Personal Musings: Fantine

So I’ve been reading Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, and when you get past the overly detailed writing, it’s a wonderful and powerful story.  Grace, forgiveness, redemption, transformation, love, attention to the struggles of our fellow humans, and other such beautiful themes pervade the story.  Furthermore, each of these themes is approached with maturity.  Mature.  I want to dwell on that word a bit.  In today’s culture, what is meant by the word “mature” with regards to stories?

In my experience, “mature” stories, or stories containing “mature content” most often mean “stories that include explicit sex scenes, graphic violence, and/or a large amount of swearing”.  However, if we really consider the term “mature”, how often do we really use that word in connection to such content?  When we say someone is “mature for his age”, we usually mean the opposite of what we mean in regards to “mature content”, such as that he is tact and treats people well and with consideration, that he is wise and doesn’t give in as quickly to emotional urges.  The very list above, or at least a tendency to unnecessary or frequent swearing and easily roused to violence, is, in common society, regarded as immature or childish.  So why is it that “mature” in the literary sense carries with it a stigma for pornographic scenes, constant swearing, and scenes that make you think blood will start dripping off the pages rather than wise and edifying?  Unfortunately, I can’t answer that question.  Instead, I wish to use Hugo’s story, Les Mis, in order to illustrate true maturity in literature, and for that purpose, let’s look at one character who, perhaps more than any other in all of literature, has stimulated my thoughts time and again: Fantine.

Who is Fantine?  Within Hugo’s story, Fantine is a young girl near the beginning of the story who falls in love with a playboy and then is abandoned not long before giving birth to his child.  Afterwards, in order to raise the child, Cosette, she returns to her hometown to earn money, leaving Cosette with a pair of innkeepers because she knows that if anyone finds out about the illegitimate child it would cause trouble.  In the end, Fantine is found out, ostracized, and slowly declines in health and social standing as she does everything she can to pay the innkeepers (who are conning her in order to raise their fees) for caring for Cosette.  Eventually, after resorting to prostitution, the insensitive prank of a young man causes her body to succumb to illness, and she dies.

So why does the tragic Fantine fascinate me so?  Quite simply, it’s Hugo’s ability to write such a sympathetic character with maturity.  First of all, Hugo doesn’t feel the need to give detail in places most authors would in today’s literature.  Fantine’s intimacy with her lover, her time as a prostitute, the violence regarding some of her struggles, Hugo mentions them but does not give more detail than necessary.  He doesn’t describe sexual scenes in order to “prove” Fantine’s love; when Fantine’s two front teeth are pulled to be sold, he does not go into the bloody details, nor is either one necessary.  Hugo did not seek out shock value or detailed realism or sexual arousal.  But yet he did not shy away from such heavy topics, either.

The other sign I see of maturity in Fantine’s story is how Hugo turns Fantine into a sympathetic character without denying her sin.  As Hugo writes of Fantine “After recklessness comes trouble” (Hugo 148).  Fantine foolishly gives her all to a man who doesn’t truly love her, who isn’t a husband committed to her.  Intoxicated with love, she neglects work and, once abandoned, cannot support herself.  She has acted without wisdom, and Hugo does not let her off for it.  She suffers for her folly, but she doesn’t let herself stay there.  She, who possessed an honest and innocent heart from the start, takes responsibility and commits herself to working hard for the sake of her child.  In doing so, she displays herself to be more than one sin.

And so the audience is distraught at what happens to her.  No, Hugo didn’t leave her wrongs without consequence, nor is the reader to pity Fantine for her foolishness; rather, the tragedy comes from the treatment she receives by others.  Abandoning responsibility, deceit in order to obtain more money from her, taking pleasure from ruining the life of another, not being able to see the person trying to change her life beyond a social stigma, judging based on social status, oh the hypocrisy!  The lack of mercy and grace of the supposedly morally superior!

Did not Jesus himself show mercy unto the woman caught in adultery?  “I do not condemn you.  Go.  From now on sin no more” (New American Standard John 8:11)  Did not Paul, a “pharisee among pharisees” take with him Timothy, a child who at the least was born to a forbidden marriage but may have even been a bastard son between a Jew and a Greek?  “To Timothy my true child in the faith…” (1 Tim 1:2).  “To Timothy, my beloved son…” (2 Tim 1:2)  Was is not to the supposedly moral giants that Christ had his harshest condemnation?  “Woe to you, teachers of the law… you hypocrites!  You are like whitewashed tombs, which on the outside appear beautiful but inside… are full of dead men’s bones… you serpents, you brood of vipers, how will you escape the sentence of hell?” (Mat 23:27, 33).  Was it not Christ Himself who sought out sinners and tax collectors, who welcomed the least and the outcast, who healed the sick, who, knowing we are all sinners and deserve death, came unto us and showed us mercy?  And are not we also called to be like Him?

And yet.  And yet why is it that the one who extends a hand to this woman, shivering with illness and overcome with despair, who had stood up with the resolution to “Go and sin no more”, rather than the “upright” who have never been charged with a crime, rather than those who supposedly clothe themselves in justice, why is it the ex-convict, the thief, the supposed blight upon society, why is he the one to show her mercy?  Because he knew what it meant to be redeemed by grace.

Why do I love Fantine?  Why does her story so move me?  Because I am the overseer, rejecting her when I learn of her misdeeds.  Because I am the man who decided the prostitute on the street was so below humans I could treat her as sport.  Because I am Javert, too quick to seek justice when I am also called to be merciful.

What Fantine did was wrong.  Hugo knew it and acknowledged it.  As did Fantine.  But what was worse, far more wicked than a heart led astray by desire, was the heart led astray by self-righteousness.  We are all sinners.  We all deserve death.  But we have been forgiven.  “Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you” (Eph 4: 32).  When you look down upon other people, do so only as you stretch out your hand to pull them up because guess what, the ground is a thin mirror of ice.  And none of us can swim.  When you look down upon the sinner, in truth you are merely looking at yourself.  The “you” before that Divine Hand, that Divine Christ, dove into the mud and mire to pull you above the surface.  If not for Him, you would have drowned.  I would have drowned.

When I began this post, I lamented the use of the word “mature” in connection with such content as pornography.  Such a use is like labeling poke berries as grapes.  A “mature” story should be one like aged wine, or finely crafted bread.  Nourishing.  Yes, there are stories where graphic violence is necessary.  Yes, there are stories in which swearing is fitting.  But these don’t necessarily make a story mature any more than cinnamon necessarily makes bread delicious.  Such ingredients should not be used lightly.

What is a mature story?  A mature story is nourishing.  And mature story has enough maturity to know what content, what ingredients, what conditions and length of storage, to employ in order to give its reader the best it can.  It doesn’t matter if it’s about a little girl opening a wardrobe into a magical land or a side-character’s tragedy in the face of merciless self-righteousness, if a story is not these, it is no more than childish.



Hugo, Victor.  Les Miserables.  Trans. Lee Fahnestock and Norman MacAfee.  New York: Signet Classics, 1987.  Print.

The New Inductive Study Bible.  Eugene: Harvest House Publishers, 2000.  Print.

Reviews and Recommendations: Book Girl by Mizuki Nomura

Mine had been a life of shame.

