Sunday Blessings

Take my life, and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee.

Take my moments and my days; let them flow in ceaseless praise.

Take my hands, and let them move at the impulse of Thy love.

Take my feet, and let them be swift and beautiful for Thee.

Take my voice, and let me sing always, only, for my King.

Take my lips, and let them be filled with messages from Thee.

Take my silver and my gold; not a mite would I withhold.

Take my intellect, and use every power as Thou shalt choose.

Take my will, and make it Thine; it shall be no longer mine.

Take my heart, it is Thine own; it shall be Thy royal throne.

Take my love, my Lord, I pour at Thy feet its treasure store.

Take myself, and I will be ever, only, all for Thee.

— "Take My Life, and Let it Be" by Frances R. Havergal

May your Lord's Day be blessed!

"I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service." — Romans 12:1

Poem of the Week: A Second Childhood by G.K. Chesterton

A Second Childhood

By G.K. Chesterton

When all my days are ending

And I have no song to sing,

I think that I shall not be too old

To stare at everything;

As I stared once at a nursery door

Or a tall tree and a swing.

Wherein God's ponderous mercy hangs

On all my sins and me, 

Because He does not take away 

The terror from the tree

And stones still shine along the road 

That are and cannot be. 

Men grow too old for love, my love, 

Men grow too old for wind, 

But I shall not grow too old to see

Unearthly daylight shine,

Changing my chamber's dust to snow 

Till I doubt if it be mine. 

Behold, the crowning mercies melt, 

The first surprises stay; 

And in my dross is dropped a gift 

For which I dare not pray: 

That a man grow used to grief and joy

But not to night and day. 

Men grow too old for love, my love, 

Men grow too old for lies; 

But I shall not grow too old to see 

Enormous night arise, 

A cloud that is larger than the world

And a monster made of eyes. 

Nor am I worthy to unloose 

The latchet of my shoe; 

Or shake the dust from off my feet 

Or the staff that bears me through 

On ground that is too good to last, 

Too solid to be true. 

Men grow too old to woo my love, 

Men grow too old to wed; 

But I shall not grow too old to see 

Hung crazily overhead 

Incredible rafters when I wake

And find that I am not dead. 

A thrill of thunder in my hair: 

Though blackening clouds be plain, 

Still I am stung and startled 

By the first drop of the rain: 

Romance and pride and passion pass

And these are what remain. 

Strange crawling carpets of the grass, 

Wide windows of the sky;

So in this perilous grace of God

With all my sins go I: 

And things grow new though I grow old,

Though I grow old and die. 

Chesterton's words touch me so; I only hope they affect you in a likewise manner. Have a blessed Friday, friends.

Something Formidable This Way Comes

The book to read is not the one that thinks for you, but the one which makes you think. — Harper Lee

There's been a great deal of past discussion on Literary Lane on the subject of required reading. For the longest time, I believed it to be a terrible imposition inflicted upon the naive student by particularly vindictive instructors whose sole purpose was to enforce a love of literature into said student by way of hammer and chisel. At the time that I held that belief, however, I was not much acquainted with the true value of the thing, and my own assumptions were somewhat biased. It took several years for me to loosen my balled-up fists and accept the fact that reading for school does serve a purpose.

Before I reached eighth grade, the required reading to which I was exposed was of a wholly different nature than that with which I am now accustomed. I had reading assignments for school, but they generally took me no more than hour to complete, leaving the rest of my leisure time to volumes of my choosing. My literary intake flourished as a result. All that changed when I entered the tutorial at which I currently study, and I was introduced to an entirely new brand of required reading: that is to say, the sort that occupies your entire week. The number of pages I was expected to read jumped from twenty to two hundred and twenty. My time was no longer my own. And what's more, I didn't like the books I was reading! (Horrors, I know.)

I've copied out endless lists of the books I want to read in future. Dickens, Tolkien, Lewis, Austen . . . each name figures upon the page. And with the arrival of each new school year, I anxiously scan the book list that my mother prints out in search of familiar faces. If I'm lucky, I'll recognize two or three of the titles; they may even be replicas of those found in my own lists. But the majority of the titles are foreign to my eyes.

There's a difference between a student who rarely picks up a book that isn't a fluffy YA novel and a truly invested reader who seeks to learn and grow by testing his mental capacity with the books he reads. I'm not aiming this post towards those who have to be forced to read, balk at a book numbering more than a couple hundred pages, and utilize Spark Notes and Wikipedia for quizzes and essays. I know that most of you follow Literary Lane because you are avid bookworms in your own right. Assuming our own to-read lists contain classic works of fiction and other wholesome titles, is there still some value to be found in the required reading given by an outside source? Is there more we can gain from stepping outside our comfort zone?

Surprisingly enough, yes, there is.

