Blotter Paper

Wherein I free-associate after reading books.

Coping with my own desire to always be in the midst of writing a totally awesome story

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on March 21, 2012

So, I haven’t completed a story since the 3rd of March (two whole weeks ago!) and that one was just a flash fiction. I haven’t completed a story that I really felt good about since February 14th (five weeks ago! An eternity!) What’s more, right now I don’t really feel like writing more stories. I don’t have any ideas for stories. Whenever I try to start a story I immediately feel so totally over it.

Luckily, I don’t really need to write new stories right now. I’m sitting on thirteen unrevised stories (the oldest of which date back to this time last year), which all need a few days of loving before they can be lobbed onto slush piles all across the country. I’ve been steadily working through this pile for a few months now, and I’m looking forward to cutting it down to zero (my to-be-revised pile hasn’t been at zero since the fall of 2009).

In fact, I often find that an unwillingness to work on new stories is a result of having too many stories in my to-be-revised pile. It’s hard to get excited about a new story when I know that there’s a good chance it’s not going to get submitted for six to twelve months.

The problem is that  my back-brain doesn’t know this. My back-brain is loading me down with killer anxiety about not having produced a new story in awhile. Whenever I go even five weeks without writing a story that I feel good about, I start to wonder whether I’ve lost my mojo. I begin thinking that I might never write a good story ever again!

Usually, I combat this by dropping everything and doing my best to squeeze out a new story (which is how I ended up with thirteen unrevised stories in the first place). But not this time! This time the anxiety can just take a back seat! Until I feel like writing new stories again, I’m going to be content to just do a month or two of revision.

I’m trying to learn to trust my subconscious a little bit more. I think that my subconscious gives me stories at its own pace, and while there is some benefit to pushing myself, I think it also makes sense to listen to the messages I am trying to give myself. Ugh…but it’s not easy. I’ve been doing this for eight years, and I still have pretty much no idea how I’ve managed to write a single word.

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A hint of writing difficulties that used to be really common for me

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on March 17, 2012

Nowadays, I try to write every single day (the last day on which I wrote nothing at all was July 6th, 2011). But on some days “write” means “scribble down a hundred words of useless surreality”. Because I’ve been travelling and kind of overscheduled and really sleep-deprived, the last eight days have been a lot less productive than I normally prefer.

Today was the first solid day for writing that I’ve had all week, and I faced a really interesting reaction. I was actually scared to open up the computer and commit to some serious writing. It was so odd, and in some ways it made me really nostalgic. I used to feel this way all the time. Every single writing day involved a monumental effort just to get started. I had to look at the blank page, then browse the internet, then look at it again, and go away and come back, and really force my fingertips onto the keyboard.

Nowadays, that almost never happens. I might procrastinate for a half-hour or an hour. And sometimes I’m like, “No, I’ll write later today…now I’m going to nap instead.” And other times I might decide, “Today is just going to be a one hour day”. But I rarely feel that fear*. Instead, I just fire up Freedom, allocate however many minutes, and start writing. I’ve bridged this barrier so many times that it’s not scary anymore.

Except…today it was. It was really interesting, and it really reminded me of how easy it is to for me to not write anything for weeks or months at a time. 

*I do sometimes feel other fears. For instance, sometimes I have no good story ideas, and I’m just sitting at my computer trying to free-write a story into existence, and I wonder how it was that I’ve ever before written a story in my life–it seems so incredibly dificult!–and I wonder if I will ever again be able to write a good one. But that fear doesn’t actually stop me from writing.

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The First and Last Novels That Made Me Cry

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on March 16, 2012

So, I was recently recommended John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars, which is a YA novel about a sixteen year old girl with terminal cancer (its main schtick is that the girl herself is somewhat aware of cancer-novel tropes, which the novel sometimes subverts and sometimes gleefully obeys). Anyway, I was basically promised that the novel would make me cry. I was ready to cry. I was primed to cry. And although I loved the novel, I did not cry.

I was disappointed. I have cried while reading novels before, but it is not common, and I am always startled and happy when it does happen. So much of novelistic pleasure is, for me, somewhat abstract cerebral, that it feels really strange to be reminded that some part of my mind actually believes that this crazy written-down shit is happening to real people in some real place.

