On questioning why I have such a profound disinterest in the main characters of many pieces of media (tv shows in particular), I did a simple analysis: I took Aang, one of the many examples of a tv show protagonist I find uninteresting, and compared him to Dale Cooper, a protagonist I do find interesting. I should mention here that the distinction isn’t a setting or storytelling one, and that I have a deep love for both pieces of media. I should also mention that this analysis hasn’t given me anything resembling a comprehensive answer to this question, and that a definitive explanation as to why I like some main characters and find myself bored by others would likely take an analysis of a much wider roster. However, I have noted a major structural element to my preferences.

Aang, despite existing in a rather atypical setting, is for all intents and purposes a fairly generic fantasy protagonist. Aang is a chosen one whose ability to live anything resembling a normal life is permanently disrupted by the machinations of his enemies, and sets out into an unfamiliar world. I don’t think I need to provide examples to explain how common this narrative structure is, but Luke Skywalker is often invoked as another pretty typical example. Aang’s status as a “generic” protagonist isn’t what makes him the least interesting figure in an otherwise rather fascinating cast, at least not in so direct a sense. While I’m certain the “seen it before” aspect is a factor in my feelings, I’m more interested in the operative quality of this storytelling device. The value of this character-plotting relates to a narrative’s relationship to its own mysteries. Any high school teacher worth their salt will tell you that one of the primary functions of this kind of narrative is that it allows the protagonist to see the world through the same fresh eyes that the reader does, and to learn about the mysteries of the world alongside us. The ways in which this makes a text accessible are, of course, endlessly valuable.

However, the correspondence between the protagonist being exposed to the mysteries of the world and the viewer being exposed to them doesn’t need to be as total as Avatar: The Last Airbender gives us. Consider, for a moment, Dale Cooper: Yes, Coop is the lens through which we view the mystery of Laura Palmer’s murder, but he’s also deeply implicated in the mystery of how that murder corresponds to the more metaphysical aspects of the world they occupy. As someone who has seen the movie and season three might know, Cooper is not only an FBI agent, but is also a member of a mysterious group by the name of “The Blue Rose.” Without saying too much in the way of spoilers, the relationship between the US government and the unusual happenings occurring in the plot are a serious (and largely unexplained) point of intrigue in the narrative. In this way, Agent Cooper fulfills a narrative function that Aang doesn’t beyond the very first season of Avatar. In something of an inversion of how Aang’s narrative unfolds, the mystery around Agent Cooper only grows more profound as the story progresses.

While this kind of structure might make for a more fascinating protagonist, it’s worth discussing its biggest drawback as well. Something that’s become apparent with this comparison is that a Cooper-style protagonist would be far more difficult to pull off in a more fantastical world. Part of the reason Coop works as well as he does is because the world of murder investigations is one that makes sense to us. It is, at the very least, something we’ve seen countless times in countless other shows, and we understand its typical limitations, even as Twin Peaks begins to push against those limits. Perhaps this is why Twin Peaks handles Cooper so well: The setting of a world that seems normal and grows increasingly surreal is arguably the best choice for this kind character. To try to apply this sort of character to a more apparently fantastical world would likely hit more snares. The only piece of media, off the top of my head, that attempts anything close to this is One Piece, and, truth be told, I don’t have nearly enough familiarity with how that show handles the relationship between its protagonists and its central mysteries to judge whether it does so well. I suppose that’s a question for someone else. It’s at the very least not a question I can answer at the moment.

It’s struck me on several occasions that I, someone who (in spite of a healthy handful of pseudo-spiritual beliefs) otherwise caucuses with the atheists and agnostics, have an overt fondness for Christian and Christian-inspired literature. The most obvious examples of this, of course, are Endo’s Silence and Milton’s Paradise Lost, both of which I would count among my favorite pieces of literature. Other greats such as Lord of the Rings, Moby Dick and The Master and Margarita, while not being explicitly “Christian novels” in the same sense as the former books, carry such strong Christian messaging that it becomes difficult to overlook their religious bent. While these books have, on occasion, prompted further reflection on my own personal relationship to faith, they’ve yet to make a convert out of me. Still, my deference toward them is undeniable as much as it is inexplicable.

Or perhaps it’s really rather simple to explain: Aside from their religious bent, all share the distinction of just being good. While I have iconoclastic and contrarian preferences in many ways, my literary tastes are anything but: I enjoy the stuffy classics as much as the most conservative literary scholars do. Still, this is by no means a satisfactory explanation. If it were the case that I simply “like good books,” there are two possible follow up questions, one personal and one a bit further reaching:

Why do I gravitate toward religious texts as much (if not more) than other classics of similar merit?

