Silence, by Shusaku Endu - A MUST READ

As a life rule, I don't read books with movie covers, but this one was a gift from a former student who likes to challenge the status quo (thanks Graceann!) so I thought I'd make an exception.

Praise the Lord for broken rules.

Silence, like an anchor plunging into a raging ocean, has pierced my frustrated mind and calmed my torrential heart. For a generation seeking honestly and authenticity, this book holds under the lamp the struggles and blemishes and hope of Faith. Endo offers an open portrayal of mankind, our beauty and our tattered rags, and invites us all into the awkward and terrible silence of life that has no clear answers or discernible purpose . And he does so without fear or shame. 

With all my bruised and tattered heart I recommend this book to all.

Here is hint (and perhaps spoiler) of what Silence will bring:

God did not grant our poor companion the joy of being restored to health. But everything that God does is for the best. No doubt God is secretly preparing the mission that some day will be his (pg 21).

Written in the early stages of the novel, this simple statement becomes the backbone for the journey through silence, and the struggles of God's secret plan. The story is beautifully written but horrific in honesty as it allows doubt the freedom to roam and scream and cry - and to beat down the certainty of a just God. 

But Christ did not die for the good and the beautiful. It is easy enough to die for the good and beautiful; the hard thing is to die for the miserable and corrupt (pg 38).

One of Sebastian's first lessons, that God does not think nor act in the way of man, nor is He limited to "this or that" thinking. Because God didn't die for the miserable and corrupt alone, he died for all - because all are good and beautiful, and miserable and corrupt. Like Sebastian.

What do I want to say? I myself do not quite understand. Only that today, when for the glory of God Mokichi and Ichizo moaned, suffered and died, I cannot bear the monotonous sound of the dark sea gnawing at the shore. Behind the depressing silence of this sea, the silence of God . . . the feeling that while men raise their voices in anguish God remains with folded arms, silent" (pg 64).

Neither do I, myself, quite understand. 

Sin is for one man to walk brutally over the life of another and to be quite oblivious of the wounds he has left behind (pg 92).

This is one of the most powerful quotes on sin I've ever read. Nestled just about midway through the story, it seems, perhaps, a turning point - even if Sebastian isn't aware of it yet. Because, ultimately, although God appears silent, with arms crossed, he is not "oblivious of the wounds he has left behind." He is aware. Very aware. But He is also Just, and Good, with a larger plan in mind.

If it is true that God is really loving and merciful, how do you explain the fact that he gives so many trials and sufferings of all kinds to man on his way to Heaven? (pg 96).

Answer: Because He is kind and merciful and is not limited to "this or that" thinking. 

No, no. Our Lord had searched out the ragged and the dirty. Thus he reflected as he lay in bed. Among the people who appeared in the pages of the Scripture, those whom Christ had searched after in love were the woman of Capharnaum with the issue of blood, the woman take in adultery whom men had wanted to stone - people with no attraction, no beauty. Anyone could be attracted by the beautiful and charming. But could such attraction be called love? True love was to accept humanity when wasted like rags and tatters. Theoretically the priest knew all this; but still he could not forgive Kichijiro. Once again near his face came the face of Christ, wet with tears. When the gentle eyes looked straight into his, the priest was filled with shame (pg 124).

In the margins of my book I wrote, "holy shit." This is one of the toughest yet greatest passages of the book because not only did it deeply reveal my heart, it deeply revealed my heart. "True love was to accept humanity WHEN wasted like rags and tatters." When I first read these lines, I thought of those who have abandoned me, who have walked away and said, "Your rags and tatters are too much." Then, along with the priest, I was filled with shame. Because I have done the same. Because I am the same.

I'm not telling you to trample out of conviction. If you just go through with formality, it won't hurt your beliefs (pg 127).

These words are provocative because, on both ends, it challenges the connection of actions to the heart. I think most, if not all, would agree that apostatizing in action does in fact hurt one's beliefs - just ask Peter. But then, could the reverse also be said? That the formality of religion won't promote one's faith, right? Why is one true and not the other? This is not so easy to swallow and I need more time to consider it.

