Goodbye, David. Goodbye, Carrie.

I first became aware of David Bowie when I was a fourteen year old in high school, in those endless battles we had across lunchroom tables over which band was great and which band, frankly, sucked. We were teenagers. We didn't know from shades of grey. To us, so incandescently young and so very cloistered by years and years of Catholic School, Catholic Nuns, and Catholic Mothers of WWII vintage (God bless them), and only beginning to realize there was something called FM, where they played whole album sides at a time, almost nothing in the Top 40, and talked about Rock and Roll like it was life itself, David Bowie was quite a shock. With his Diamond Dogs look of androgyny cultivated like pearls, he seemed a bit of a freak, and often got called far worse by children like us who scarcely knew the meaning of the insults we hurled at him because he didn't seem to fit in any of the categories we knew.

So a freak he seemed. And yet his blazing talent forced my eyes open, and compelled me to look into the heart of the sun that was his music. Whatever he looked like, whatever he played at, he could not be denied. One stunning, powerful performance after another, one masterful song after another flung into my uncomprehending, awestruck schoolboy face. Songs of beauty, works of art, anthems of raving youth. And they never stopped coming until last January.

So a freak he seemed. So what. He was Bowie. And in the end he was no more a freak than the rest of us. Much less so in fact. 

Everybody knows how they first saw Carrie Fisher. In the first scene she is ensuring that the all important plans to the Death Star escape her doomed ship, in the second she is shooting it out with the bad guys, in the third she stands fearlessly up to someone who could break her body like a twig. So, clever and determined, putting first things first, unflinching and intrepid, not just a pretty face (as pretty as she was). This was no window-dressing damsel in distress. This was no one's Disney Princess. 

Her own life was full of far more upheaval and turmoil than her most famous character's, though given her struggles with addiction and bipolar disorder, there were surely days when it felt like someone had blown up her whole planet.  But her performance as Leia evidently drew on strengths she didn't know she had yet, and she fought her way through to the other side of her troubles. For the many in this world -- and of course there were thousands of Star Wars fans among them -- who shared the same troubles, Carrie Fisher was a success and a model. And if we looked at her from far away, paying attention in after years perhaps only because she had been that Princess, still we smiled and nodded and were glad. We took comfort in her winning through. For women she clearly meant far more than I could ever grasp. I wouldn't even dare try to express it. But I don't have to. Their voices are loud and clear enough. If you can't hear them, you're not listening. 

I am not sure if what I've written here explains, even to myself, why I will miss David Bowie and Carrie Fisher more than so many of the others.  He enabled me to see music differently, and see that differences of appearance, whether parts of the act or parts of the person, are essentially meaningless. She did not so much make me see women differently as she made me see that I was right to see them differently. I was already a bit of an oddity on that score: I was a teenage boy who actually wanted to talk to girls and hear what they had to say. 

There's a photo on my dresser of someone from those days. Every day when I sit down on the edge of my bed to take off my shoes, I look at it and sigh and miss her. That's the way I'm thinking of David Bowie and Carrie Fisher as this year goes down into shadow.  

They were heroes. 

The Uncouth Name of Shire

At the Council of Elrond Gandalf recounts his meeting with Radagast near Bree:

'Gandalf!' [Radagast] cried. 'I was seeking you. But I am a stranger in these parts. All I knew was that you might be found in a wild region with the uncouth name of Shire.'

'Your information was correct,' I said. 'But do not put it that way, if you meet any of the inhabitants. You are near the borders of the Shire now.'

....

'I have been told that wherever they go the Riders ask for news of a land called Shire.'

'The Shire,' I said.... 

FR 2.ii.256-57, emphasis original)

Why is the name 'Shire' uncouth?  The OED shows nothing in the history of the word to suggest the least whiff of disapproval.  Even setting aside all thoughts of The Hobbit films, Radagast lives in Rhosgobel near southern Mirkwood, which hardly seems likely to be a hub of urbanity.  Be that as it may, it is the name Shire the wizard is commenting on. To be sure, Radagast also calls it a 'wild region,' but again he lives in the Wilderland, himself.  Gandalf does not seem to be offended by the description, and indeed he calls it correct, but cautions Radagast about the reaction hobbits might have to hearing the Shire called uncouth.  For, as the narrator (Frodo) tells us elsewhere '[t]he Shire-hobbits referred to those of Bree, and to any others that lived beyond the borders, as Outsiders, and took very little interest in them, considering them dull and uncouth' (FR 1.ix.150). Ironically, given that Buttebur calls Frodo and company 'Outsiders -- travellers from the Shire' and instantly apologizes for doing so, the Breelanders clearly have the same opinion of Shire hobbits as Shire hobbits have of everyone else (FR 1.ix.154)

Tolkien is here again having a bit of fun with words, as we've seen him do before.  Our word 'uncouth' descends from the Old English 'uncúþ', which literally means 'unknown', and therefore 'strange.'  The Shire being unknown to Radagast and the Black Riders, they omit the definite article, because the definite article is used for things that are known.  Gandalf of course knows The Shire very well, as do its inhabitants, and so they include the article. To them indeed it is the one and only.