Anyways, I wish that I had, once upon a time, made a list of novels that made me cry. But, alas, I made no such list, and now I cannot remember whether Grapes of Wrath or The Jungle caused any moisture. What I can remember, though, is the first and last books that made me cry.

The first was, I think, near the end of Mercedes Lackey’s By The Sword, where the mercenary captain Kerowyn is coming to the rescue of the beleagured nation of Valdemar, but shit looks totally helpless, and everyone looks like they’re going to die, but people are waiting to die heroically…well, I teared up (I was about eleven). And I remember thinking, “Wow, this is the first time that a book has ever made me cry.” Man, I’ve reread that book so many times, and I still love it.

The last time I cried while reading a novel was about three months ago, on Christmas Day. It was somewhere during the closing chapters of Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks Of Being A Wallflower: a YA novel about a slightly disturbed high school freshman who makes friends with some totally awesome high school seniors who are like the coolest thing ever, jeez, my eyes are stinging just thinking about it.

Oh, I also just remembered that the first time I cried during a video game was during Phantasy Star IV (for the Sega Genesis), when Alys died. Man, that was so sad. It was such a good death, too. It wasn’t a girlfriend getting refrigerated; it was a powerful female mentor sacrificing her life (Obi-Wan style) to save her naive male mentee.

And the first time I cried during a movie was in Braveheart, when that motherfucking Robert the Bruce betrayed Mel Gibson and lost him the Battle of Falkirk.

Both of these prior two crying incidents were around when I was eleven. I know this because right after I cried while reading By The Sword, I remember stopping and thinking, “Hmm, I wonder what other stuff I’ve cried during. Oh yeah, there was that time during Braveheart….”

I think the lesson here is that the best media-related crying comes either: A) when you’re a kid; or B) while consuming media meant for kids. What times have you cried while consuming cultural product?

Posted in Books, Movies | Tagged: , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments »

The Sportswriter by Richard Ford

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on March 14, 2012

I am almost ashamed to admit that I liked this book. If there’s anything that a good non-realist writer ought to stand for, it’s the goddamned fact that there are way too many stories about writers (in this case, a sportswriter) who are on the early side of middle age and who haven’t really managed to figure out what, if anything, matters to them. But I can’t do that. I just can’t. I have to cede this ground to the enemy, because this book is awesome.

The secret is in the voice. You’d expect this book to be cynical and pain-filled. But it’s not. It’s dominated by this tone of slow startlement that captivated me from the very first page, which begins:

My name is Frank Bascombe. I am a sportswriter.

For the past fourteen years I have lived here at 19 Hoving Road, Haddam, New Jersey, in a large Tudor house bought when a book of short stories I wrote sold to a movie producer for a lot of money, and seemed to set my wife and me and our three children—two of whom were not even born yet—up for a good life.

Just exactly what that good life was—the one I expected—I cannot tell you now exactly, though I wouldn’t say it has not come to pass, only that much has come in between. I am no longer married to X, for instance. The child we had when everything was starting has died, though there are two others, as I mentioned, who are alive and wonderful children.

Now how could anyone not be willing to give that a chance? The book is nothing more or less than what is promised by these paragraphs. It is one weekend in the life of Frank Bascombe. He goes on a trip with his girlfriend, comes back, meets her family, talks to his wife, talks to his children, talks to some friends, and then it’s over. Oh, some other stuff happens too, but it’s fundamentally a pretty slow, dreamy affair. And one that is very easy to read. Nothing gets between you and this novel. It has transparent prose; not the kind of transparent prose that is so dull that you don’t notice it, but the kind that is so captivating that you forget you’re reading a book.

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Thought engendered by my return to computer gaming after an absence of two and a half years

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on March 8, 2012

I was an avid computer gamer for about fourteen or fifteen years. I played all sorts of games– realtime strategies, MMORPGs, first person shooters, turn-based games–but my most favorite games were usually role playing games (Fallout 1 and 2, Planescape Torment, Baldur’s Gate 2) or point and click adventures (Grim Fandango, The Longest Journey, Still Life). [As most gamers can probably tell from that list, I'm mostly interested in games with good stories]. Then, about two and a half years ago, my desktop suffered a mysterious malfunction. It started freezing after a few minutes of operation.