I’m like the one black sheep born into a pure white flock.  Unable to enjoy the things my peers enjoyed, unable to grieve the things they grieved, unable to eat the things they ate-- being born an ignoble black sheep, I didn’t understand the things my friends found pleasent, such as love, kindness, and sympathy.  I simply dusted my dark wool in white powder and pretended I was a white sheep, too.

I’m still wearing my mask, still acting in this farce (Nomura 1).

For those who have read some of my other posts, perhaps you remember this quote from my post on quotes which have influenced me personally.  The words open the first of an eight-volume Book Girl series by Japanese author Mizuki Nomura and illustrated by my favorite colorist, Miho Takeoka.

Book Girl follows the events in the life of Konoha Inoue, a high school student who, in his second year of middle school, won a national writing contest and became an overnight sensation.  However, the stress of the circumstances and events that followed threw him into depression, during which he vowed to never write another novel again.  Come high school, though, he find himself caught by a book loving, book eating upperclassman, Tohko Amano, who ropes him into joining the literature club.  Now, as a high school junior, this duo’s literary adventures are about to begin.

And the adventures occur thusly:

1. Book Girl and the Suicidal Mime
2. Book Girl and the Famished Spirit
3. Book Girl and the Captive Fool
4. Book Girl and the Corrupted Angel
5. Book Girl and the Wayfarer’s Lamentation
6. Book Girl and the Undine Who Bore a Moonflower
7. Book Girl and the Scribe Who Faced God (Part 1)
8. Book Girl and the Scribe Who Faced God (Part 2)

Okay, really quick, as a student of the Japanese language myself, I’ve got a few linguistic and translation issues with these stories (i.e. It should be “Clown” not “Mime”, Literature Girl is a more accurate translation of the Japanese series title, 文学少女, and other title-related nitpicks, “goblin” is not a good translation for the word “yokai”, it should be “Touko” not “Tohko”, a huge translation error that causes confusion and supposed plot contradiction in book 1 but that I will not list because it would be a spoiler, other clumsy translations).  However, as I understand some hardships of attempting to translate such a difficult as Japanese and the need to try and make the series more accessible to foreign audiences (hence no honorifics), I’ll leave my list of objections incomplete.

So, what about the main characters?  Well, what can I say without spoilers?  I love both Konoha and Touko (yes, I shall be writing her name like that from now on), though the book-eating monster of a girl is my favorite.  She’s amusing, kind, stubborn, a glutton, passionate, imaginative, overly curious, and openly cares for everyone around her.  Konoha, on the other hand, is serious and stand-offish, someone who used to be open and emotional and honest but, for multiple reasons, now closes himself off, only opening to Touko because of her weird, relaxing atmosphere.  Over the course of the series, you naturally see more to both of these characters, such as Konoha wrestling with who he was vs. who he has become, and seeing them unfold over the series is an emotional experience.  The relationship between the two leads is fun, but also painful, to read, tender and heartbreaking.  I can’t say too much, for spoiler reasons, but their relationship and how it influences the stories, each other, and other characters is one of my favorite parts of the series.

Speaking of other characters, there are many in this series, and almost every one of them appears in more than one story.  Main characters become side characters; side characters become main characters, and no named character is ever truly forgotten.  Some characters present in the beginning few stories even end up playing pivotal roles in the last two.  I loved seeing how Nomura constantly brought back characters, giving the series a more realistic touch.  After all, just because one story ends doesn’t mean the lives of its characters do.  Also, none of characters change immediately but over several volumes, a process often overlooked with side characters.

Another beautiful element is the writing style.  Konoha narrates the stories in an intimate, first person voice that really portrays his character and the emotions he feels throughout the story.  While the translation is a bit clumsy compared to the Japanese, the translators did an excellent job overall of capturing Nomura’s character’s voice.

Nomura also knows how to structure her stories… for the most part.  I won’t deny that the endings or solutions of some of the stories stretched my belief a bit too far, but overall she builds her stories well.  Tension mounts without breaking, except for a quick bit of humor that rarely (if ever) feels forced, and the twists she incorporates are well done.  Some twists are better built up than others, but none of them really fails, in my opinion, to have at least some impact.

So now that I’ve covered a few technical aspects of the series, I wish to spend a bit touching on my two favorite elements of these stories.  The first is Touko.  Yes, she’s my favorite character, but she’s also my favorite part of the stories, too.  I love how goofy she is, but also her intelligence, imaginative and emotional intelligence that is.  When she isn’t too distracted, Touko has excellent critical thinking skills, and the reason she is able to solve problems she encounters is due to her imaginative intelligence, using her knowledge of literature and her imagination to draw connects and lead her to truth.  As a character, Touko presents a great example of how imagination isn’t just “fancy” but can actually help one reach truth, a lesson many in our “scientific” age have forgotten.  In addition, Touko displays a strong emotional intellect.  Sure, she often gets caught up in her own desires or naivety/optimism, which usually makes her do something foolish, but she’s sensitive to other’s emotional states and displays time and again wisdom in interacting with others, even if she may not be conscious of it.  She wants what’s best for everyone, even if it might be painful.

My second favorite aspect of this series is Nomura’s handling of serious examples of brokenness and sin in the world.  And, as a warning to any potential readers, this series is dark and contains, or at least touches on, objectionable content, including but not limited to: suicide, murder, incest, abuse, divorce, prostitution, sex outside of marriage, and homosexuality.  Before you completely disregard this series because of this list, I wish to say that Nomura usually strikes a good balance on these topics, not dwelling too long on them nor taking any of them lightly.  On the other hand, some readers might be frustrated at times with Nomura’s addressing of these subjects.  Some she condemns, some she permits, and others she leaves ambiguous (though in some of the circumstances, I appreciate the abiguity rather than clumsily trying to squeeze in a speech somewhere and becoming preachy).  

Furthermore, as Nomura doesn’t approach these topics from a Judeo-Christian worldview, her solutions to some of the problems are not always satisfactory.  For example, her *spoiler* arguments against suicide, which amount to “we’ll find some reason to live, together” and “a person is more than one moment or work”, while true statements, I thought were weak.  Unlike authors such as G. K. Chesterton, Nomura doesn’t, or in a way can’t, take the position that this world in itself is worth living for, that it is a wonderful creation worth fighting for.  She doesn’t address the selfishness and cowardice of suicide or how it’s an insult against God by purposefully marring His image and His creation while “spiritually, he destroys the world” (Chesterton 73). Obviously you don’t need to hold a Christian worldview to understand and convince others that suicide is wrong (Thank God!), and Nomura’s arguments, like I said, are true, but without a proper foundation, they can be easily ignored or topple with just a little bit of thought.  Though what can be expected from someone starting from a shaky foundation herself.