So for Radagast and the Black Riders 'uncouth' has its original sense; for the hobbits it has the more modern sense. Gandalf knows them both.

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Works Consulted

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I Hear the Tentacles Singing: Once More "A Wrinkle in Time" and "Babylon Five"

A Pak'ma'ra from Babylon 5

In chapter 11 of A Wrinkle in Time I came across what might be another link to Babylon 5. Having arrived on a new planet, Meg sees creatures like none she has ever seen before approaching her, her father, and Calvin:

They were the same dull gray color as the flowers. If they hadn't walked upright they would have seemed like animals. They moved directly toward the three human beings. They had four arms and far more than five fingers to each hand, and the fingers were not fingers, but long waving tentacles. They had heads, and they had faces. But where the faces of the creatures on Uriel had seemed far more than human faces, these seemed far less. Where the features would normally be there were several indentations, and in place of ears and hair were more tentacles. They were tall, Meg realized as they came closer, far taller than any man. They had no eyes. Just soft indentations. 

After Meg is healed by these beings, she quickly becomes quite attached to one whom she calls Aunt Beast:

"Please sing to me, Aunt Beast," said Meg. 

If it was impossible to describe sight to Aunt Beast, it would be even more impossible to describe the singing of Aunt Beast to a human being. It was a music even more glorious than the music of the singing creatures on Uriel. It was a music more tangible than form or sight. It had essence and structure. It supported Meg more firmly than the arms of Aunt Beast It seemed to travel with her, to sweep her aloft in the power of song, so that she was moving in glory among the stars, and for a moment she, too, felt that the words Darkness and Light had no meaning. and only this melody was real. 

The first passage made me think at first of the Ood from Doctor Who, and of course nothing prevents L'Engle's description from having an influence on Doctor Who, but I was also reminded of the Pak'ma'ra from Babylon 5. Both of these species have tentacles on their heads in front of their mouths. Now, admittedly this doesn't match the description of the unnamed beings in A Wrinkle in Time, creatures who also have tentacles instead of fingers. It is unclear to me whether their voice comes from the waving 'finger' tentacles or from the tentacles on their heads. 

But it was the astonishing and uplifting beauty of their singing that struck me, and made me think more of Babylon 5, in the last episode of which the main characters are conversing over a meal:

"You know, Londo never liked the Pak'ma'ra. I mean, they're stubborn, lazy, obnoxious, greedy--" said Vir.

"They kinda look like an octopus that got run over by a truck," said Garibaldi. 

"That too, but .. one day Londo and I were walking past their quarters .. and we heard them .. singing."  

"Singing? They can sing?" asked Sheridan. 

"There's nothing about that in the literature,"said Dr Franklin. 

"Apparently," Vir continued, "it's something they only do certain times of the year as part of their religious ceremonies. You may not believe this, but .. it was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I couldn't make out the words, but I knew it was full of sadness and .. hope and wonder and .. terrible .. sense of loss. I looked at Londo and -- this is the amazing part -- there was a .. tear running down his face. I said: 'Londo, we should leave.' And 'This is upsetting you.' He just stood there and .. listened. And when it was over he turned to me and he said: 'There are 49 gods in our pantheon, Vir. To tell you the truth I never believed in any of them. But if only one of them exists, .. then god sings with that voice.' "

The additional detail of the sadness and the terrible sense of loss with which the Pak'ma'ra sing may also point to the influence of Tolkien and the third theme of the Music of the Ainur, whose beauty comes from its sorrow. 

But it's not every day you can point to tentacles and singing in support of an argument. This may be axiomatic.

Madeleine L'Engle on Predestination, Free Will, and the Sonnet

In the last chapter of A Wrinkle in Time, Mrs. Whatsit (a supernatural being, if you don't know) and Calvin, a young boy, argue about knowing the future.

"I do not believe it. And the Happy Medium doesn't believe it, either."

"Can't she see what's going to happen?" Calvin asked. 

"Oh, not in this kind of thing." Mrs. Whatsit sounded surprised at his question. "If we knew ahead of time what was going to happen we'd be—we'd be like the people on Camazotz, with no lives of our own, with everything all planned and done for us. How can I explain it to you? Oh, I know. In your language you have a form of poetry called the sonnet." 

