The Missing Chapter...

As I mentioned earlier, part of our assignment was to imitate Wilder's style. Below is my imitation, the "missing chapter" of the novel.

Part IV:

Don Jaime

As is generally true of children born to stage mothers, little Don Jaime grew up in shadowed corners; in locked nurseries; in silence and being seen but not heard. He was born from a union of opposites: his father the Viceroy of Peru; his mother the Perichole, a grand stage actress. The hushed silence and invisibility that defined his childhood engendered in him a quiet and grave manner, fostered by his introduction to the adult world nearly upon his birth. He lived in the opera house with his mother. The wings of the stage were his playrooms; the plays were his entertainment. He thrived on Shakespeare and the best of the Old Comedy as another child thrives on yelling and climbing things. Conversely, the commonplace drama and high glamour of the place only served to drive Don Jaime more into silence. Don Jaime did not have a happy childhood, but he did not know it for want of a different experience; his life centered around glimpses of his mother; she the sun and he the half-forgotten moon.

Don Jaime was afflicted with the same unpredictable convulsions as his father the Viceroy. He bore the pain bravely and in silence as he had been taught to do; he would succumb suddenly, writhing like a helpless spider. This weakness of his frame wrought his body and spirit frail and fragile; his mother, in fleeting moments of a matronly persona, worried for his health. The Perichole was the Eighth Wonder of the World to Don Jaime and he followed her with quiet devotion and dignity whenever he saw her. The Perichole’s harsh grandeur drew a sharp line of contrast to Don Jamie’s natural dignity and they appeared a very odd couple, a parrot and a sparrow, walking together in the back garden of the theater or through the streets in silence; as two people living parallel lives, they never really connected. Indifference and fearful adoration haunted their relationship; the adoration on the part of Don Jaime was that of reverence to a god.

After a time, they moved to a country villa; and inside built a microcosm of Lima, with glamour and elegance festooning the dinner parties and evening festivities. Nothing changed: the Archbishop and Viceroy still occupied the card-table long into the night; witty comments were just as clever and subsequent laughs just as loud; Don Jaime was still pushed aside for his mother’s guests.

In lieu of spending solitary nights in the nursery, Don Jaime explored the countryside at his ease. In the shadowy garden adjacent to the towering house could be heard a rapid pulse, muffled under layers of muscle and skin and internal organs; and a rustling of leaves which wrapped a thin creature in their embrace; and a contented exhale of a young and simple heart. His limbs began to glow with the captured sun, shimmering just under the skin’s surface, held captive during the many hours he spent watching creatures and their worlds, while his mother reveled in her false one.

As time wore on, he discovered a creature from the nearby town; she crouched in the soft quietness of the woods, watching him, until he noticed and summoned up the courage to say something. Like a child coaxing a wild animal, he day by day built a relationship with her until she emerged fully from the forest. Her name was Maria, and she was the daughter of the town butcher. Maria was quiet; she did not say much; and, of all the relationships in Don Jaime’s life, she was the most meaningful of them. Once or twice, Don Jaime even found himself crossing over that great chasm which separated their lives from each other’s parallel track. It was his first real friendship, and like all first friendships, a beautiful and unspoiled innocence. Together they watched insects play in the giant strands of grass which were woven in front of their country house. Don Jaime talked uninhibited of the nature which surrounded them; and Maria listened faithfully, eager to share in his excitement.

But inevitably, he succumbed to a fit in front of her. The shame of it seemed to swallow him whole, his body folding in on itself.. It was the shame in his great, frightened eyes which kept Maria riveted until it finished; then, eyes reflecting his horror, she left hurriedly. The weakness he had exposed was too overwhelming to her. From this, Don Jaime that the world did not approve of his defect. It was this that taught him of the fickleness of humans.