Even though I say that, and even with my frustration as Nomura’s handling of some topics, there is one thing she does for which I have no end to my appreciation: every action has a consequence.  None of the actions I described above or other poor decisions, are treated flippantly and most often causes more harm than most stories I’ve read are willing to expose.  Take, as an example, a topic often glanced over here in the west, divorce.  Nomura doesn’t take the route of “it’s fine” or “just let us grownups do what we want, you’ll get over it no problem” or any other such glaze on divorce, as if it were a perfectly normal course of events and all the kid needs is just to spend some quality time with whichever parent, or any of those sorts of things.  With divorce in this series, the emphasis is on the kid, and it is not sugar-coated at all.  All I can say is I hope the character involved is an extreme case.  Actions have consequences, and here is the West, we can often downplay or even skip over those consequences.  However, Nomura doesn’t, not with anything.  Such a consequence-heavy series, where so much of the conflict in fact revolves around consequences and poor acknowledgement of these results, was a welcome contrast to most stories I experience in the mainstream today.

And so, even with its large flaws, I love this series.  I love the characters and Nomura’s writing style and ability.  Though her lack of clarity in regards to certain sins I know to not be satisfactory, her manner of approach and refusal to brush away results and consequences makes up for it.  Dark but sweet, broken but searching for beauty and hope, I can’t recommend this series enough.

¹Nomura, Mizuki.  Book Girl and the Suicidal Mime.  New York: Yen Press.  2010.  Print.


² Chesterton, G. K.  Orthodoxy.  New York: Doubleday.  1990.  Print.

Personal Musings: Fairytale Females and Formulas

Disney got it wrong.

I wish I could just stop there, but I suppose I’ll need to explain and support my assertion, won’t I?

First, we need some clarification.  What do I mean by “Disney got it wrong”?  This question is best answered by another question: what is the stereotypical “fairytale princess” (from now on FP)?  Some of the most common descriptions I hear go along the lines of “waiting for prince charming”, “helpless”, “an accessory or prize”, “love at first sight”, “true love’s kiss”, “flawless”, and the list goes on.  A good summary of the stereotypical FP is Disney’s song from Cinderella, “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes”:  “No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing/  The dream that you wish will come true.” ¹ In other words, just believe and it will all work out.  This is the idea splashed upon every fairytale female (FF), whether she’s actually a princess or not.  They are then stuck into a formula of “FP is in trouble but does nothing, Prince Charming comes to the rescue, they live happily ever after despite the FP having done nothing to earn her own ending”.  Simple, right?

As I’m sure you know, starting most notably with the Disney Renaissance (though really present earlier), and continuing on till today in such films as Shrek and Frozen and so many books and games I could never count them all, the FP and this “fairytale formula” has been “subverted” and replaced by more complex stories and characters, to the praise of the people at the toppling of weak angels who need men to solve all their problems because they can’t do anything… which would be fine except for one little detail.

The stereotypes are WRONG!

Helpless?  In “Rumpelstiltskin”, the girl makes a deal with the devil to get out of a life-threatening situation forced upon her by her stupid father and a not-so-charming prince and then does all she can to fight the devil himself.  And that’s only a negative example of an FF taking action.

True love’s kiss?  Almost non-existent (fyi, there isn’t a kiss in “Snow White”)

Prince Charming to the rescue?  Puh-lease!  In the few stories which actually contain him, the prince is almost always a tool.  Not to mention the numerous times it’s the girl who saves the day (“Handsel and Gretel”, “Beauty and the Beast”, “The Wild Swans”, “Rapunzel”, “The Snow Queen”, need I say more?).

Flawless?  Read “The Virgin Mary’s Child”.

Happily ever after?  “The Little Mermaid”.

I could go on, but I think it’s time to go a little deeper.  How about one of the stories Disney got mostly right and which I mentioned earlier, “Cinderella”.*

“Cinderella” has become a poster child of sorts for the anti-FP stance.  Typically, I’ve heard her described as a girl who doesn’t anything to help herself, just waiting for her fairy godmother and the prince to rescue her, and if you’ve only see Disney’s movie, with Cinderella staring at the castle, singing her “just believe” song, I can understand.  I won’t even argue against Cinderella being basically flawless and only getting out of her situation because someone else rescues her.  However, these “flaws” are either non-existent or actually positives, not problems.  What do I mean?

Let’s begin with Cinderella herself.  In the story, she is not waiting for anyone to save her.  There’s none of this “oh, just wish and believe” or “if only Prince Charming would come save me”.  No.  Cindy isn’t waiting to be rescued; it doesn’t even occur to her.  “But,” you might ask, “doesn’t this mean she’s just passively accepting her fate and not doing anything to change her situation?”  Well, yes and no.  Yes, Cinderella isn’t really doing anything to change her situation, at least not outwardly, but that doesn’t mean she’s passively resigning herself to whatever comes her way.

This brings me back to Cinderella as “flawless”.  In the story, Cinderella is a virtuous person.  Cinderella's father has died.  Her stepmother holds rightful authority but then abuses her power and treats her stepdaughter as a servant while allowing her own daughters to behave cruelly against Cinderella.  Cinderella, in contrast to our heavily individualistic, rights-driven culture, obeys her mother.  Yes, her mother is treating her horribly, though not nearly so bad as her step siblings do, but they are not threatening her life, only insulting her.  In submitting to proper authority and not repaying insult with injury, Cinderella does the right thing.

I’m sure many of you have had a bad boss.  He (or she, see stepmother above) might treat you like trash, call you names, infringe upon your “rights”, but so long as he doesn’t (a) illegitimately endanger life (which includes sexual and physical harassment) or (b) demand violation of the Moral Law, Christ made the proper response clear: “Give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s” (NIV Mark 12: 17) and “If someone slaps you on one cheek, turn the other also.  If someone takes your coat, do not withhold your shirt” (Luke 6: 29).  Paul then expands on these responses in his letter to the Romans, saying, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.  Do not take revenge… for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.” (Romans 12: 18-19) and “Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established…. Give to everyone what you owe: If you owe taxes, pay taxes; if revenue, then revenue; if respect, then respect; if honor, then honor” (Romans 13: 1, 7).  Christianity demands proper submission to authority and overcoming “evil with good” (Romans 12: 21).²

Now, clarification time for myself.  I’m not a pacifist, nor do I support letting government run rampant and destroy society.  If you are being sexually or physically harassed or threatened, defend yourself.  Paul fled from those who wished to kill him (Acts 9: 23-25), and Christ Himself used violence in response to the mistreatment of God's house (John 2:13-16).²  However, I am against rebellion or fighting unless  in extreme cases like self-defense and when other avenues have been exhausted.  Fight abuse of power, but do so through lawful means and persuasion, through virtue.  Rebellion and violence are last resorts.

Cinderella provides an example.  Her case isn’t so extreme she must fight.  Yes, she’s being mistreated and humiliated, but rather than repay evil for evil, Cindy does something unexpected and instead endures everything with grace, showing herself superior in virtue.  In other words, Cinderella symbolizes fortitude, a kind of courage that involves patient endurance.  It’s a quiet, subtle way of fighting.  Another way of putting it is Cinderella is the Martin Luther King Junior of fairytales, and we would never call him “helpless” or “lacking initiative”.

For anyone still doubting this characterization of Cinderella, consider this.  Although Cinderella allows herself to be mistreated, she never lets this treatment impact her dignity.  When the invitation comes to attend the ball, she asserts her position as a member of the family, showing she still views herself not as a servant, but as a proper member of the household.  Then, it is only when her step sisters try to strip her of her identity and dignity does the fairy godmother arrive.