Why is it that so many of the great texts are religious in bent?

The latter is the question I’ll start with, as it’s the one that prompted this chain of thought in the first place. The obvious explanation may as well go unsaid here: The past was a far more spiritual time than the present, and, therefore, anyone who has an interest in the literature of the past will inevitably encounter more spiritually-motivated texts than those reading modern literature. I don’t intend to wholly discredit this point: For much of history, the ties between literacy and faith ran deep, and those interested in writing would likely have deep exposure to the religious world. This explanation, however, isn’t quite totalizing. If we take some time to consider when the rise of modern literature (and especially the modern novel) happened, the novel came into being as religion’s deathgrip on society was beginning to loosen. Two landmark events to consider here: Don Quixote, widely considered to be the first modern novel, was published in full in 1615. Less than 50 years later, the 30 Years War, often considered the last major religious war in Europe, concludes. While it’s of course disingenuous to act as though the end of major religious conflicts means that religious institutions (and, by extension, religious faith) lost their prominence, it is a major historical landmark in conversations about the subject. Similarly, by the early 18th century, witch trials and other forms of violent religious prosecution subsided. Society, by and large, remained faithful, but the kind of faith to kill and die was less prominent, just as the world of literature was hitting its stride. While religiosity and religious novels likely overlap, religiosity and great novels, it seems, are largely unrelated.

The qualities of the great novel (and the great poem as well, I think), however, might be where an answer can be found. When I experience truly incredible writing, I find myself filled with a kind of wonder that’s difficult to quantify or articulate, but is nonetheless deeply affecting. As best as I can tell, I’m not the only person who experiences this kind of depth of feeling when reading, and have heard others express similar reactions. To liken this experience to something else feels impossible, and to do so perhaps cheapens the experience. However, I would not be wholly surprised if the feeling of amazement evoked by great books is not wholly dissimilar to the hierophany felt among those of deep spiritual convictions. The experience, at the very least, bears some similarity in its description: The feeling of being confronted with something unnameable and unknowable, but an unknowable which, contradictingly, makes you feel more known yourself. While I don’t keep close enough contact with any overtly religious folks to say for certain, the few descriptions I’ve heard of “feeling God’s presence” seem to resemble this feeling. Then, perhaps, it’s just the case that those with proximity to this feeling are better able to replicate it in their own work.

This explanation, handily, also goes a long way toward answering the former question. If “unarticulated wonder” is that which draws me to literature and brings me closer toward seeing it as great, then the sorts of wonder I can feel but don’t regularly are naturally going to be those I find most alluring. Following this train of thought, my seemingly contradictory love of religious literature naturally resolves itself. If we are to believe “universal human experience” is something that exists in any way, religious awe likely falls under its umbrella, at least as a feeling people are capable of having. I don’t suppose my irreligious tendencies make me immune to what’s likely a central feature of the human mind. If anything, they make it such that I’m more likely to seek that experience out elsewhere.

This book took me a good bit longer to finish than I expected, but that's the way with these things sometimes. My own life has been somewhat unpredictable lately (many things have been moving and shifting, many plans and obligations have been sprung on me) and, as for the book itself, it can be somewhat dense at points. That's somewhat in reference to the fairly ornate prose style, but more so related to the various cultural references that can be found each chapter. While I have more familiarity with the Edwardian Era than most, I still found myself frequently needing to go to the notes. All this is to say that the old maxim remains true: That which is good often does not come easily.

I have no interest in writing a formal review for this novel. As is the case for most classical literature, I sincerely doubt that my comments would be more interesting or better written than those of the reviewers who came before me. I will, however, share a few of my thoughts and, out of courtesy to those who might be reading this, try to keep them as spoiler free as possible.

One thing this book has taught me is how much I miss authorial intrusion that doesn't feel a need to be meta or ironic. While I understand this sort of thing is very much out of vogue, (and perhaps it should be, on some level the thematic layer of the book should extend from the narrative itself, not the author's reflections on it) there's something quite enriching about how Forster does it. Forster shapes his characters and events well, rarely failing to treat even the most reprehensible of them (The Wilcoxes lol) without a fair hand or earnest reflection. Much of this is amplified by the authorial voice, a presence which strikes me now as almost something of a scorekeeper. So far as I recall, no character (aside from maybe Dolly woops) fails to receive credit or acknowledgement from the author, one of the most humanizing forces in a book that might otherwise seem a bit simple in its critiques.