Over the course of the past three years I've spent in my homeschool tutorial, I've been exposed to a number of titles I would have never encountered or considered on my own. Books like Rebecca, White Fang, The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, Watership Down, Frankenstein, and yes, even The Scarlet Pimpernel were all unknown to me. Surprisingly enough, some of these books (and others I haven't mentioned) are now treasured favorites with worn covers that attest to multiple readings. I could easily see myself enjoying the Victorian classics to which I frequently limited myself, but what pleasure can be gained from a book about a Siberian husky-dog or a tale of rabbits finding a new home for themselves? Is it possible for such a love to spring from an assigned list? I learned the answer to my skeptical question soon enough.

This past school year, my World Literature course not only opened my eyes to pieces of literature I hadn't read but didn't even recognize. Cry, the Beloved Country wrenched my heart, The Metamorphosis gave me eerie chills, Oedipus Rex fascinated me, and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight spawned a greater love for Arthurian legend and the traits of chivalry and honor within me. Many of these works' authors used a new form of narration with which I was unfamiliar, effectively forcing me out of my comfort zone and opening my eyes to a whole new world of literature. I've been challenged to catch symbolism, foreshadowing, and allusions within even the most complicated web of text . . . and somehow, it's still worth it. Without setting aside my own desires for a time, trusting my instructor that these books, though unheard of to me, are revered for a reason, and reading the dreaded literature, my own perception of the written word would have remained one-dimensional.

It requires a measure of patience to accept the fact that a list of unfamiliar books will replace the ones I would prefer to read, at least for the current school year. Eleventh grade in particular is promising to be a challenge, as the realm of American Literature does not possess much enduring hope within its pages. Nonetheless, I've never regretted the choice to read these required books. Mansfield Park may be a more enjoyable piece to read, but that's not to say The Chosen and Watership Down weren't just as worthwhile.

And who knows? Maybe I'll find a brand-new favorite in some of the coming year's titles.

Poem of the Week: Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins

It's been far too long since I've last posted a weekly poem, and today I am here to remedy that misfortune! I recently encountered this beautiful piece of poetry and thought it was too appropriate not to share. In March my tutorial's literature class conducted an extensive study of the works of the world's most acclaimed poets, but none of the pieces better fit this most lovely of seasons than the one I'm including below. Hopkins likens the new world at spring's birth to the purity of Eden before the Fall of man. While the season of spring does not wash the world of its sin, it does present us with a glimpse of Eden's radiance and the beauty of Paradise to come. Do enjoy!

Spring

By Gerard Manley Hopkins

Nothing is so beautiful as spring—

  When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;

  Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

  The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush

  The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?

  A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy,

  Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,

Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,

  Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

What pieces of poetry have you encountered of late? Feel free to share them in the link-up below!

Darling, Everything's On Fire

Last Friday I had a revelation.

It didn't take much of a spark to turn the brush to flame. Inspiration rarely requires a great incitement — a word, a glance, even a snatch of music can turn into a plot (time still remains the judge of whether its worthwhile or not). In this case, Emilia was making herself lunch at the kitchen counter while I was toiling away over my chemistry homework (not much scope for the imagination there!) As my sister worked and I attempted to stay focused on rate constants and equilibrium, Emilia began humming a few notes of a song, following the melody with the lyrics.

The spark was released, the flames lept high, and my mind swirled. The song's lyrics intertwined with a photo of a young woman I had recently seen on Pinterest, a small plot long ago set aside because it held little promise, and the concept of Chesterton's quote about how "something must be loved before it is lovable". Less than five minutes had passed, and yet I felt as if a story existed at my fingertips — I only needed to dig deep enough, and I would reach it. (Am I the only writer who views a new story in this manner — as if the characters already exist on their own, and I only chanced to stumble across them at an opportune moment?)

Needing a less busy place in which to process my thoughts, I stepped outside and settled on the porch steps, where, head cradled between my palms, my elbows balanced precariously on my knees, I sorted through the hurricane of my thoughts and settled on some concrete facts. New plots with little to bind them together can choose virtually any course; the trick is reigning them in until they reach some semblance of a legitimate story. When I finally returned to my chemistry, which was growing less romantic by the minute, my mind still felt like it was about to fly to pieces. My carefully crafted schedule of the day before was in grave danger of being tossed heedlessly to the wind, my current work in progress sacrificed, and every other daily practice ignored in favor of the small sunbeam I had caught.

This isn't the first time this has happened to me. Though few of my original ideas actually become full-length novels (and they're hardly recognizable when they do), that is not to say I'm not constantly bombarded with the adorable and terribly irresistible plot bunnies. They come in any form and at any time, whether I'm at my weekly tutorial, at dance, or wasting time on Pinterest under the guise of literary research (an event that rarely occurs, I assure you). Not every idea is so dramatic as the one I depicted above, but each wreaks havoc on my schedule and my writing. One of the qualities of a plot bunny that makes it so very deceptive is the power it holds to turn your current W.I.P. from living color to black and white. Plot bunnies are known for their propensity to bully other more developed books into the background, while they claim center stage for themselves. They charm you into following them into a new idea, abandoning any and all of your previous projects, until you're caught up yet again by another distraction, and the cycle starts all over again.