Okay, let’s recap.  Cinderella as a character is not a passive do-nothing waiting for someone to come save her.  She isn’t expecting to be saved.  Instead, she exhibits fortitude, patient endurance, by properly submitting to authority and refusing to avenge herself without letting herself be degraded as a person.  Now, after her stepfamily attacks even that, a miracle happens.  Her fairy godmother arrives and offers Cinderella the chance to go to the ball (and notice, our “passive princess” doesn’t sit in her tower waiting for her prince but takes the chance when given), Cindy meets the prince, loses her slipper, is locked away when her stepmother realizes it was Cinderella at the ball, Cindy breaks out (again, active resistance when the line is crossed), the shoe fits, and that’s the end.  Right?

Not exactly.  You see, Disney can get a little… squeamish at times and reject aspects of the fairytale that might seem “too dark”, which, unfortunately, can distort the theme of the story.  This is where Disney really got “Cinderella” wrong.  See, “Cinderella” is not a story of “believe and it will all work out”.  It’s a story about perfect justice: everyone gets what they deserve.  In Cinderella’s case, she has repaid humiliation and mistreatment with virtue and is rewarded (note: the prince is a reward, not a rescuer) with stability and honor for the rest of her life.  What about her stepsisters?  Well in the original fairytale, the stepsisters are convinced by their mother to cut off parts of their feet to fit the slipper and/or get their eyes gorged out by birds…. Yeah.  In the end, everyone gets what they deserve.

Unfortunately, “Cinderella” is not the only fairytale with a weakened protagonist and/or themes.  “The Little Mermaid” is actually a cautionary tale about a foolish girl who desires a human prince so much she resorts to witchcraft.  When things don’t turn out how she wants though, she wants to return to the sea, but to do so, she must kill the prince.  Instead of murder someone to reclaim her own happiness, the little mermaid throws herself into the sea and dies.  In “Snow White”, the titular character is an innocent 6-year-old who is loved for her beauty, kindness, and innocence, the same strengths that end in her nearly being killed three times by her wicked stepmother; the story is a tale of true beauty vs. false beauty and, again, justice (the wicked stepmother is executed at the end).  “The Princess and the Frog” is a story about honesty and keeping promises, not winning a prince through a lucky draw or how what you need most is a significant other (apparently Tiana doesn't love her mom and friend?).  And I could just go on and on about fairytales that don’t really fit the “fairytale formula” in terms of message, plot execution, characters, etc.  It’s not hard at all.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I love Disney movies, and I'm not at all against adaptations or retellings.  Involving different interpretations of the characters or incorporating different themes can be fine, too.  However, when the theme is significantly weakener, or even false, because the changes made, I think we might want to take a step back and examine things a bit more.

In conclusion, the original subverters of the “fairytale formula” and the “fairytale princess” are, actually, the fairytales themselves.  Fairytales are far from the formula often attributed to them, as are their famous “princesses”.  I only wish I could cover more details on the complexity of these “simple children’s stories”: the building of plots, the happy ending, more on family dynamics and symbolism, fairytales with male leads, dangers, morals, the subtle hints at strengths and flaws of characters, and so much more.  But that’d need a book, or at least a 70-page essay; fairytales are a bit too diverse and complicated to contain within a single blog post.

For more on fairytales, I highly suggest reading J. R. R. Tolkien’s fabulous essay “On Fairy Stories”.

For an expansion of proper submission to authority and responses to ills done to us, I suggest this radio recording by Dr. Robert B. Sloan: https://hbu.edu/About-HBU/General-Information/University-Leadership/Presidents-of-HBU/Dr-Robert-B-Sloan-Jr/Sloan-Radio/A-Higher-Education-radio/March-2015/Obligations-of-Patriotism-pt-1.aspx

*Note: In this post, I describe only a common version of the tale of "Cinderella". There are variations of this story, such as Cinderella’s father not dying, the ball lasting three nights instead of one, and Cinderella getting her clothes and slipper from birds rather than a fairy, but none of these differences impact the theme “Cinderella” or her character.  I have found the same applies to most, if not all, variations on fairytales.

¹Woods, Ilene.  "A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes" by Al Hoffman, Jerry Livingston, Mack David. Cinderella.  Walt Disney Records: Burbank,  2012.  CD.


²The Holy Bible, Today's New International Version TNIV.  Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005.  Print.

Personal Musings: Are You a Mary Sue?

I ask that title seriously.  Are you, as a person, a Mary/Gary Sue?

If your answer is “no”, then what’s with the stereotype against self-inserts?  If you are actually inserting yourself into a story, how could the character be a Mary Sue if you, yourself, are not?  I contend that the issue is not so much that self-inserts are Mary Sues, but rather we have a poor use of the term “self-insert”.

I wish to begin by pointing out that self-inserts fall under two categories: the “sideline” types and “author-character” types.  For the first category, the best I can describe at this moment is that the “sideline” self-insert is one where the author is a more an observer rather than an impactful character in the events surrounding him.  Such stories include Dante in his Divine Comedy and C. S. Lewis in The Great Divorce.  (By the way, where are the people accusing Dante and Lewis of Gary Sue-ing?)  The other type of self-insert is what could be perhaps called the “author-character” insert, where there’s a character that’s supposed to be, or obviously represents, the author while acting as a regular member of the cast rather than the observers Dante and Lewis are in their stories.  It is with this second form that most people protest.

Let’s begin by addressing what I’ve heard called the “superhuman” or “flawless” character issue.  If the main character is flawless and breezes through everything, never fails, never seems to struggle, then there isn’t any tension and, consequently, often destroys interest from the reader.  In other words, it’s hard to make flawless/nearly flawless characters interesting.  I don’t say impossible, mind you.  Virtuous, flawless characters can be engaging, but (1) those virtuous characters still struggle, just in a different way than the flawed character, and (2) paraphrasing one kind of Japanese beauty, flaws are a way of adding beauty/interest to a character.  Flaws help prevent a character from being invincible.

Unfortunately, so-called “self-inserts” commonly fall under the category of the invincible protagonist.  The creator thinks of everything he wishes to be able to do or admires, slaps them all together, throws in the list of his own likes and dislikes, and sometimes even gives said conglomeration his own name.  The end result is an  flawless bore fest that matches everything the creator wishes to be.  I know.  I’ve made such characters.

But here’s the thing… this idealization isn’t actually the creator.  It’s an ideal.  It’s how the author wishes to be, not how the author is, and if the creation doesn’t match the reality of the creator, can we legitimately call it a self-insert?  I don’t think so.  If the only similarity is matching likes/dislikes, appearance, and perhaps a few vague similarities in strengths or personality, it’s still an idealization rather than a resemblance of the author.   If there’s someone with similar appearance and interests to me, is that person me?  What about if we have some similar strengths and personality points?  No.  That’s just my mom.  Seriously.  But even with our similarities, we aren’t the same person.  In the same vein, an author can insert an idealized version of himself into a story, but that isn’t really a self-insert.  Anyone of any personality could insert such a character into a story, with the exact same traits.  Whether or not there are similarities to the author is superfluous.

