Tolkien Week

Sunday was the first day of Tolkien Week - an annual observation that always occurs in September, during the week in which Hobbit Day falls. Hobbit Day, for those of you who are not card-carrying members of the Tolkien Society (as is Your's Truly) is September 22nd - Bilbo and Frodo's birthday. 

Let us all take a moment to fill our Tengwar-etched glasses with Goodly Libations, and raise them in Toast to the Professor!

I had originally intended to do a post on each day of this week, but though I have worked on a Tolkien related post each day, circumstances have conspired to ensure that I have not actually managed to publish a thing. Perhaps the rest of the week will go better?

I first of all present to you a Playlist! Please observe the sidebar, where a Tolkien playlist has replaced the Christmas one that was up there throughout Christmas.... and Lent and Easter and Pentecost. I will be adding to this Tolkien list, so do check back. I also present a small list of Things You Probably Did Not Know About Tolkien. Yes, yes, many of you count me among your more intimate acquaintances, so some of you will have heard me blaithering about this stuff. I trust, however, that the majority of it will be new.

1.) Most Tolkien fans are aware of the fact that he was a Philologist by profession, and familiar with (if not fluent in) a great number of languages. Many of them will also be aware of the fact that he wrote a number of mythic poems that were partly translations out of their original languages, and partly his own re-tellings of those stories. What most might not be aware of, is that one of his earliest efforts in this line is a poem entitled The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun, which was published in the Welsh Review in 1945. It was modeled after an old Breton style of poetry and, indeed, was taken from a Breton story. It has been notoriously difficult to find since than, and as a consequence, is not well known. It was finally republished in 2002, but only in a Serbian translation of Tolkien's original. That edition was reprinted again in August of 2015. This time, it was bilingual, published in Serbian and English, with several new illustrations commissioned for the occasion. I went crazy with excitement over that, and bought it. It is gorgeous and I love it... Now at last, after 80 years of obscurity, it is slated to be officially republished in November of this year.

From Wikipedia

2.) Most people, (even a goodly number of non-Tolkien-fans) know that Tolkien created a writing system for his elvish languages. It is not, strictly speaking, an alphabet in the same way that ours is. It is a very phonetic system, with allowances for sounds that most people don't think about - such as schwas. Furthermore, he adapted it for different languages. High Elves, who speak Quenya, had a different 'mode' for using the Tengwar, than did the Sindaran speaking Low Elves. Tolkien invented a 'mode' for English as well. (Since then, quite a number of real-life languages have had 'modes' created for them, Check out this website for some of them.) Most Tolkien fans will also be aware of the fact that he created a runic alphabet for his dwarves as well. They show up most notably on Thorin's map of the Lonely Mountain. What is less well known is that he invented yet another writing system for his Elves to use, He called it the Sarati. The Sarati differs from the other two in that it is written in columns, rather than lines. Like the Tengwar, the vowels are merely diacritic markings:

From mansbjorkman.net

3.) Tolkien worked on the Old English Dictionary during the years immediately following his demoblisation at the end of WWI. He became quite obsessed with the etymologies of the words "walrus" and "whale". 

From http://blog.oxforddictionaries.com/2013/03/walrus-in-the-oed/

4.) Tolkien worked on a translation of The Book of Jonas for the Jerusalem Bible, which was publish in 1966. A history of the project, and Tolkien's participation in it, may be found here. (Notice that Tolkien is once again dealing with a 'whale' :-) There is an interesting side note to this story for those of us who enjoy Lord of the Rings trivia. The character of Strider in The Fellowship of the Ring - and his introduction in the taproom of The Prancing Pony - was influenced in part by Tolkien's encounter with the Catholic poet, Roy Campbell, at The Eagle and Child pub, during a weekly meeting of the Inklings. Campbell was originally slated to work on the Jerusalem Bible as well - specifically, the Canticles. Given Campbell's strong, almost Elizabethan poetry, his work would have made for a very gorgeous translation. Unfortunately, Roy Campbell died in a car crash before he had a chance to complete anything. I can't help feeling that this is a great loss to the literary world, akin to Tolkien's uncompleted Fall of Arthur.