And I never bothered to fix it. For the first time in my life, I was working full time. And I was also struggling to recommit myself to my writing. Every night, I got home, watching an hour or two of TV, read a book for two hours, then tried to write a thousand words. I didn’t have any time to play computer games, so fixing my desktop didn’t seem particularly important.

At various intervals in the last 2.5 years I’ve tried to fix that desktop, usually with the intent of using it to play some game. I have a copy of Dragon Age that I’ve desperately wanted to play for like three years now.

Finally, though, I am game-enabled again. I just bought a huge brick of a laptop that has more than enough power to play any game on the market. And today, I installed Fallout: New Vegas–the latest installment in what is definitely my most favorite video game franchise.

And, man, it is weird to play electronic games again.

The experience of playing an electronic game is, for me, very different from the experience of consuming any other form of entertainment. As a player, my relationship to the story feels entirely different than when I view a TV show or movie or when I read a book.

And that’s because of gameplay. I’m mostly interested in games for their stories. But even the most story-driven games are not mostly composed of story. They’re mostly composed of gameplay, all the parts of the game that involve running, jumping, shooting, killing, exploring, collecting items, gaining experience, and doing all the other random crap that propels you from conversation to conversation or from cutscene to cutscene.

Even in the best games, I find gameplay to be pretty mind-numbing. I think that Gameplay is supposed to feel like playing a sport or solving a puzzle. But it rarely does feel like that, because gameplay is usually not very hard. But gameplay is not boring, either. It does involve the mind. Gameplay is a bit like walking around. In most RPGs, it’s just a way to drag out the process of looking at alot of scenery. It involves just enough brainpower that you become really focused on what you’re looking at, but not so much brainpower that it gets too hard and you give up.

And it really works. Fallout NV is really immersive. It’s not precisely fun to spend hours wandering around, looking at this postnuclear wasteland….but it’s definitely creates this weird feeling that you’re actually wandering around, looking at a postnuclear wasteland. After a few hours, I started to feel like I was really there.

And that’s not a feeling that I get (or even attempt to get) from most other entertainment. Most entertainment is about telling a story about some people…some other people. It’s just like the stories your friends tell you about their lives, except with music and audio and pictures.

Games try to do something different. They actually put you there. They use those pictures and that audio to put you there, in some other world.

This is especially true for representational, open-world games like Fallout, but I think it’s even true for fairly stylized, closed-world games like PacMan. These games hypnotize you. Who hasn’t felt that sense of panic and claustrophobia whilst playing PacMan? Who hasn’t felt anxious and rushed for time during the final moments of a game of Tetris? These worlds have very different rules from our world, but when we play them, we internalize their logic, and we learn to live out a life in which gobbling down some dots is a matter of deathly importance.

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February 2012 Short Fiction

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on March 6, 2012

 All The Young Kirks And Their Good Intentions (Clarkesworld) by Helena Bell – Earth is being ravaged by some kind of disease. It responds by sending a few brilliant men and women to a moon colony where they try to recreate Earth’s (often extinct) ecosystems. Meanwhile, the town of Riverside, Iowa, has gotten caught up in this interplanetary fervor: it starts naming all of its children after a mythical hero from the past, James Tiberius Kirk.

I am normally very suspicious of fan-service stories, because I think they have a tendency to try to glamour their audience by namedropping nerdery instead of creating interesting characters, situations, and settings. And perhaps that’s what is happening here, but if that’s the case, I am thoroughly beglamoured. I love this story.

It’s just a story about kids, jostling to be special. Ostensibly, they all want to grow up and go to the moon and be heroes. But right now, they’re sitting in Iowa, playing status games with each other. The story is slow, but implacable. All of its pieces resonate with each other, and obey some unseen internal logic.

 

Bear In Contradicting Landscape (Apex) by David J. Schwartz – An author finds that a character from one of his early (terrible) short stories has come to life. In most hands, this story would be really playful and silly and insubstantial. But Schwartz just keeps throwing stuff in there. He spends all this time detailing the really dystopian story that the character came from. Then he starts describing the author’s girlfriend, a woman who is having her whole life story tattooed on herself. Then he’s writing about the character’s wife and her fascination with Elvis. And then the character’s cats corner a rabbit and the author saves the rabbit.