Everything changed when his mother the Perichole caught the terrible epidemic of small-pox and relegated herself deeper in the country. The new house was much smaller than Don Jaime was used to. It was quaint, with a miniature garden and closet-rooms; Don Jaime missed the old, larger gardens. He was kept in his room for fear he would catch the small-pox; but after the scare was over, and upon the discovery that she would be scarred forever, the Perichole proceeded to tear out of her life anything which represented, either to her or to others, her former beauty. Don Jaime sat by as his mother slowly sold his own possessions; as his room grew barer and barer; as his mother retreated in on herself, lonely and friendless. Don Jaime did not know what to do, and so did nothing. The Perichole sank deeper and deeper into a beauty-less world. One day, Uncle Pio, his mother’s old friend from the theatre days, came to call. Don Jaime had always liked Uncle Pio. He offered Don Jaime an opportunity to study with him for a year. Don Jaime accepted eagerly, jumping at the chance to leave the hollow house and the gloom of his mother. Uncle Pio took him home through the mountains and finally across the Bridge of San Luis Rey. Then it collapsed.

The Bridge of San Luis Rey

I was first introduced to The Bridge of San Luis Rey through Facebook. My dad's status was a quote from the novel, which still remains my absolute favorite: "There was something in Lima that was wrapped up in yards of violet satin from which protruded a great dropsical head and two fat pearly hands; and that was it's archbishop."

Intrigued by this fascinatingly witty and sophisticated sentence, I proceeded to ask him in person if that was the book he was reading. He responded affirmatively and highly recommended it to me. I mentally put it on my list of books to read and moved on, focusing on other things. However, the next week I was assigned a project in which I had to choose a book to read, and we would be imitating the author's style. Originally I chose My Antonia, by Willa Cather, for this project, but when I read The Bridge of San Luis Rey during the project, I knew I had to switch.

This book is beautiful. It is a quiet masterpiece: short, sweet... and a Pulitzer Prize winner. It tells the fictional story of a bridge in Lima, Peru, in the early 1700s, which collapses suddenly one day, taking five people with it into the canyon below. A young priest who sees this happen sets out to investigate the lives of each of these people, trying to prove that God has a purpose for every moment of our lives.

It wasn't anything like I expected, however. I dove into this book eagerly expecting a glorious revelation about God's predestination and purpose for us, expecting each death to have an express purpose, explained fully, even expecting each person's death to positively impact the world because they had been such negative contributors before. Instead, I was introduced to three character's lives told thoroughly, beautifully, and perceptively, all in just a few pages. I was led along the journey of their lives, but none of the elements I thought were necessary for their deaths to have a purpose existed. The common link between all five lives is left for the reader to figure out. Wilder's closing remarks, while profound and beautiful, don't tell us that there is a purpose in life, or that the clear link between the character's lives proves x y and z. Instead, his conclusion deals with those left behind to deal with these deaths, and the importance of living with love in our day-to-day lives.

Wilder's carefully cultivated tone and writing style in this book compliment his profound ideas perfectly. In the special edition of this book, it shows how hard Wilder worked to keep his tone detached from the actual story. This book is not dramatic. At all. It holds the reader at a very careful distance. At times, the tone hints at irony, or amusement, or sorrow. It is such a perfect balance between detached and emotional, that even when the emotions are powerfully overwhelming, he maintains the balance with barely a slip. His ironic passages are, perhaps, his very best; they are clever and funny, and say the most cutting and offensive people, but, as I realized in a discussion with my old English teacher, he manages to make it gentle and even unoffensive, due to his beautiful prose.

In the project, I had to imitate his style. I set out, equipped with my book, a list of his stylistic elements, and my open Word document, ready to conquer Wilder's style.

It was not as easy as it seemed. In fact, it was horrendously difficult.

Wilder's words were so carefully chosen and his style so carefully manipulated so that truly, every word has a meaning which points back to the theme. I believe I succeeded in some places and failed terribly in others, but it gave me a much deeper appreciation for the work Wilder put into this book.

