Silver screen: In his response to this quarter’s letters prompt, “the ivory tower should endure,” Jacob Zhang turns our attention to the extraordinary. “When I crave novelty and alternative possibilities,” he writes, “I indulge myself in films.” But what does it mean that these worlds we turn to are mere fantasies? What does it mean that the kind of love that Cinderella depicts, when off the screen, appears naive and immature? The fantasies that we turn to, Zhang writes, are not only too extraordinary to be normal but “too vulnerable to stand criticism from the outside world.” Love pervaded by material inequality is everywhere, but the problems it raises are seldom solved by a glass slipper. Zhang calls this extraordinary shelter from the problems of the world an “ivory tower.” Defined by its insulation from reality, these extraordinary places are necessarily out of touch. But maybe they can provide the shelter from disillusionment needed by those who hope to re-imagine the mundane—safe harbor for “the activists for the marginalized” and “the dreamers of utopias.”
Declan Rexer, senior editor
Doubting Thomas: Literary critic and professor Gary Saul Morson, writing in First Things magazine, seeks to resolve two “paradoxes.” How can a father appeal to Jesus with the statement “Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief” in Mark 9:24? and how can Dostoevsky write that “I should prefer to remain with Christ rather than the truth” (in a letter to his friend Natalya Fonvizina)?
The first step of Morson’s solution is recognizing that, for Dostoevsky, the two paradoxical phrases are identical. Put simply, in Dostoevsky’s read, the father in the Gospel of Mark shows that faith not only arises from doubt, but rather, faith is doubt. Morson clarifies that this is not a Kierkegaardian doubt: the Russian, unlike the Dane, certainly feels “despair” (or “unbelief”).
This is especially true for those, such as Ivan and the devil from The Brothers Karamazov, who are “educated” and modern. Only Ivan’s moral convictions defend against the relativism and dehumanization of inherently materialist natural science. Morson fleshes out the implications through analysis of Dostoevsky’s psychology (and metaphysics?) of “intention,” this time contra Locke and his determinism. Dostoevsky instead sees every moment pregnant with possibility, like Raskolnikov. Only the outcome reveals the intention. Similarly, and more politically, such uncertainty, even about God and his miracles, becomes essential for human life: man is differentiated from beast precisely through his continual, doubting “becoming.” In Morson’s analysis, Dostoevsky’s faith thereby accommodates itself to “his century (or ours).” One must therefore ask, like the referenced Othello or the unmentioned Schmitt, whether such faith indeed solves our paradoxes.
The first step of Morson’s solution is recognizing that, for Dostoevsky, the two paradoxical phrases are identical. Put simply, in Dostoevsky’s read, the father in the Gospel of Mark shows that faith not only arises from doubt, but rather, faith is doubt. Morson clarifies that this is not a Kierkegaardian doubt: the Russian, unlike the Dane, certainly feels “despair” (or “unbelief”).
This is especially true for those, such as Ivan and the devil from The Brothers Karamazov, who are “educated” and modern. Only Ivan’s moral convictions defend against the relativism and dehumanization of inherently materialist natural science. Morson fleshes out the implications through analysis of Dostoevsky’s psychology (and metaphysics?) of “intention,” this time contra Locke and his determinism. Dostoevsky instead sees every moment pregnant with possibility, like Raskolnikov. Only the outcome reveals the intention. Similarly, and more politically, such uncertainty, even about God and his miracles, becomes essential for human life: man is differentiated from beast precisely through his continual, doubting “becoming.” In Morson’s analysis, Dostoevsky’s faith thereby accommodates itself to “his century (or ours).” One must therefore ask, like the referenced Othello or the unmentioned Schmitt, whether such faith indeed solves our paradoxes.