On the other hand, if an author actually did insert himself into his story, if the author is honest with himself, you might have the most real character you could ever have.  For instance, a self-insert of my present self would be someone who is intelligent, serious, creative, dedicated, generally rational, and loves language and cheesy, innocent shoujo manga and romances (among other things), but who also tends towards indecisiveness, insecurity, pessimism, pride, bitterness, social disconnect/awkwardness, flip-flopping between bluntness and evasiveness, and fear.  And, yes, in writing a story I probably have to simplify the character from myself a bit and would likely have to make my self-insert either overcome some of those flaws that, at the time of my writing, I still contain, or make the character succumb further to those flaws in order to bring progress to the plot.  However, those flaws and strengths would still influence the actions my self-insert takes throughout the story, especially if I honestly ask myself “how might I respond to this situation?” rather than “how do I think I should respond?”, which is a question to save for the end.  And only I, among all other humans, can truly know the answers.

I wish I was different.  I wish I could be charismatic, brave, justice-seeking, poetic, kind, caring, empathetic, and a whole bunch of other things.  But if I’m honest with myself, those qualities aren’t me, just my idealization.  The real me is listed in the paragraph above.  And if those qualities make me a Mary Sue, well, what am I supposed to say?  Apparently I could never make a compelling character.  

So, summary time: self-insert characters, real self-inserts that actually mirror the author, are not necessarily bad and would probably be engaging, realistic characters.  The problem is a perfect/idealized character, who doesn’t have to (and often doesn’t) resemble the author at all.  Such figures are not real self-inserts, for they are not the author actually inserting himself into the story.  So let’s stop using inaccurate terms and address the real issues, shall we?

All stories mentioned (c) their respective creators

Reviews and Recommendations: Lord Peter Mysteries by Dorothy Sayers

So, before we begin, I apologize for missing last week’s update.  I dislike giving excuses unless something was legitimately unavoidable, so I’ll just summarize as “I forgot”.  And that’s it.  Now, onward!

Quiz time!  How many classic masters of mystery do you know?  I’m guessing most know only two: Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie.  When compared to the list of classic novelists, this list seems rather… sparse.  Personally, I can understand.  First of all, the birth of mystery as a distinct genre is relatively recent, most often credited to Edgar Allen Poe (that’s mid 1800s, by the way).  Furthermore, the very genre is most often built around the question “who did it”, and once that question is answered, the story often loses some of its appeal.  My prime example is The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux, but I’m sure you readers of mystery can think of a few yourselves.  For the most part, mystery seems like an expendable genre.  And that’s coming from someone who loves mysteries.

Fortunately, however, there are exceptions.  One such exception is Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which is so well written in such elements as atmosphere and foreshadowing that the story pulls the reader in even after the mystery is solved.  Another exceptional example, and the topic of this weeks post, is Dorothy Sayer’s Lord Peter Mystery Series.

Dorothy Sayers lived in the early to mid 1900s and was a friend of C. S. Lewis, who admired her work, and his fellow Inklings.  Her most mentioned works, to my knowledge, are her article “The Lost Tools of Learning” and her book The Mind of the Maker, both excellent reads.  However, of what I’ve read, the works of hers I like best are her mysteries starring debonair amateur detective, Lord Peter Wimsey.

My first praise for this series is the beauty of the writing.  Sayers knows how to write good prose.  The sentences flow together, hiccups are few if any, and there are so many clever, quotable lines.  Sayers, in her book The Mind of the Maker and in more than one of her fictions, emphasizes the importance of vocation.  She holds that if someone is called to a work, then that person should strive for excellence in his or her craft.  Sayers lives that out with her writing.

More of her skill can be seen in how Sayers constructs her mysteries.  Sayers knows how to pace a mystery, how to instill a good frustration in the reader to mirror the characters’, when to include red herrings, when to slip in clues, and how to bring about the resolution.  And when I say “slip in clues”, I mean it.  In every Lord Peter mystery I’ve read, Sayers has always made her cases solvable, sometimes even outright stating the key clue.  Sometimes this key is near the end, sometimes at the beginning, sometimes the full implication of that clue might need some more obscure knowledge, sometimes it stares in the face of the audience right till the end, but it’s always been there in every novel I’ve read, hidden in plain sight.  Another nice aspect of her mysteries is how they are chronological and pass in real time.  The full benefit of this I will describe in a bit.  In addition to Sayer’s skillful insertion of clues, she also manages to make her mysteries believable.  I’ve read some mysteries where the solution is logical on paper but sounds ridiculous when you think about it (really, final death in And Then There Were None?  Really?).  Sayers mysteries are grounded.  Every solution makes sense.  That simple logic in her mysteries is very much appreciated.

And now, onto my favorite ingredient in Sayer’s mystery recipe: the characters.

First, a dash of Wimsey.  Lord Peter Wimsey is an aristocrat, the second son to a noble family, with too much time on his hands and a talent for sniffing out trouble.  In fact, he runs towards it.  Though his proud and rather vain at times, the witty optimist Wimsey is just fun to follow.  Furthermore, his impulsive actions do not go without consequence.  Reading his reactions when they happen and then in future books is… not a delight, as often the consequences are terrible, but the closest to delight as can be reached under the circumstances.  The manner in which he changes is also quite refreshing.  If you compare the Wimsey of Whose Body? with that of Gaudy Night, you can feel the difference.

The reason for this change, I think, is mainly due to his relationships.  Surrounding Wimsey is a great supporting cast, of which I will mention three: the police officer and designated “dasher of Wimsey’s theories”, Charles Parker, the faithful friend and butler, Bunter, and the intelligent and blunt, Harriet Vane.  I love these characters.  And I adore the interactions between these characters and Wimsey.  Parker helps keep Peter grounded with his no-nonsense attitude, Harriet is a fellow intellectual who is not afraid to critique Wimsey and encourage him to change and grown, and Bunter… oh, Bunter!  He’s my favorite!  Without Bunter, Wimsey would get nowhere.  It is Bunter who gathers much of the information, who does the forensic work, and is really the detective’s rock.  If Peter is the forerunner to Batman (yes, the first Batman comic was published after the first Lord Peter Wimsey mystery), then Bunter would be Alfred.  Except he’s, I can’t believe I’m saying this, better than Alfred!  At from what I’ve seen, as not only does Bunter keep Peter standing, but he also acts as an indispensable aid to Peter’s detective work.  His first name is also Mervyn, so he gets extra points.  I love Bunter.

And there you have it.  A spoiler-free gushing about Dorothy Sayer’s mystery series.  A few words of caution in closing, though: although there’s nothing explicit, there are occasional instances of sexual immorality.  There’s also some cursing, though, again, nothing beyond a PG to PG-13 type rating.  Just don’t read it to the tykes.

So, yeah, if you like mystery, check this series out.  If you like novels, check this series out, for it holds much more appeal than mere mystery.  These are fictions in which Sayers lived out the theology she held and the demands she made of other artists.  To put it shortly: they are written with excellence.