From tolkienlibrary.com

5.) There is a strong artistic streak in the family. Tolkien seems to have inherited his flair for handwritting from his mother's family: his grandfather was want to draw a circle around a little sixpence, and write out the entire Our Father in fine copperplate writing. Mable Tolkien herself wrote in a very fine hand, and taught her boys to do the same. Tolkien's grandson, Michael G. R. Tolkien, is a poet, who has also written a children's book. (The audio edition is read by Gerald Dickens, the great-great grandson of Charles Dickens!) Tim Tolkien - a great nephew of the Professor - is a sculptor of some note. He is best known for Sentinel, a modern steel sculpture of 3 Submarine Spitfires, peeling off in 3 different directions. Of more interest to Tolkien fans, he is assisting in the designing of a memorial to his great uncle, at Pembroke College. And then there is great granddaughter, Ruth Tolkien: singer, songwriter, and fencer. A blind fencer, who fights competitively. 

And on that note, I shall bid you all a good evening. I am going to have a nice cup of tea, and read Looking for the King - a book about the Inklings, which thus far has allowed its protagonists to meet Lewis and Williams, but not Tolkien - and, let us be honest. When I read a book about the Inklings, I am doing it for Tolkien.

Rambling From a Distracted Blogger

It is that time of year - almost fall, with an edge to the wind, a smell in the air, a gilding of yellow showing through the the foliage.... Autumn, the time of adventure, the time when I feel that I must take to the hills, fight trolls, slay dragons, bring home pots of gold to donate anonymously to good causes. I love autumn, but it makes me hugely restless. 

So I attempt to placate this restlessness by walks, in which I collect feathers, and bits of glass, and pretty rocks. Sometimes, I get all creative and draw things:

Le Steller's Jay Feather

Sometimes, I get all introspective, and attempt poetry. Mostly, I have not been having much luck with that, though occasionally, I manage to finish something before the wind sends wanderlust rushing through my veins, and I decided that all is straw:

When they, ravening, gather round me

With keen-edged words that cut me sore;

When I, in anger, and alone, 

Hold the the heart they broke in two - 

May I remember Calvary:

The wounds and words which once Thou bore;

Forgive - as Thou, Who died alone - 

Those, who know not what they do.

Mostly, through, I just read. Sometimes, I even find a book that makes me so happy, that for a time I forget all about going adventuring, and just enjoy my book,

The Moving Toyshop is one such book - and idiotic, farcical romp of a mystery. The detective: one Gervase Fen, an Oxford don, who exclaims, "Oh, my fur and whiskers!" when he is deeply stirred. Who freely, and without warning quotes from various works of literature and the Classics, Who drives at breakneck speed, a horrific vehicle, which he calls Lily Christine III. He is slightly mad, hugely well-read, impulsive, and totally unconcerned about the opinions of the world at large. 

The book itself just bowls along from one ridiculous situation to another. It is a very light work, but it contains a huge amount of literary illusion in it. I don't always get the references, but when I do, I snicker, for they are generally very witty. Even if one is not well-read enough to catch all the illusions, there is plenty of humour to be found. Take, for example, this scene, in which our intrepid investigator, hot on the trail of a Person of Interest, has crashed a choir practice, and is attempting to blend in:

Fen's voice, though penetrating, was neither tuneful nor accurate.

"We STAAAAY not," he came in suddenly, "but WAAAANDER." Several of the basses in the front turned round as if someone had struck them in the back. "We grief-laden," Fen pursued unconcernedly, "grieee-EEEF-laden mortals!"

Or this scene, in which Fen felt the need of an alias, whilst laying low at a public house, close to Oxford, and filled to the gills with literary folk, and is summon the the phone my a porter:

“Telephone call for Mr. T. S. Eliot!” he piped. “Mr. T. S. Eliot?”

To everyone’s surprise, Fen said “That’s me,” got up, and went out, pursued by the interested gaze of the other persons in the bar

Or the mad chase scene towards the end, where everyone even remotely connected with the case, joins in pursuit of a suspect - a pursuit on foot, as they have all be drinking rather freely, and the suspect was the only person to come equipped with a wheeled conveyance:

In any event, just as Fen was wasting his breath in chanting (rather inappropriately) "but with unhurried chase and unperturbed pace, deliberate speed, majestic instancy..."  he ran down the lane that leads to Parson's Pleasure, abandoned his bicycle, flung sixpence and the gate-keeper and disappeared inside.

There is even a passing reference during that chase, of the throng passing The Bird and Baby - a reference that made me wildly delighted. The Bird and the Baby is a public house, properly named The Eagle and Child, which was the gathering spot of the Inklings, back in the day. The Moving Toyshop was published in the 40s, which was when Tolkien was labouring over his first drafts of The Lotd of the Rings (Strider was still a hobbit named Trotters at the time.) In my mind, Tolkien and the Lewises were forgathered in the pub while Fen and his cohorts rushed past, but were so busy making the sort of scenes that they always made in public, that they did not notice the ruckus going on outside.