Lest you think I'm dismissing every form of inspiration as a meaningless distraction to the writing process, allow me to explain better. Without inspiration's occasional lightning bolts, our stories would be undeniably dull and horribly predictable. No one receives the whole plot for his next book in a moment — it comes in snatches and glimpses, and it's up to the writer to stitch all those pieces of human existence and truth together until they make up a story. Rifles in the South Field was quite basic at first conception, but since then it has progressed not only in word-count, but in plot as well. This would not have been possible without the occasional plot bunny who scampered across my path. There is, however, a way of managing them so they don't run out of control.

how to manage the plot bunnies

Write the idea down. A common mistake among writers (myself included) is to ignore Inspiration's call and believe that the character, plot twist, or piece of dialogue will remain in your mind indefinitely, ready to be dredged back up again at a moment's notice. But if an idea can enter your head, it can just as easily exit it. Unless the notion is highly ridiculous and you know for a fact you won't have a use for it, write it down! It doesn't matter how insignificant it may seem at the time — you'll always regret the alternative.

Make a Pinterest board. This is a rather new-fangled concept, and while it took me a while to hop on the Pinterest bandwagon, I confess that the site does have some measure of practical use. If the plot in question shows promise that extends beyond simply jotting it down in a notebook, I might consider making a Pinterest board for it, where I am free to collect bits of inspiration as I encounter them on the highly addictive website. Note that this is not a necessary step by any means, but for those of us who are more visual and like to have pictures to attach to our characters, it's quite helpful (not to mention fun!).

Read the Greats. When I refuse to expend my energies on anything else until I'm practically intoxicated by this new idea, I find it difficult to see the holes in it. Dragging my head back out of the clouds, cracking open an old favorite of mine, and putting some space between the plot bunny and myself gives me the necessary dose of reality I require to decide whether it's a worthwhile pursuit or not. Reading good books — especially classics — is undeniably helpful, as it tends to burst the self-indulgent bubble that tells us we've just invented the next Tale of Two Cities. It's not a terribly enjoyable process (who doesn't like to think he's the next Dickens for a minute or two?), but it's vital if we ever wish to improve.

Remain loyal to your W.I.P. Just because you stumbled across a new plot that just might become your next novel does not mean you have cause to abandon your current work, which is most likely a great deal more promising at this point. For about five minutes last Friday, I felt that Rifles was dull, tired, and not worth continuing when compared with my new idea — a concept riddled with plot holes that can only lay claim to three characters as of yet! Inspiration can make us delusional at times, but its alluring countenance is no reason to forgo a work into which you've put countless hours.

And of course, when all else fails, you could simply stop your ears to every new concept and never seek Inspiration out again. But I wouldn't recommend it.

Resurrection Sunday Blessings

Christ, the Lord, is risen today, Alleluia!

Sons of men and angels say, Alleluia!

Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!

Sing, ye heavens, and earth, reply, Alleluia!

Love’s redeeming work is done, Alleluia!

Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia!

Lo! the Sun’s eclipse is over, Alleluia!

Lo! He sets in blood no more, Alleluia!

Vain the stone, the watch, the seal, Alleluia!

Christ hath burst the gates of hell, Alleluia!

Death in vain forbids His rise, Alleluia!

Christ hath opened paradise, Alleluia!

Lives again our glorious King, Alleluia!

Where, O death, is now thy sting? Alleluia!

Once He died our souls to save, Alleluia!

Where thy victory, O grave? Alleluia!

Soar we now where Christ hath led, Alleluia!

Following our exalted Head, Alleluia!

Made like Him, like Him we rise, Alleluia!

Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!

— Excerpt of "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" by Charles Wesley (1739)

I pray your Lord's Day has been a blessed one filled with rejoicing in the resurrection of Christ! He is risen! He is risen, indeed!

 But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay." —Matthew 28:5-6

Book Review: The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper

He has . . . endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontier, the merciless Indian savages whose known rule of warfare is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions.

The Declaration of Independence

I'm not quite sure how to begin this post. I normally try to adopt a professional and coherent tone when I write up book reviews, but as my feelings about The Last of the Mohicans are certainly not professional and anything but coherent, it's going to be a difficult task to translate them onto the page. If you were to ask me absentmindedly what I loved most about this book, I would have a horrible time of it trying to pin my opinion on one word. The setting is both lush and savage. The romance is pure and sacrificial. The heroism is heart-wrenching. The battles and skirmishes are horrific and bloody. The characters remain forever branded on your heart. It is a story of such journeys, kidnappings, rescues, escapes, massacres, and sacrifices as cannot be put into words. Upon finishing it, I could only form one thought: "Oh, such a book!"