There’s really not a wrong note in the whole story. I’m just reading and reading and I’m never thinking–as I usually am, for most stories–”Okay, how is all this crap going to cohere.” No, because it’s cohering and agglomerating as we go. Even the everyman schlub narrator manages to avoid being just another everyman schlub. He has an engaging, fox-quick voice that’s full of wonderment and understanding (rather than the usual self-pity and neuroticism that I’ve come to expect from everyman schlubs). Anyways, I liked this story alot.

 

Aftermath (Strange Horizons) by Joy Kennedy-O’Neill – The zombie plague was averted after only a year by an airborne cure that turned the zombies back into ordinary human beings. A former literature professor struggles to live with a husband who succumbed to the plague and spent several months as a flesh-eater.

I love zombie stories. And I love that zombie stories are so versatile. They’re not just about titillation, like vampire stories, or about scaring you, like most monster stories. Zombie stories are about how we relate to society: the blank mass of strangers that we see around us everyday. And I love this story’s twist on the zombie tale: in this story, the zombies come back to life and try to live like ordinary people (they don’t remember any of their former atrocities). It has a lot of resonances with many modern situations in which people have to live with situations that they were not fully responsible for: Slavery or the Civil War (in America) or The Partition (in India). But it’s also a story that fully engages with its own premise. This is a story about the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. It’s rigorous and it doesn’t provide easy answers to the dilemmas that it raises.

 

In addition to the stories mentioned above, I also enjoyed Genevieve Valentine’s “The Gravedigger of Konstan Spring” (Lightspeed), Brooke Bolander’s “Tornado’s Siren” (Lightspeed), and Justin Howe’s “Shadows Under Hexmouth Street” (Beneath Cease Skies)

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The best book I read in February was Arlie Russell Hochschild’s The Second Shift

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on March 4, 2012

My really good reading streak terminated awhile ago (with Great Expectations). Since then, I’ve had a whole month of books that were only semi-satisfying:  Adventures Of Hucklebery Finn; The Performance of Self In Everyday Life; Put Out More Flags; and a few others. The month was really only rescued by two books. The first was The Power And The Glory and the second was Arlie Russell Hochschild’s best-selling 1989 book-length study  The Second Shift.

Unlike most feminist polemics (The Feminine Mystique; The Beauty Myth; The Female Eunuch; The Second Sex), Hochshild’s book is not a polemic (not that there’s anything wrong with polemics). It’s an anthropological study. Over a period of ten years,  Hochshild observed fifty or so households in which both parents had paid employment and had young children. The purpose of the study was to observe the ways in which men and women divided up the routine household work: fixing things, paying bills, cleaning, cooking, and childcare.

Even before this study came out, a number of time-use studies had shown that even when both husband and wife worked full-time jobs, women did the majority of the household labor. After averaging these studies, Hochshild concluded that, when household work and paid labor were added together, wives worked fifteen more hours per week than their husbands. This added up to an additional month of twenty-four hour days every year. Hochschild called this additional labor “the second shift”. The idea was that women work one shift at their job and then they come home and work another shift at home.

So Hochschild was not even close to being the first person to demonstrate this inequity. Her study was about something different. She wanted to get right into the nitty-gritty of marriages and look at how husbands and wives went about rationalizing this inequitable split in labor.

By the time Hochschild was writing, several waves of women’s liberation had come and gone. At least half the families she surveyed said that household work should be split evenly. Most of the rest said that the men should do at least one third of the household work. However, she found that only in very few of these households were these principles being born out in practice.

She observed husbands and wives in order to see how they, in fact, split the labor. And then she questioned them in order to figure out what she thought about that split. And then she selected ten case studies that she thought best represented the trends she’d observed and presented them in considerable detail.

The result is some spell-binding storytelling. This book is like nothing I’ve ever read. If it was a short-story collection, it would win the Pulitzer prize. There are many stories about the psychology of domestic tedium, but there are few stories that delve so insightfully into the compromises that are required to make a house keep running.

For instance, her first case study is about a couple–Nancy and Evan Holt–who have recently had a major dispute over labor-sharing. Nancy and Evan both have fairly decent jobs (he is a social worker, I forget what he does). And Nancy had given an ultimatum to her husband. He needed to start cooking. He needed to start cleaning. He needed to start doing half of everything. She built schedules. She made plans. He agreed to them. Then he ignored them. He didn’t cook or clean when he was supposed to. He let everything fall apart until Nancy did it.