In this, we find the deep moral clarity at the heart of Howard's End. While Forster is never quiet about his own ideals, (the critiques of the imperialist, the anti-feminist and the land-owning class are strongly felt) his writing is also characterized by a desire to understand why the world seems so ready to make excuses for those ready to exploit it for all its worth. For all their intelligence and sensitivity, the Schlegel sisters, (the main characters) put up with and, in some cases, even become apologists for the excesses, thoughtlessness and indifference of the capitalistic Wilcoxes.

These critiques of the Schlegels are among the most meaningful of the book: For all the learning, art and philosophy of his intellectuals, at no point in Forster's novel do these characters succeed in meaningfully improving the society they find themselves in, despite their best intentions. At risk of overstepping my bounds, I might wager that this reflects a deep frustration on the part of the author.

Despite the learning and best intentions of his peers, the world of Forster's time was an unsteady one, full of turmoil and inequity, slowly creeping towards a war that seemed inevitable. Undergirding the text of Howard's End is a kind of uneasy soul-searching over what role an intellectual has in such a society. In spite of all the beauty and love found throughout the novel, the reader is never kept more than a few inches from the precipice of helplessness. Yet, at the same time, the novel never allows the reader to forget the people, the land and the beauty worth honoring, a factor which is most present whenever the titular home of Howard's End is involved.

I didn't much expect this page to function as a journal, but I felt like writing and sharing, so this is how it must go.

I spent the earlier part of my afternoon baking Alexandertorte, which tasted quite lovely, but fell a part a bit toward the end of its assembly. In the latter end of my evening, I finally got around to reading I Have No Mouth but I Must Scream, something I've put off for a minute. I wasn't particularly impressed, but I can appreciate the obvious influence it had on some stories I'm a bit more fond of, such as those of VanderMeer. Otherwise, I've been reading Forster's Howard's End and the occasional literary journal. I have work I should be doing, but it hasn't been done yet. If you're into writing with suspense, there's a terrifying amount of uncertainty as to whether or not I get to it tonight.

As is my habit in early spring, I spent some time outside, watching the sunset. There's really not much out here, but the chirps of the spring peepers and the early buds on the trees are beautiful. An anecdote might be the best way to explain how small of a town I live in currently: My computer says my location is a town about 10 miles east from here, a town known (so far as I can tell, at least), for a burnt down house and a couple wineries. There's a poem in there somewhere (at least, Richard Hugo might think so) but I can't be bothered to write it at the moment.

As for my own poetry, I was vaguely playing with an idea earlier about the construction orange and yellows of a particularly vivid sunset, and the construction of tomorrow throughout the night, but it felt way too saccharine. I wrote a different poem yesterday, one about the persistence of deadnettle in an otherwise well-maintained lawn. It was pleasant in a minimalist sort of way, where it felt like every word and linebreak was a solid contribution to the meaning of the piece. It made me wonder whether or not I should lean harder into a minimalist impulse of mine that occasionally springs up, but that's an instinct I'm skeptical of. It's not that I'm incapable of making good minimalist writing (I am, I think), just that it's part of a recent tendency of mine to want to completely overhaul the sort of writing I do. I can recognize that this is part of an internal struggle regarding my relatively few noteworthy publications, but it's still something to be wary of. Still, it's a good insight into my mindset at the moment.

Best,
Gus, Lord Guszone

I won't be the first to point out the trend of movies and shows getting unnecessary and unasked for sequels and reboots. It's been widely discussed as a phenomenon, and is usually explained with the simple logic of "studios want safe IPs, most don't want to take serious risks."

That's true, yeah. But there's another layer to unpack there, which is the increased frequency with which they come out. It doesn't take a genius to realize that working with an already popular franchise is going to make more money. It's absurd to think this thought is new, when it's so seemingly obvious. Yet, while sequels and reboots have always existed, they seem unusually prominent now. Why?

Let's consider reboots and sequels as part of a wider genre of media revival, a genre that also includes adaptations. When we include adaptations as part of this tradition, we see that this revival tendency has been prominent for basically all of film history, it's just the things being revived now are no longer books or plays, but just other movies and TV shows.

This, in my mind, is incredibly telling as to why the reboot apocalypse is upon us: it's not that franchise revival is new, but rather that we increasingly live in a world where non-televised media isn't widely consumed. The endless reboots, then, are a factor of our increasingly post-reading society, one in which book adaptations are far less guaranteed to secure an audience.