image, of daughters keeping diaries with “descriptions of boys in the dark.” Again, the poem concludes with Joyce, with Gretta’s love, as a young girl, for the young man who is now dead, a love that she has kept locked and hidden away. There is love in this world.

            Despite her speaker’s declaration that “there’s no love in this world,” Ruefle seems to be telling readers otherwise. She has connected her speaker to the boys at the beginning of the poem through the word saunter. She seems to treat the boys as if they are merely young and ignorant, when they say that lasting love, love worth dying for, is puerile. Love is lasting; love is worth dying for. To admit to love is to admit to the possibility of something more valuable than living. Michael Furey, Gretta’s young lover whose death was precipitated by his love for her, tells us this. The young men inhabiting the poem have yet to accept the benefits of love, just as the speaker, seems unable to accept love in this world. Ruefle, however, is encouraging readers that love is in the world, and it is worth the loss of mortal life.

JCM

16 December 2012

Book Review: Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

           I first became aware of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, while studying abroad in Oxford, England. I remember walking into Blackwell’s bookshop, where stacks of the book sat on tables near the entrance and display racks propped up copies throughout the store. I remember looking at the book, but, thinking that it might be too bland, I set it back down and never decided to procure a copy until over three years later. By then, not only had Wolf Hall won the Booker Prize for Fiction, but its sequel, Bring Up the Bodies, had made history by winning its own Booker Prize. In the interim between my first encounter with Wolf Hall on the shelves at Blackwell’s and my decision to finally read the massive historical-fiction work, Ms. Mantel had become the first female to win the Booker Prize twice, and the first writer to win the prize for a book and its sequel.

            I entered Wolf Hall with great expectations – of what exactly, I’m not sure. I had been careful to close my ears and eyes around any plot synopses I had stumbled upon, but now, that the book was in my hands, I was tempted every moment to double-check every fact that I had once crammed into my head about Henry VIII’s government and the rise of the Church of England. The only thing that I knew about the book, upon beginning my reading, was it was about the reign of Henry VIII. I was perplexed, then to be greeted by a young man being severely beaten in the courtyard of a Putney residence. Where were Henry and his court? Who was this upstart? Who was Walter, the man dishing out the beating? I was hooked from the outset, and slowly names I recognized began to emerge: Thomas Cromwell, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey (a man whose appearance immediately piqued my interest, since we meet him as he sets out to found Cardinal College, later Christ Church Oxford, where I would spend my study abroad experience in England), Thomas More, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk (father to the poet, Henry), and even a young Thomas Wyatt eventually came to call. The novel abounded in Thomas’s, and the writer, keen to make a note of this, even allows her protagonist, Cromwell, to make a joke regarding the surfeit of Thomases in Tudor England. The cast of characters is immense, and each character is referred to by at least two appellations. The novel requires an attentive and loving reader, but it rewards those who show it love. Reader’s rest assured; Ms. Mantel did her research, and she created a masterpiece.

            Ms. Mantel does take interpretive license with her characters; if she did not give herself some leeway, then the book would have been much smaller, less complex, and quite a bit less interesting. Characters come across the page in vivid rendition, as they are perceived in the mind of Thomas Cromwell. Cromwell’s machinations are fully on display, as he rises from the ashes of Cardinal Wolsey’s fall. To Cromwell falls the task of delivering to Henry a valid union with Anne Boleyn, his mistress of seven years. In Henry’s reign, success is met with great reward and higher expectations. Court intrigue is at the forefront; the rise of one man means the fall of another, and Cromwell’s rise to power is paralleled with the painful descent of Thomas More. The gallows are rarely empty; the fires rarely thirst for flesh; the executioner’s ax does not fail to drip with fresh blood. And yet, rarely is an execution described in its entirety. Eyes dip away at the drop of the feet or the swing of the ax, and ears turn death before the screaming from the flames. Nonetheless, the violence is real and visceral.

            Only the novel’s constant politicking is more visceral than its violence. The novel depends on the tensions at court. It focuses on the dialogue, often presented indirectly, yet not without the flavor of individual voices. As such, the novel is not for those who need a constant stream of actions scenes, of blood, guts, and gore. The action is in the dialogue, in the construction of a hierarchy, in tensions at court. From a historical perspective, Mantel has chosen an exceptionably interesting period about which to write. She has found a nation at crossroads, when conflicts of religion rack the continent and have not left the British Isles untouched, where a mercurial king seeks only one thing, a male heir upon whom he will hang his crown to prevent the nation from falling back into Civil War after only two reigns of relative peace. Mantel has found a nation just beginning to break with the old ways, where Dukes and other nobleman hold sway and try to stave off the advances of lesser men, those upstarts of low birth, the Wolseys and the Cromwells.

            As I have said, Ms. Mantel has created a masterpiece, a tour de force that anyone interested in literature or the advancement of the novel should read. The best thing about finishing Wolf Hall is the knowledge that the saga is not finished. Cromwell returns in Bring Up the Bodies, a novel that I greatly anticipate reading.

J.C.M.

13 December 2012