At this point, most of the women in Hochschild’s study would have just quietly started doing the extra work. But Nancy stepped in and fought over this for several years. Finally, however, they came to a compromise that stuck. Evan would be responsible for the “downstairs” and Nancy would be responsible for the “upstairs”.

The “upstairs” included the living room, dining room, kitchen, and bedrooms. The downstairs consisted of Evan’s basement workroom (and the dog). They created a myth of equitable sharing that basically entailed Nancy doing everything (except walk the dog).

However, Hochschild felt that Nancy was quietly working on getting her revenge. She was winding up their son Joey and making him excited at night, so he’d have a hard time going to sleep, and so she’d be taken from the marital bed to coax him to sleep, every night. As a result, she’d stopped having sex with her husband. She’d also basically excluded her husband from any active involvement in their son’s life.

This was also the pattern with the Steins. In this case, two married lawyers used their money to buy their way out of almost every chore, except a few hours of childcare. But those hours were put in by the mother, Jessica and not by the father, Seth. Seth comes to resent Jessica because she has no time for him, and she resents him because he has no time for their children (time that would relieve her from some of the burden of childcare). As a result, she slowly, and unconsciously, estranges the children from their father.

I could go on and on. This book is full of amazing stories. And these stories are not rare. These are not horror stories. And most of these families would not be considered unhappy families. This book is not about some weird, crazy, fucked-up subset of families…no, to some extent, almost every family in America that had two working parents (i.e. your family, my family, and the happiest family that you can think of) fell prey to some of these pathologies.

In her afterward, Hochschild reviews some of the latest research and concludes that the work-gap has narrowed. Now, women only work, on average, seven more hours per week than their husbands. The second shift has gotten shorter, but it has not disappeared.

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Curing my insomnia

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on February 29, 2012

For about two years, I’ve been experiencing this incredible insomnia. I think that college just really messed up my sleep patterns, and that I haven’t yet really managed to train my body to anything natural. But anyway, the result is that, more often than not, I lay awake for two hours each night.

This insomnia has spurred a number of life changes. I’ve started waking up in the mornings every day, even on weekends. I’ve stopped drinking coffee. I quit smoking. And maybe some of that has helped, but I still get these periods–weeks at a time–when I can’t fall asleep. I only have two hypotheses / solutions left. The first is that maybe I just don’t need as much sleep as I think I do (I try to get eight hours every night). Maybe I really need six or seven hours. Or maybe I just need to start exercising every day.

Ugh, I really hope it’s the first thing. If that’s it, then I’ll end up with two extra hours a day (score!). But if it’s the other thing, then I’ll lose another hour each day (boo!). I’ll do anything, though. This sleep stuff is brutal. I mean, cmon, if it’s such a necessity, then why can’t it just impose itself on me the way that every other bodily function does?

Does anyone else have any experience with insomnia? How did you all try to manage it?

Posted in Background Checks | Tagged: , , , | 10 Comments »

Revising that old stuff

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on February 28, 2012

Ever since late September, I’ve been writing iteratively: revising a story a half-dozen times before it’s even finished. And then I’ll often hold off on declaring it done until I’ve rewritten the ending a few times as well. The result is that by the time the first draft is complete, my stories have about as much revision as I am capable of giving them. Oh, they’re not flawless. If I subjected them to critique, I’d probably find alot more that I could do with them. But, generally, I’m satisfied with them. I often wait a few weeks, give them a few more passes for style and spelling, and then send them out.

This is not, however, the way that I always worked. I used to race through and complete a first draft as quickly as possible and then hold off on revising it for six to nine months (out of sheer inertia and lazineness). This system was tremendously annoying and also kind of silly, and I’m glad that I abandoned it.

However, I still have about 11 stories that I wrote under the old system, which have just been languishing for ages. I’ve seriously considering just not revising them and not submitting them. This prospect is a little tempting since nowadays I’m suffering from a relative lack of markets to submit to. I’m ineligible for Writers of the Future; I can’t submit to Strange Horizons because I’m reading slush there; and I can’t submit to Clarkesworld or Apex for a few more months because I’ve recently sold stories there. I know, I have a hard life, filled with terrible problems. But, anyway, it wouldn’t be entirely awful if I didn’t have as many stories coming to market as I usually do.