'But in the churches we built throughout this country the Japanese were not praying to they Christian God. They twisted God to their own way of thinking in a way we can never imagine. If you call that God . . .' Ferreira lowered his eyes and moved his lips as though something had occurred to him. 'No. That is not God. It is like a butterfly caught in a spider's web. At first it is certainly a butterfly, but the next day only the externals, the wings and the trunk, are those of a butterfly; it has lost its true reality and has become a skeleton. In Japan our God is just like that butterfly caught in the spider's web: only the exterior form of God remains, but it has already become a skeleton' (pg 160).

And not just in Japan . . . could it be because of formality? Maybe, but also, many other things. Because we, like are motives, are simply "this or that."

: (possible) Answer :

"There is something more important than the Church, more important than missionary work . . . and then Christ . . . speaks to the priest: 'Trample! Trample! It was to be trampled by men that I was born into this world It was to share men's pain that I carried my cross' (pg 182, 183).

It isn't enough, but it is sufficient. Because if I knew it all, if I could explain and understand all that He has planned and how He thinks, than He wouldn't be worth calling God. He wouldn't be worth trusting. 

Because things I can explain are simple things, and simple things don't deserve worship.

Silence is now a major motion picture, starring Liam Neeson, and directed by Martin Scorsese.

Half of a Yellow Sun, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Almost twelve years ago I read, The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy and remember thinking, "I don't really get it, but I like it." I think now it was because it was such a different story, and that there was something being communicated that was bigger than me, that I couldn't quiet articulate but knew was there. Like the smell of a coming rain.

Half of a Yellow Sun is a similar sort of story. It is beautiful and raw and unapologetic. It's Africa. It's Adichie. It's Kainene. And I absolutely loved it. And yet, I'm not fully sure why. Which is the best kind of art.

Here are two thoughts I'm wresting with:

On Sex:

"The truth is that most of the time when writers deal with sex, they avoid writing about the act itself. There are a lot of scenes that jump from the first button being undone to a postcoital cigarette (metaphorically, that is) or that cut from the unbuttoning to another scene entirely. The further truth is that even when they write about sex, they're really writing about something else" (Foster).

Adichie's scenes don't exactly cut from one to another entirely, but she is definitely talking about something else. Betrayal. Loyalty. Longings (not physical). Identity. Revenge. Belonging. Wonder. And a myriad of other things. 

"When they're writing about other things, they really mean sex, and when they're writing about sex, they really mean something else. If they write about sex and mean strictly sex, we have a word for that. Pornography" (Foster).

Adichie's Half of a Yellow Sun is far from pornography. It's so much more, because sex can be "pleasure, sacrifice, submission, rebelion, resignation, supplication, domination, enlightenment, the whole works" (How to Read Lit Like a Professor, Foster). 

It's Life.

On Richard Churchill:

There are many powerful and beautiful characters living in Half A Yellow Sun, all of which are fully dynamic and flawed. But, for the not-so-obvious reasons, Richard is the one I related to the most - because of his desire to write the story of the people he loved, and the struggles that ensued. 

Richard is a shadow of the possible hero, Ugwu, as their lives and sins are thinly paralleled. But where Ugwu can step forward and assume the rightful position of a voice for his country, Richard must step back. Which he does. Reluctantly at first, but with a confidence and peace at the end that sits heavy on my mind. As deep truth should.

Ultimately, what Nigeria needs, is for Richard to stop. He is accepted and loved by Nigeria (Kainene), he is used by Nigeria (Olanna), and he is hated yet eventually accepted by Nigeria (Odenigbo). He also plays a role in inspiring Nigeria (Ugwu), but ultimately, his responsibility within Nigeria is to back off and play the minor character. Because he is not Nigeria. He is the white foreigner. He is Churchill.

Favorite Quotes:

"She pulled a cigarette from the case, but she didn't light it. She put it down the bedside table and came over and hugged him, a tremulous tightening of her arms around him. He was surprised he did not hug her back. She had never embraced him that closely unless they were in bed. She did not seem to know what to make of the hug either, because she backed away from him quickly and lit the cigarette. He thought about that hug often, and each time he did he had the sensation of a wall crumbling." pg 88

"He discusses the British soldier-merchant Tubman Goldie, how he coerced, cajoled, and killed to gain control of the pal-oil trade and how, at Berlin Conference of 1884 where Europeans divided Africa, he ensured that Britain beat France to two protectorates around the River Niger: the North and the South.