Jacob Neplokh, contributing editor
Trial by track: After running what is still the fastest mile ever recorded by a high schooler, Alan Webb went on to have one of the most illustrious distance-running careers of all time, holding the American mile record for nearly two decades. Before his commitment to world-class caliber athletics, though, he spent a year competing in the collegiate system—one long, tumultuous, and ultimately disappointing season at the University of Michigan, captured in Chris Lear’s Sub 4:00: Alan Webb and the Quest for the Fastest Mile.
The book contains plenty of training specifics, but it lacks the sheer volume of numbers and technical jargon usually found in writing geared towards running junkies. Lear fills fewer pages with what UMichigan coach Ron Warhurst actually had Webb run, and many more with how Webb and Warhurst felt about the enormous amount of pressure placed on them. The book captures the fleeting feel of an athletic season and competitive racing as a whole—every fruitful workout can be erased by a poor race, every tactical gambit on the oval can be surpassed by the other ten guys in the field. Lear’s writing can be steeped in cliches, but his portrait of Webb and Warhurst captures a fundamental truth about the sport (and life): in the world’s eye, you’re only as good as your last race.
The book contains plenty of training specifics, but it lacks the sheer volume of numbers and technical jargon usually found in writing geared towards running junkies. Lear fills fewer pages with what UMichigan coach Ron Warhurst actually had Webb run, and many more with how Webb and Warhurst felt about the enormous amount of pressure placed on them. The book captures the fleeting feel of an athletic season and competitive racing as a whole—every fruitful workout can be erased by a poor race, every tactical gambit on the oval can be surpassed by the other ten guys in the field. Lear’s writing can be steeped in cliches, but his portrait of Webb and Warhurst captures a fundamental truth about the sport (and life): in the world’s eye, you’re only as good as your last race.
Charlie Phelan, assistant digital editor
The man behind the curtain: There’s something comforting about fairytales. In his essay “On Fairy-Stories,” the father of the modern fantasy genre, J.R.R. Tolkien, extolled their escapism. When going through a tough time, throwing oneself into an easily-regimented account of the triumphs of knights or of princesses can create hope—or at least a distraction. Yet escapism isn’t necessarily positive. The author Lev Grossman, creator of the acclaimed Magicians series, grapples with the good and the bad of escapism in his recent novel The Bright Sword. An Arthurian retelling, the novel is about a gang of King Arthur’s less impressive knights in the days after Arthur’s downfall. It is a powerful examination of what it means to long for magic.
While Grossman’s story begins from the perspective of the knight Collum, who flees an abusive family to join Arthur’s court, Grossman later adroitly shifts between characters’ perspectives. In the process, he provides a rich image of Camelot—one full of ugliness. Yet even as Grossman deconstructs the appeal of fairy tales in this novel, there’s something optimistic about The Bright Sword. In part, that is thanks to his characters. Collum, Bedivere, Dinadan, Palomides and the rest are all complex, thoughtful people, easy to love. They lack the self-centered bitterness of the Magicians’ protagonist Quentin Coldwater. This likeability creates a sense of genuine poignancy when reading the novel. The ending—a gorgeous section from Dinadan’s perspective—is one I have continued to ponder for months after first picking up the book.
While Grossman’s story begins from the perspective of the knight Collum, who flees an abusive family to join Arthur’s court, Grossman later adroitly shifts between characters’ perspectives. In the process, he provides a rich image of Camelot—one full of ugliness. Yet even as Grossman deconstructs the appeal of fairy tales in this novel, there’s something optimistic about The Bright Sword. In part, that is thanks to his characters. Collum, Bedivere, Dinadan, Palomides and the rest are all complex, thoughtful people, easy to love. They lack the self-centered bitterness of the Magicians’ protagonist Quentin Coldwater. This likeability creates a sense of genuine poignancy when reading the novel. The ending—a gorgeous section from Dinadan’s perspective—is one I have continued to ponder for months after first picking up the book.
Francesco Rahe, contributing editor
Image: Jusepe de Ribera, Penitent Saint Peter, oil on canvas, 1628-32 (Art Institute of Chicago, Illinois)