But I couldn’t just abandon the work like that. Some of these stories are actually not at all bad (my recent sale to Clarkesworld is a story that came from this period). So I think I’m going to spend the next month doing some intensive revision. Editors, beware….eleven steaming Kanakias are about to be dropped on your desks.

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The Power and the Glory, by Graham Greene

Posted by R. H. Kanakia on February 27, 2012

            This book is one of the best books I’ve ever read. Like all great books, it’s about a lot of things but the thing that interested me most about the book was its defense of organized religion (and, in particular, the Catholic Church). It has an incredibly intellectual honesty. Graham Greene does not take any shortcuts and he does not make any excuses. He lays out his scenario with incredible skill and then he follows it to its most logical conclusion.

In my little socioeconomic slice of America, it is an article of faith that organized religion does not serve much of a positive purpose. Of course, religious faith is fine (some of us think it’s salutary, others think it’s silly, but everyone thinks it’s fundamentally acceptable), but all this stuff with priests and churches and bishops and tithing and catechisms and fasting on Fridays and catechisms and creeds and religious litmus tests is all kind of silly. Since religion is fundamentally irrational, why should any person be able to set himself up as being closer to God than anyone else?

In The Power And The Glory, Graham Greene writes about a 1930s Mexico that’s adopted much the same sort of belief. While it’s still permissible for people to personally retain their faith, the churches have been torn down, religious ceremonies have been outlawed, and the priests have been pensioned off, shot, or driven away.

The main character of Greene’s novel is an unnamed man who is perhaps the last active priest in a Mexican state where the persecution has been particularly savage. This man travels wide circuits on his mule, staying at each village for only a day or two, conducting masses and baptisms in barns and hearing confessions in horse stalls. And at the start of the novel, the governor of the state empowers an equally unnamed lieutenant to do anything–including taking and shooting hostages–in order to capture and execute the priest.

But this priest is not a saint. He is an alcoholic (and he spends a lot of time scheming to acquire alcohol, since wine and spirits are illegal in his state). He has fathered an illegitimate child. He haggles with the peasants over the price of baptisms and such. He’s a hypocrite. When he preaches, he tells peasants to do things that he doesn’t do himself. When he gives confessions, he tells them to refrain from sins that he is actively committing. There’s not that much compassion or understanding in him (there’s not that much of anything in him). And although he has faith, sometimes it seems like a shallow, rote sort of faith…not a faith that’s touched him very deeply in terms of his character.

More than anything, the priest is petulant, guilty, and bewildered. He doesn’t know how he’s found himself in this position. He constantly seeks to escape from his ministry (and leave this state entirely without clerics), but he keeps getting drawn back, almost as if serving God was a weakness that he kept succumbing to. It’s clear that he’s not accomplishing much good. He’s not organizing anything or changing anything. All he’s doing is fulfilling some silly forms that the local peasants require because his church has taught them that they’ll go to hell unless the right words are said. And he’s not even doing much of that: in the last year, he’s only said four masses and heard a hundred confessions. Mostly, he’s just running from this implacable lieutenant.

And the lieutenant is as virtuous as the priest is venal. The lieutenant loves children, he gives to the poor, he is personally honest. Although he kills people, he does not love doing so. He kills because he knows he has to. He believes that the Church has oppressed his people for centuries; that the Church is a tool which the landlords have used to pacify the peasants. He knows that stamping out the church is a necessary precondition of making everyone wealthier, better-educated, and happier.

But…out of this loaded scenario, Greene somehow manages to demonstrate the value of the Church. Neither the peasants nor the priest can understand what they’re doing, but the ritual observance is what keeps God alive. Greene shows how God withers when it is kept trapped up inside the heart, and how faith requires some kind of community in order to remain strong. And he shows the consolations of faith. He shows how even a very thin faith is able to ennoble this priest, whereas the lack of it has sapped the humanity from the lieutenant.

The most virtuosic performance in the novel comes at the end, where the priest is wondering whether he himself is going to go to heaven. Actually, the priest is not wondering at all. He knows he is not going to heaven. He knows he is damned. He’s sinned too repeatedly, and, what’s more, he’s not contrite about his sins. He knows that it would be the height of pride for him to forgive himself…it would just be another sin loaded on top of all the rest. The priest knows that what he needs is another priest–another man, acting using the spark of Godliness that is inside all men–to hear his sins and look inside him and tell him that even he is, somehow, worthy of salvation.

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