All works mentioned here (c) their respective owners... which in this case is all Dorothy Sayers

Spoiler Shelf: Phantom vs. Faces (Round 1)

Yes, you read that title correctly.  This week, we have part one of a two-part examination of Leroux Gaston’s The Phantom of the Opera and C. S. Lewis’s Till We Have Faces.  Any who have read my past posts know I prefer Faces to Phantom, as I hold that Lewis’s story triumphs over Leroux’s in all facets of literary and storytelling element.  This post and the next will only delve into one, however: twisted love in both stories.  Under that category, I will address two main aspects characters/relationships and the endings of the stories.

So, let’s begin with mutual summaries of the plots, for those who might have forgotten or might be uninitiated.  

The Phantom of the Opera tells of an opera viscount, Raoul, and his love for an opera singer, Christine.  The two, childhood friends, reunite after several years and rekindle (or stoke) their affections for each other, but in the background is Eric, the titular Phantom, who also loves Christine with an obsessive passion, and he is willing to do anything to make her his.

Till We Have Faces is told by Orual, princess of Glome, who was rejected by those around her for her ugliness.  When she finally finds people who accept her, most notably her step-sister, Psyche, Orual finally finds happiness until the fateful day when Psyche is chosen as a sacrifice to the god of the mountain.  Orual travels to the place of sacrifice to give Psyche a proper burial but instead happily finds her sister alive and well .  The event becomes the trigger of Orual’s downfall as her twisted love destroys that which she wished to protect.

Now that we have crossed that ground, let’s begin with this post’s topic, the characters and their relationships, beginning with The Phantom of the Opera.

I cannot understand why Leroux told his story from Raoul’s viewpoint.  When compared to the Phantom, he is far less interesting, and I can’t help but see him as a lesser stalker.  Yes, we probably all know that the mad Phantom is an obsessive stalker, but Raoul is too.  After Christine rejects Raoul, a third party’s statement sends him chasing after her, hiding in the alleys of the streets on which she has been seen to catch a glimpse of her (Leroux 91-104).  I’ve been the target of similar actions, and it was NOT romantic.  There was a guy who took interest in me and started showing up wherever I went, even once entering my apartment without my permission with the support of a “helpful” third party.  The whole situation terrified me.  I felt hunted.  Thankfully the guy was genuinely nice, so when I eventually did confront him, he stopped.  It’s one thing to go to a social event when you hear your crush is going to be there; it’s another to chase after her wherever she goes at the event, any other place, or wherever!  Especially if she’s already said she doesn’t want to see you anymore, as Christine did.

It even felt as though Leroux was trying to justify Raoul, as Christine pretty much just brushes it off.  Furthermore, his suspicions of Christine’s being in a dangerous situation prove true, as if that makes his stalking and jealousy all better.  Seriously, guys (and girls), if you’re afraid your crush might be in a bad situation, mention it to the person directly.  Stalking is just no.

A similar situation of suspicion arrises in Faces, after Psyche has said she is the wife to a god.  Orual understandably struggles with the situation.  She knows the girl to be mentally sound but also fully convinced of what she has declared.  After a couple chapters of mental wrestling and discussion with her other two important relationships, her Greek tutor, the Fox, and her sword instructor and royal guard, Bardia, Orual concludes either Psyche to be duped by a thug or married to a monster.  In the end, Orual tells herself, it doesn’t matter which.  Psyche must be saved!  But this intervention, completely against Psyche’s will and only accomplished by driving the girl into a corner, brings nothing but disaster.  Orual tramples Psyche’s will, as well as assumes away some other evidence presented to her, and forces intervention because it was for Psyche’s “own good” (Lewis 117-174). 

While Raoul’s assumptions prove correct, his intervention also was forced.  Intervention can be good, especially in life-threatening situations, but it can be bad or even dangerous, especially if you’re backing the other person into a corner because you “know better.”  Even before evidence arises that Christine's life might be in danger, Raoul assumes it to be so and tries to intervene.  He should have let her make her adult choices and feel the repercussions rather than push his “help” on her.  Eventually, should he only have sought friendship with her, she might have sought him out anyway, or she might have had to face the consequences of her foolishness, but we'll never know, will we?

This hints towards another of Raoul’s negatives; he is self-centered and self-righteous.  When Christine rejects him, saying it would be dangerous for him, he accuses her of purposely leading him on and slanders her to her face (91, 111).  Also, he enters Christine’s dressing room when she isn’t there (for the second time, I might add) and pouts after another rejection.  Then, when Christine returns, Raoul hides in her closet and upon hearing her utter “Poor Erik” immediately resents her, saying that he is the one deserving of pity, not this “Erik” person. (Leroux 112-114).  Raoul cares more about his own feelings than anyone else.  He’s even willing to kill to satisfy his own emotional longing.  When the Phantom spies on Raoul from the Viscount’s bedroom balcony and Raoul shoots at the Phantom, Raoul is questioned about the situation, and he says it was his “love rival” at whom he shot and that it’s a “pity” that Erik wasn’t killed (162-165).  I believed Raoul shot in self-defense until those two quotes.  Rather than an innocent lover, Raoul is like the Phantom, obsessive, possessive, and willing to do anything to obtain his desired Christine.

Now, I have read it claimed that this negative portrayal of foolish Raoul was intended by Leroux and that it was rather Christine’s relationship with Erik that held greater depth and importance.  My rebuttal to this is, if that was the case, then (1) why wasn’t the story told from Erik’s viewpoint, and (2) why did Raoul win?  By following Raoul, we are privy to all his selfish thoughts.  If we had followed the Phantom, not only could we have actually seen some of this assumed depth with Christine, Raoul could have been foolish and naive without being creepy.  He could have simply been a hopeless romantic, but by being in Raoul’s thoughts, we are exposed to how horrible he is.  And yet, he gets the girl.  Unless Leroux intended some (too) well camouflaged satire, this story’s ending, where Raoul and Christine live happily ever after, promotes twisted, possessive love (more on that next week).  Such a result I cannot accept, as it goes against the compassionate, self-sacrificing love to which Christians are called.

Let’s now turn to Orual and Psyche.  Orual loves Psyche, both in a motherly and sisterly sense, but it’s a selfish, possessive love.  Psyche, on the other hand, loves Orual but does not idolize their relationship.  She stands against Orual even when Orual thinks her crazy.  It is only when Orual threatens to kill herself that Psyche breaks (Lewis 158-167).  In my opinion, this actually shows that Psyche, too, loved her sister too much in that she disobeyed the god’s one command for the sake of her manipulative sister, but it also shows Psyche’s willingness to sacrifice for the sake of those she loves.  Psyche does not put her own good before Orual’s while Orual preys on this love, tainting it, as she does every instance of love in her life.

Speaking of other relationships, let’s look back at Raoul.  In Phantom, Raoul’s most important relationships are with Christine and his older brother.  By pursuing Christine and the Phantom, Raoul worries his brother, the brother wondering if his younger sibling might be crazy.  Eventually the brother, trying to stop Raoul’s foolishness, dies by the Phantom’s hands.  For all we know, this means nothing to Raoul, for we never see or hear about any reaction.  For the sake of his desre, Raoul destroys his close relationship with his brother and, as if it means nothing, goes and somehow lives a happy life with Christine, as if that relationship alone were invincible.  