"Yes, yes," Calvin said impatiently. "What's that got to do with the Happy Medium?"

"Kindly pay me the courtesy of listening to me." Mrs. Whatsit's voice was stern, and for a moment Calvin stopped pawing the ground like a nervous colt. "It is a very strict form of poetry, is it not?"  

"Yes." 

"There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes?" 

"Yes." Calvin nodded. "And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?" 

"No." 

"But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants, doesn't he?" 

"Yes." Calvin nodded again. 

"So," Mrs. Whatsit said.  

"So what?" 

"Oh, do not be stupid, boy!" Mrs. Whatsit scolded. "You know perfectly well what I am driving at!"  

"You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it?" 

"Yes." Mrs. Whatsit said. "You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you." 

In addition to being an amusing approach to examining the question of free will and predestination, there is the added bonus of one of the speakers being called Calvin.

'Mary had a little lamb' from "A Wrinkle in Time" to "Babylon 5"

When I was a little boy, my aunt Sally (sit terra tibi levis) gave me A Wrinkle in Time for my birthday. At the time I was too grown up for children's books, and so I smiled, thanked her, and put it on the shelf, where it has always been ever since.  Being younger than that now, and having run across a series of quotes by Madeleine L'Engle that I found interesting, I decided to read it.

This morning, as I lay in bed reading chapter 7, I arrived at the following passage, in which the three children encounter a menacing stranger with red eyes who can communicate telepathically and who has, it seems, dominated the minds of the men, women, and children on this world. As he attempts to control the children's minds, too, Charles Wallace, the youngest, a preternaturally clever and creepy five year old, whom for the life of me I can only hear speaking in the voice of Stewie Griffin, resists.

'...For you, as well as for the rest of all the happy, useful people on this planet, I, in my own strength, am willing to assume all the pain, all the responsibility, all the burden of thought and decision.' 

'We will make our own decisions, thank you,' Charles Wallace said. 

'But of course. And our decisions will be one, yours and mine. Don't you see how much better, how much easier for you that is? Let me show you. Let us say the multiplication table together.' 

'No,' Charles Wallace said. 

'Once one is one. Once two is two. Once three is three.' 

'Mary had a little lamb!' Charles Wallace shouted. 'Its fleece was white as snow!'

'Once for is four. Once five is five. Once six is six.'

'And everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go.'

J MS

The instant I read this, I sat up in bed. I had seen it before. In J. Michael Straczynski's brilliant SF series Babylon 5, a group of human telepaths have run away from Psi Corps, which is about as evil as it sounds. ('The Corps is mother; the Corps is father.') Now in the episode, A Race through Dark Places, they find themselves hunted by a Psi Cop, Alfred Bester -- that's right, Alfred Bester, and played magnificently by Walter Koenig -- who is strong enough to read their minds whether they want him to or not. Since they refuse to go back, they fear he will kill them. And so they prepare to resist both physically and mentally. To keep him out of their minds, they, too, recite 'Mary had a little lamb' over and over. 

Alfred Bester,  SF Author

Given the context in each scene, as well as how allusive and literary Babylon 5 is, I have little doubt this allusion to Madeleine L'Engle is intentional.  Nicely done, JMS. Nicely done.

Allusions are one of the ways in which reading, or, in this case, reading and watching teach us that we are not all alone in the night. And A Wrinkle in Time and Babylon 5 are both rich in allusions to, and quotations from, literature and poetry. That's why I've worked several allusions of my own into this note: to a C. S. Lewis essay, to an apocryphal C. S. Lewis quote, to Bob Dylan, three times to Babylon 5. I didn't do so (merely) to be clever, or because, if you get them, then we'll both be clever, but because they will reveal a fellowship between us as reader and writer, between us as readers, and between us and the texts from which the allusions derive. Because it's this kind of connection that makes us human in a higher and better way that links us through past, present, and future.

Alfred Bester, SF Monster

The world's been looking pretty bleak in recent times. Whichever side of the issues that are dividing us each of us may be on, I don't think many of us are feeling too hopeful; and some of us are downright scared.  To compare small things with great, I just wrote a testimonial for Mythmoot, which aimed to convey just how wonderful it was to be with all those people who understood each other's allusions and got each other's jokes. Allusions let me in. They let us all in. That's why reading glitters with hope. For it tells me that the connections we need to make can be made. Not only that, but the irony of this allusion is so sweet: it connects two sets of people, a writer and readers, to two sets of characters who are using 'Mary had a little lamb' to prevent a connection from being made at all. Which in turn makes me laugh, a proof of intelligent life according to the Minbari. I think I like that. I think I like that a lot.