As you near the end of the book and begin to draw your own conclusions, you realize that each character came to a place of rest and closing before they died; you realize that they were all beginning to start new chapters in their lives; you realize the ones they left behind are the ones who truly get to turn their lives around. Perhaps you expected those who died on the bridge to have been truly bad, with lives they couldn't fix. But it is actually the supporting characters who needed these deaths in order to appreciate and turn their own lives around. When the Marquesa Maria, a pitiful woman who spent her life pining over her unrequited love for her daughter, dies, she has just realized that her life was a selfish indulgence. She writes a beautiful new "turnabout" letter to her daughter, and dies the next day. While her life afterwards would have been completely different, and perhaps made a difference in the world, through her death her daughter Dona Clara realizes her mistakes in her treatment of her mother, and is brought to do good at the orphanage. It is there that she begins to ask her larger questions about life.

Coming to a place of rest and new beginnings at the end of your life... do we ever really come to rest? I know in Hebrews at my church we have been discussing "resting" in the Lord. Maybe this "rest" means that you fully trust the Lord with your life: you have forgiven yourself and others for what you've done or they've done, you are content to leave at a moment's notice. But what Wilder really is talking about is your life in perspective of others. Think of the movie It's a Wonderful Life. Jimmy Stewart's character realizes that, though his life is not what he wanted it to be, and he never reached his full potential, he helped his entire town in lifechanging ways.

I've always wondered what would happen if I never existed, just like in this movie. Who would my best friends be friends with? What would be different? The Bridge of San Luis Rey asks something similar: how can your life be used to most impact the lives of those around you?

Rating 5/5 stars

House Rules

Spring Break! It finally arrived. Year after year, I use Spring Break as an opportunity to cram in as much reading as possible, whether my family is squeezed into our minivan and on the road, riding ATVs and fishing in Arkansas, or just relaxing at home. This year, I did something different- I went away without my family. Freedom! What glorious freedom! No one telling me to sit up straight! No one telling me I should eat healthier! Florida, here I come!

Reading by the poolside in Florida began with a book by Jodi Picoult- House Rules. In general, I'm a Jodi fan- her books make me think beyond black and white, to where rules and laws are in shades of gray. But I've made a rule for myself- no back-to-back Jodi readings. Her books are just so depressing! I can't read two in a row or else I get mopey, unfocused, and generally a downer about everything.

But House Rules... it's got to be one of her best yet. It manages to avoid the usual Jodi depression: it's funny! The main character, Jacob, has Asperger's syndrome, a type of autism, and as such, the way he sees the world is refreshingly different. He lives with his mother, Emma, and his younger brother, Theo. He is tutored in social skills by a young woman, Jess. But when Jess is discovered dead, all the evidence seems to point to Jacob. What follows is a fascinating look into the autistic mind, a look at the American justice system, and a tale of a family struggling to stay together.

The way Jacob's perspective is written is very straightforward- no metaphors, no figurative language except similes. He often makes numbered lists of things, or lists reasons a, b, and c. He takes everything literally, which makes for some very cute and funny moments. Additionally, Jacob's relationship with his mother, brother, and other people in his life are different than any other I've read, because Jacob doesn't have the capacity to empathize.

Can you imagine how different our lives would be without empathizing? We wouldn't cry during movies or books anymore (I am a notorious crier- even the Jungle Book 2 brought me to tears), we wouldn't be able to establish good relationships- Jacob's mother Emma even doubts that he loves his own family. I can't imagine being Emma, centering her life around her son, and not knowing if he even loved her in return. What a thankless task! Yet for Emma, there is never any question of trading her son for one without Aspergers. That is real love.

House Rules is so named because of a characteristic of Jacob: he follows every rule precisely and cannot tell a lie. While reading it, I thought of my own family's "house rules":

Tell the truth.

Every object has a "home".

Don't be mean to your siblings.

No snacks before dinner.

Clean the house on Saturdays.

Take care of your siblings.

Treat your parents and your siblings with respect.

Do we follow them perfectly, like Jacob? No. And on that Spring Break, away from my family, I wasn't following my House Rules very well without them. Most of these House Rules transition easily into the real world, but I didn't take the trouble of doing so on my vacation. My hotel room was a wreck, I ate constantly, never cleaned. I fell into selfish habits, not thinking of the family I was staying with. My parents set up these House Rules for me to form habits early in life, knowing all of these were skills I would need later on. And it's taken me 16 years to realize it.

Rating: 4/5 stars. Highly recommended!