In total contrast, all of Orual’s relationships crumble due to her possessive, obsessive love.  She frees the Fox from his position as a slave, but despite his longing to return to Greece, he remains with Orual.  Why?  Because she asks, she admits, like a child, “Do they mean you’ll leave me?  Go away?”  He speaks of his desire, a desire stronger than fear of death, to see his homeland, but after a while he changes his mind, this time using that danger of death as an excuse to stay (Lewis 207-210).  He loves Orual.  When she, now queen, makes herself so vulnerable to him, how could he, the loving tutor and grandfather figure that he is, leave her?  And so, he remains her captive. With Bardia, Orual develops romantic love for him, but Bardia is devoted to his wife, and Orual knows she cannot compete.  Instead, she shackles him to his work, draining him and leaving him too tired to spend time with his family (258-261).  She wants Bardia, so she keeps him to herself however she can, poisoning any pure love for him she might have held.  All her close relationships, Psyche, the Fox, and Bardia, Orual’s possessiveness twists.  She tries to “protect” Psyche but threatens and manipulates her; she “frees” the Fox but keeps him on a leash; she “loves” Bardia but destroys his health and happiness.  Every relationship Orual touches withers as she sucks all the love out of them like a parasite.

This is how a twisted view of love truly works.  It cannot be isolated.  It must spread, poisoning every relationship.  And that is one reason why Till We Have Faces surpasses The Phantom of the Opera.



Leroux, Gaston.  The Phantom of the Opera.  London: Penguin Group.  2008.  137.  Print.

Lewis, C. S.  Till We Have Faces.  New York: Houghton Harcourt Publishing Company.  1984.  Print.

Personal Musings: Returning to Middle Earth

A couple months back, I was browsing through my twitter feed when a retweet for someone’s blog post arrested my interest, one written by a Miz Sarah Harian and titled “Moral Ambiguity in New Adult: We’re Not in Middle Earth Anymore.”  I assume that, just based on that title, you might have pieced together the topic of this post: morality in fiction.

Okay, time for a disclaimer.  This is not a response post.  Truth be told, this essay arose merely by reading the title of the afore mentioned blog post.  By the time I actually read said post, I had already formulated what I wished to say here, and, in acknowledgement to the retweet that sparked it, I referenced it in the title.  That is the only intentional connection.  If you wish to know more about the post, I linked to it through its title for you.  Go read it.  While I definitely don’t agree with everything Miz Harian says in her post, I do think there’s some good material to chew on in there.  That said, please do not take my post as confronting Miz Harian’s post.  That is not my purpose, nor will I do a very good job.  Now, back to the regularly scheduled blog post.

Morality in fiction is… complicated, especially for the Judeo-Christian, who recognizes the existence of objective moral truth.  Such an understanding of morality in the morally relativistic world of today is often labeled as old, flat, less interesting, too easy, etc.  I have read such views many times.  In today’s books, the audience appears to desire “gray morals,” with the lines of morality, especially in “adult” fiction, blurred, sometimes even beyond recognition and remembrance, and/or villains are sympathetic, sometimes even more so than the heroes.  Attempts to make villains truly evil, like J. R. R. Tolkien’s Sauron or C. S. Lewis’s White Witch, rather than just mistaken or unfortunate can get written off as constructing a “mustache-twirling, cape-wearing, ‘muhahahah’ villain who’s only goal is to rule the world because EVIL!”  Nope!  Villains must be fully fleshed out characters, too, with hidden motivations and/or tragic pasts or else they are joke.

Or are they?

If this “old school” portrayal of morals, without much moral ambiguity (if any), is so inferior, why do people still gravitate to them?  Why do people still read, year after year, Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, traveling to Middle Earth, where there are clear goods and evils?  Why do people still write such stories?  Why does this perception of morality thrive?

For the Judeo-Christian worldview, the answer is simple.  People invest in stories portraying objective moral rights and wrongs because there are objective moral rights and wrongs.  The reason humans dive into stories where pure good battles, and eventually defeats, pure evil is because, every day, every minute, every second, every moment God (pure good), in the most awesome, most truly epic or all stories, battles, and defeats, Satan (pure evil).  That reality validates the traditional relationship of heroes and villains.  Now, these “binary” stories still need to be well written, and I think a lack of skill probably contributed to the rejection of the “pure evil villain” archetype.  However, such is required of the “complex villain.”  both simple villains and complex villains, both clear morals lines and “gray” morality, can tell excellent stories, and I think we need both types.

Sometimes it truly is not clear what is the correct moral choice.  Is killing ever permissible?  Is stealing ever right?  Is revenge just?  What is justice?  When given the choice between saving your friend and saving a stranger from death, what is the right thing to do?  These are all hard questions that involve at least a closer look at the lines of morality.  However, “hard” does not mean “disproving.”  Man is fallen, as is his reason and ability to discern right from wrong, but that does not change their existence.  Even “gray,” “sympathetic” villains can be shown to be objectively wrong.

Returning to Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, C. S. Lewis, in his review of the story, had this to say:

Motives, even in the right side, are mixed.  Those who are now traitors usually began with comparatively innocent intentions.  Heroic Rohan and imperial Gondor are partly diseased.  Even the wretched Smeagol, till quite late in the story, has good impulses; and... what finally pushes him over the brink is an unpremeditated speech by the most selfless character of all.¹ 

We, as the audience, can see that a character is acting in an objectively immoral way.  Morality is clear.  Good and evil are not mixed; it is true, though, that once good people and nations are “diseased” and fell into evil.  On the other hand, Tolkien also does not deny that evil might begin with mistaken intentions or thoughtless words.  Even “binary” can be complex (just as a computer programer).  However, even with this complexity, Tolkien does not succumb to the idea that all villains and their cohorts must be “gray” or sympathetic to be good villains; within his story are clearly evil characters rejecting every miligram of our sympathy.

In conclusion, despite the cry for “more complex villains,” I think we still need stories of objectively evil villains and objectively good heroes.  We need reminders that there is true evil, and there is true good.   We still need Sauron, an embodiment of evil that wishes for the destruction and enslavement of all that is good, in battle with Aragorn, Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, and their friends, beacons of goodness and hope in the midsts of darkness.  At the same time, we need Smeagol, the wicked but pitiable, the one who gave into temptation and so destroyed himself.  We need Victor Hugo’s Javert, driven by justice and a desire to do what is right but mistaken in his zeal for justice, reminding us of the complexity and motivations of human beings.  Meanwhile, we need C. S. Lewis’s witch, Jadis, beautiful but cold and proud, a wicked woman who freezes all that is jovial and good in her yearning for power and control, to show us the destructive nature of sin.  We need Darth Vader, a young man deceived into villainy, and Emperor Palpatine, the deceiver.  We need the Joker, pure chaos and anarchy, and we need Mr. Freeze, driven by a desire to save his beloved wife.

Whatever villain, whatever story, we write, though, we must never give up on morality.  As Aragorn says to Éomer, even facing such times and events as theirs, one must judge what to do “As he has ever judged… Good and ill have not changed.”²  We have been on vacation from that truth long enough.  It’s about time we return home to Middle Earth.

