Letter #137: The Art of Life

In the Temple of Melancholy

Inestimably worthy son.

I confess I laughed a little when you quoted Philippians 4: “Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” Or “dwell on” such things, as you say.

I can’t tell you how many times this has been quoted to me as a rebuke to my criticism of smiley-face Christian art, an answer to my complaint that Christian culture has lost the tragic vision at the heart of the gospels — the incarnation of all goodness condemned, mocked, tortured, killed — and replaced it with what Schopenhauer derided as “banal optimism.”

You call yourself a Christian, such criticisms often begin. Then they list my own artistic sins: the violence, wickedness, sex, and foul language that sometimes appear in my novels. Then comes Philippians 4.

I sympathize. I do. But I stand my ground. And as this is my last email before our October essay, I will restate my case.

The Christly life is not one of sprightly nonsense, or willed blindness, but of tragic joy, joy in the midst of darkness. If we dwell on the beauty of creation, we must do it with full awareness of what that beauty has become. The forgiveness this requires, the letting go, the love — these are not things you speak into being. They are woven slowly and intentionally into the fabric of the soul by practice, prayer and ritual, until it learns to see the often bitter truth and yet rejoice. If that seems a sorrowful sort of rejoicing, I will paraphrase my favorite poet and remember that veiled melancholy has her sovereign shrine in the very temple of delight.

In fact, as I think about it, poetry — art in general — holds the key to what I’m saying.

The other day I was listening to a podcast in which charming left wingers talked about books and movies. I was struck by how rich and sophisticated their insights were and yet how devoid they were of moral considerations. This as opposed to conservatives, who always look for morals and messages in their art and condemn anything that falls short.

And I thought: this is why left wingers get life so wrong and art so right, while right wingers get life right and art wrong. Because life requires moral awareness, embedded in and reinforced by rules and rituals and traditions — the very things sophisticated leftists are so quick to cast aside.

Art though — art sees the beauty in everything, good and bad, sanctified, chaotic and unholy. It has as much delight in conceiving an evil Iago as a saintly Imogen, to paraphrase Keats yet again.

Christianity, then, is the art of life: a way to see it all as it truly is yet find it beautiful, even when that beauty is hidden behind the impenetrable curtain of death.

We have been told that beauty is there, after all, by one who should know.

Love,

Dad