The British preferred the North. The heat there was pleasantly dry; the Hausa-Fulani were narrow-featured and therefore superior to the negroid Southerners, Muslim and therefore as civilized as one could get for natives., feudal and therefore perfect for indirect rule. Equable emirs collected taxes for the British, and the British, in return, kept the Christian missionaries away. 

The humid South, on the other hand, was full of mosquitoes and antimists and disparate tribes. The Yoruba were the largest in the Southwest. In the Southeast, the Igbo lived in small republican communities. They were nondocile and worryingly ambitious. Since the did not have the good sense to have kings, the British created "warrant chiefs." because indirect tule cost the Crown less. Missionaries were allowed in to tame the pagans, and the Christianity and education they brought flourished. In 1914, the governor-general joined the North and the South, and his wife picked the name. Nigera was born." pg 146

For more one . . .

Reading Log 2017  :  Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie  :  Books to Read

The War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells

A study, a glimpse, into the heart of man. The white man has many large footprints around the world where God, the pursuit of exploration, and the hope to "civilize" granted permission to pillage, destroy, and rape a people and land. The natives might have called them Martians. But they didn't. But reading a story that places the white man on the other side of colonization certainly has a different feel to it than our high school history books.

The War of the Worlds was a decent and easy read which also made it tolerable. If it had gone on too much longer it may have been shelved before completed, but as it is, just shy of 200 pages, it was worth the read. 

And it offered a few choice nuggets. In Chapter 13, one of the minor characters (the curate) finds himself in complete mental anguish and begins a brief discussion of the purpose of life, conflict, and role of man.  

"What does it mean?" he said. "What do these things mean?

I stared at him and made no answer.

He extended a thin white hand and spoke in almost a complaining tone.

"Why are these things permitted? What sins have we done? The morning service was over, I was walking through the roads to clear my brain for the afternoon, and then - fire, earthquake, death! As if it were Sodom and Gomorrah! All our work undone, all the work - What are these Martians?"

"What are we?" I answered, clearing my throat. He gripped his knees and turn to look at me again. For half a minute, perhaps, he stared silently. "I was walking through the roads to clear my brain," he said. "And suddenly - fire, earthquake, death!"

He relapsed into silence, with his chin now sunken almost to his knees.

Presently he began waving his hand. "All the work - all the Sunday school -- What have we done - what has Weybridge done? Everything gone - everything destroyed. The church! We rebuilt it only three years ago. Gone! Swept out of existence! Why?"

. . .

"Be a man!" said I. "You are scared out of your wits! What good is religion if it collapses under calamity? Think of what earthquakes and floods, wars and volcanoes, have done before to men! Did you think God exempted Weybridge? He is not an insurance agent."

H.G. Wells then provides a possible answer to the question of what is the purpose of conflict? What is It all about?

Answer: to endure, and to not lose hope.

By the toll of a billion deaths man has bought his birthright of the earth, and it is his against all comers; it would still be his were the Martians ten times as mighty as they are. For neither do men live nor die in vain.

And then he concludes with:

And there, amazed and afraid, even as I stood amazed and afraid, were my cousin and my wife - my wife white and tearless. She gave a faint cry. "I came," she said. "I knew - knew --"

She put her hand to her throat - swayed. I made a step forward, and caught her in my arms."

Beautiful.

The Magician's Elephant, by Kate DiCamillo

"At the end of the century before last, in the market square of the city of Baltese, there stood a boy with a hat on his head and a coin in his hand. The boy's name was Peter Augustus Duchene, and the coin that he held did not belong to him but was instead the property of his guardian, and old soldier named Vilna Lutz, who had sent the boy to the market for fish and bread."

"That day in the market square, in the midst of the entirely remarkable and absolutely ordinary stall of the fishmongers and cloth merchants and bakers and silver-smiths, there had appeared, without warning or fanfare, the red tent of a fortune-teller. Attached to the fortune-teller's tent was a piece of paper, and penned upon the paper in a cramped but unapologetic had were these words:"

The most profound and difficult questions that could possibly be posed by the human mind or heart will be answered within for the price of one florist.

"Peter read the small sign once, and then again. The audacity of the words, their dizzying promise made it difficult suddenly for him to breathe. He looked down at his coin, the single florist, in his hand . . ."

 (an excerpt from chapter 1)