¹ Lewis, C. S.  "Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings."  C. S. Lewis: Essay Collection & Other 
       Short Pieces.  Ed. Lesley Walmsley.  London: Harper Collins Publishers, 2000.  519-525.  Print.

² Tolkien, J. R. R.  The Two Towers.  New York: Ballantine Books, 1978.  Print.

All mentioned titles (c) their respective owners

Personal Musings: Unlikable Characters

Flaws make a fictional character more realistic.  I don’t think anyone is debating that point.  Far be it from me to claim that making characters more human prevents them from being more human.  However, there is a recent trend with which I do contend: the unlikable main character.

Now, before I go on, I have something thing to clarify: I don’t think all instances of the “unlikable main character” is negative.  There are examples I can think of, such as Charles Dickens's Mr. Scrooge and Shakespeare's Macbeth, who either start out unlikable or become so.  However, such instances usually present one of two cases: either it is a story of redemption for the unlikable character or the character starts out likable but gives in to temptation and becomes a villain.  In one story, we realize we may need to change just as Mr. Scrooge did; the other is a tragedy, where we not only wish for the downfall of evil but also see how no one, not even a hero like Macbeth, is invulnerable to corruption.  Both are powerful storytelling formats and deserve telling and retelling.

These are not the formats of which I speak.  What I mean are the unlikable characters who start out unlikable and end unlikable.  They don’t grow.  They don’t fall.  But often they win.  “But who would read a story with characters like that?” you may ask.  Well, not only is this not new (see Phantom of the Opera), but it’s even the character type of a very popular book right now.  No.  I don’t mean Twilight, though that is along the same lines.  The character I’m thinking of is the main character of Suzane Collins’s The Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen.  By the way, there will be spoilers for a few novels, so please keep that in mind.

Now then, before I speak about Katniss, please recall to your mind the classic romance, Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice.  I like this story.  It’s got an engaging plot with great characters, including two main leads where one, Elizabeth, begins likable and the other, Darcey, grows to be so as you learn more about him and his character.  Now, imagine that, instead of Mr. Darcey, our main male lead was Mr. Collins, and not only that, imagine the story is also told from his perspective.  Those who have read or seen Pride and Prejudice know just how obnoxious this man to be.  From the start I disliked him, and then every time I thought I had reached the pinnacle of my hatred for him, he would say or do something that raised my bar to a higher level.  Ironically, this revelation of how much I could hate a character settled Mr. Collins as my third favorite character in the story.  Everyone with whom I have discussed this book has felt similar concerning Mr. Collins (excluding the “3rd favorite character” thing); I only wish I could show you some of the expressions I have seen just by mentioning his name.

However, even though he is hated, I don’t think I’ve met anyone who said he should have been removed from the tale.  Yes, he is horrid, but he has a place in the story precisely as an unlikable character.  Each page containing Mr. Collins is like trudging through sludge, but he plays an important role as a man who is clearly not worthy of admiration but is, overall, harmless, a sharp contrast to the wicked Wickham, who is more charming but much more dangerous, and Mr. Darcey, whose outward appears irritating but beneath possesses the true nobility and character Wickham pretends.  In this relationship of contrasts, Mr. Collins is, in fact, important.  But what if he was the main character?  What is this man, who is so annoying and idiotic, were our “protagonist” and remained his same self the entire story?  I wish I could also show you the faces I’ve seen by suggesting such a concept.

And yet, this is the type of hero in many popular, and even some supposed classic, stories.  Coming back to The Hunger Games, Mr. Collins resembles the character of another Collins, Katniss.  Consider the parallels.  Both are inconsiderate, both are supposedly intelligent but act in very stupid manners (Really, Katniss?  You seriously think you’re the one special person who can get out from the cornucopia what you want without a scratch despite your mentor, who has prior experience, clearly telling you to stay away?), both are totally, unbelievably blind about another person’s romantic interest (or lack thereof), and both are disliked by just about everyone around them.  A main difference between the two is that Mr. Collins has so much pride that he can’t see that everyone dislikes him while Katniss has too little pride and just says right from the start that everyone dislikes her without really knowing why.

There are a few other flaws with Katniss I could mention, but I think it’s obvious my impression of her is negative.  I can’t even describe what her personality is, just that she has a lot of flaws.  Then, among all these flaws, she has pretty much no redeeming qualities, at least none of which I was persuaded.  Supposedly she’s smart and resourceful, but, as I addressed in the previous paragraph, Katniss seems determined to convince me otherwise.  She also supposedly cares for her family, but the lack of any substance in the opening chapters makes that hard for me to believe.

In my previous post, I mentioned how Beauty and the Beast depicts how it doesn’t take much to establish a believable familial connection, one which makes Beauty’s sacrifice for her father believable.  Katniss, on the other hand, complains about her mother, who is really only there to make Katniss seem more resourceful than she really is, and talks about how everyone loves her sister, of whom we know too little to care.  Actually, we learn more about her dead father than either of her living relatives, but he felt almost superfluous to the plot, and definitely to Katniss’s decision to act for her sister’s safety.  Between Beauty and her father, there is love.  With the Everdeens, there is nothing.  Katniss’s familial love, the quality that was supposed to be her motivation, rings hollow.

With Katniss, she began unlikable, consisting only of flaws and unconvincing strengths, and the list of flaws only grew as the story went on. So as I read, I only grew in my dislike for her (though not enough to make her paradoxically endearing like Mr. Collins).  I even wished that either Peeta or Rue win the Games, which would mean Katniss’s death.  When the reader wishes for the main character, for whom you are supposed to be rooting, to die so that another can live, I think there is something wrong.  Yet this is the character so commonly found in literature today.

Take as a contrast another popular character in recent fiction: Harry Potter.  In some of the later books, Potter because near unbearable.  I seriously wanted to slam the corner of The Goblet of Fire on his head.  I was so mad, but one reason I felt so angered was because I knew Harry was better that his actions.  I knew him to be above such treatment of other people and such foolish behavior.  He had been established as a courageous, kind, caring boy, yet here he was treating his friends so poorly.  I understood why he treated them as he did, but it was frustrating. I knew he was wrong, and he knew he was wrong, and his friends knew he was wrong, but we also knew Harry was more than the present person.  They and I knew Harry better than to throw him away because of his flawed reactions, that there was a good person and a good friend who really does care about others beneath all that frustration and panic and hormones.  Before Harry was unlikable, we saw his good qualities.  I knew I could cheer for him, wish and call for him to repent and be redeemed, to turn around and reclaim what he knew was right and act like I’d seen him do before, with courage and kindness.

Redemption is the key of the unlikable character.  Mr. Scrooge is redeemed.  Harry is redeemed multiple times.  Macbeth rejects all opportunity for redemption and eventually is destroyed by his own evil.  Even Mr. Collins is redeemed a bit, though only through the exposure of Wickham as the truly despicable of the two men.  Katniss receives chances to show character and to show reasons we should support her, attempted redemption if you will, but ends up, in her cluelessness, tripping over them and kicking them away without thinking.  She acts like Mr. Collins but gets Harry’s results.  That is the recipe for an unlikable disaster.

The Goblet of Fire (c) J. K. Rowling

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins

Macbeth (c) Shakespeare

Pride and Prejudice (c) Jane Austen