Such a book, indeed.

The Last of the Mohicans

By James Fenimore Cooper

*Summary taken from the back cover

Set in 1757 during the fierce French and Indian wars, Cooper's classic novel of adventure follows an android scout and his companions as they weave through the lush and spectacular wilderness of upstate New York, fighting to save the beautiful daughters of a fort commander from a treacherous Huron renegade.

With its death-defying chases and teeth-clenching suspense, this historical romance established many archetypes of American frontier fiction: the brave, skillful loner (Hawkeye), who rejects white civilization while aiding the settlers who spread it; the noble savage (Chingachgook) who becomes his deepest friend; a plot involving chases, epic battles, and lovely heroines (Cora and Alice Munro) menaced by an Indian renegade (Magua); and the central role played by the most important "character" of all, the awesomely beautiful but dangerous wilderness.

My Thoughts: Contrary to the impression you may have gained from my brief introduction, I did not always find Cooper's novel intriguing. The first one hundred pages in particular were slow and, to quote Abigail, dull as sand. (Just one of the reasons it took me about three months to finish this book.) The author allows no check on his verbosity, and subjects his reader to long historical discussions and descriptions as a result. It wasn't until my tutorial released for spring break that I gave myself a certain amount of pages to read per day, determined to finish the book at long last. What originally started as a personal assignment soon became much more, however, as I found it difficult to put this book down, lest Cora and Alice meet some new atrocity while I tarried. Though he takes his time getting around to it, Cooper definitely knows how to layer the tension and intrigue.

One of this book's most controversial facets is the way in which it portrays the Indians of colonial New York. The Last of the Mohicans presents a view of the Native American savage both old and new in nature. The author shows him in his most violent element, scalping enemies and friends alike with cold-hearted indifference, and then gives the man an artificial sort of holiness above that of the "pale-faces" because he is better acquainted with the ways of nature. The characters themselves are rather ambiguous on this subject, especially Hawkeye, who both commends and convicts the "red man" for his ways. Such an image falls short of the modern opinion, which depicts the Indian as an innocent and forsaken creature who was forced from his land by the domineering white man. While it certainly sounds heartbreaking and tragic (and perfectly fulfills their political agenda — shocking, no?), history's records do not agree with this faulty depiction. Cooper displays his Native Americans as capable of both shocking brutality and heart-rending sacrifice, painting an image conjured less by fantasy and more by reality. A good portion of the book is drenched (and I mean, drenched) in the violence and gore produced by the natives, but it does not keep the author from dropping obscure references to an Indian's supposedly superior knowledge and understanding. These opposing views are not easily reconciled with one another, and the worldview they present is ambivalent at best.

Pros: The Last of the Mohicans remains the quintessential example of a historical romance. Despite the slow beginning, it soon draws the reader in with its depictions of daring escapes, bloody massacres, valiant sacrifices, fearless heroes, lovely heroines, and every other element that classifies a page-turner. Even Cooper's prose, tedious at times though it may be, lends a sort of arresting beauty to the feral wilderness he describes. The male characters are gallant and fearless, repeatedly setting aside their own lives for the security of Cora and Alice. In the same vein, the two sisters act in a manner both modest and feminine, and entirely appropriate in nature. In Cora especially I found a refreshing balance between the fainting maiden of old and the overbearing feminist of modern culture. Both demure and strong-willed, she remains the voice of reason throughout the story, and her pure, wholehearted faith in God stood in sharp contrast with the shaky, practically nonexistent dogma of Hawkeye.

Cons: Besides the graphic violence native to its subject matter, the author also presents a vague image of morality between the spiritual clash of Yahweh, the One True God, and the Indians' Great Spirit. Hawkeye claims that the two are one and the same, and while they share a few similarities, such a view is obviously false. David Gamut, a devout Protestant and master of psalmody, is made to look quite ridiculous in his seeming lack of knowledge of all matters concerning warfare and wood-dwelling. To borrow others' words, he's so heavenly minded that he's no earthly good. Hawkeye also debates whether there will be a separate Heaven for the white man and the red man. 

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars

I recommend this book for ages 15+ because of the violent content and confused morality.

A Bit O' Reading For the Day:

“History, like love, is so apt to surround her heroes with an atmosphere of imaginary brightness.” — The Last of the Mohicans

P.S. In case you're wondering, yes, you are in the right place, though it may not seem so at first. Brianna Wachter, a dear friend of mine and graphic-designing extraordinaire, kindly installed a new design for Literary Lane, and I must say that I am quite satisfied with the result. As a sort of heads-up, I'll be moving over to a custom domain in a couple days, which means that when you visit my blog, it will redirect to the new address.