The Moving Toyshop is probably one of the most satisfactory things I have had the pleasure of reading in a long time. I would heartily recommend it to anyone who is in need of a good laugh, and a darned good read

And on that note, I sink back into the ether. Good night, all!

That, my dear readers, is the first line of the Happy Birthday Song, translated into one of Tolkien's elvish languages - Quenya, to be exact - and written in Tengwar. Today is J. R. R. Tolkien's birthday.

And that is a nifty card, which I just whipped out, containing all the lyrics to the Happy Birthday Song, as the High Elves would sing it, supposing, of course, that High Elves indulge in such things. (I didn't translate it myself, I am sorry to say. I have not worked at my Tolkien languages in a while. I got it from this site here.)

I have not quite decided what I shall do to celebrate such an auspicious occasion. Hopefully, it will involve mushrooms as part of dinner. Perhaps tomatoes, sausages and nice, crispy bacon too. If my memory has not utterly foresaken me (and, alas, that is always a strong possibility) I do believe there might be such a thing as a bottle of Irish lager lurking in the refridgerator. And, of course, I will have to read something by the good man. I am thinking one of his short stories. I have not indulged in Farmer Giles of Ham in quite a while, nor Smith of Wootton Major either, for that matter.

*Marqueture is the Elvish translation of the name, Ronald, which is the name by which the good Professor was most commanly known during is life time.



Merry Christmas

This post is a little late in the day, but I am going to wish you all a very Merry Christmas anyway. I want to draw your attention to this very interesting site concerning Christmas constellations. I have not had a chance to look for any of these constellation, because snow has been falling here, snow on snow, which is very Christmasy, and lovely, but very bad for sky watching. Besides, much to my own dissatisfaction, I am not much of an astronomer. I can find Orion, as well as the Great Bear (aka, the Big Dipper.) and I can use the Great Bear to find the North Star, but that is about the extent of my knowledge. Still, once the weather clears up a wee, I think I might see if I can go out and become better acquainted with the night sky.

Here is a beautiful poem by G. K. Chesterton, and here also is a picture I painted several years ago as an illustration for it.



A Christmas Carol

by G. K. Chesterton

The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,

His hair was like a light.

(O weary, weary were the world,

But here is all alright.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast

His hair was like a star.

(O stern and cunning are the kings,

But here the true hearts are.

The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,

His hair was like a fire.

(O weary, weary is the world,

But here the world's desire.)

The Christ-child stood on Mary's knee,

His hair was like a crown,

And all the flowers looked up at Him,

And all the stars looked down.



Please Pray For

.... The repose of the soul of Diana Wynne Jones, who died on Saturday, March 26th. She was one of the few really good children's authors still writing these days, and I will miss the keen pleasure of seeing her latest book showing up on the new book display at the library.

On Writing

Not too long ago, Katrina over at World Crafter wrote a post in praise of the author Diana Wynne Jones, and asked what authors her followers read over and over again, just to see how they DO it. It was a good post, and I originally was going to respond with a comment, but the question got me thinking about my own favourite authors, and what it is about their writing that resonates with me, until I felt I really ought to do a post of my own on the matter.

To begin with, I very seldom read a book just for the story. I read it for the writing as well; for the author's use of language, use of words, ability to draw me in, to make me think, "I like that sentence there! It says exactly what it means." I like authors with a definitive style, who have their own unique way of putting words together. I am beginning to notice that an author's writing will often pull me out of a story, sometimes with a start of delight over a particularly fine bit of phrasing, sometimes for exactly the opposite reason. If I like the writing, I will slow down and savour the experience of reading it, if not, I tend to skim through the book, rather than reading it. The authors I that I go back to over and over, have diverse styles, but they all have something distinctive about their writing that I admire, and would like to imitate, at least in some small degree.

J. R. R. Tolkien: Thanks to The Lord of the Rings, and, to a somewhat lesser extent, The Silmarillion, Tolkien has got himself pegged as a writer of epic fantasy. There is no question that he does excel at that particular style, and that there a few authors who can touch his deliberate and controlled prose - elegant prose which is weighty, but never ponderous. However, he was a very versatile writer as well, who could be delightfully droll and humourous - consider Farmer Giles of Ham - or quietly thoughtful, as in Smith of Wootton Major. Regardless of the style, however, what always sets him apart from the rest, is his ability to use exactly the right word no matter what. It came so naturally to him, that you don't even realise how brilliant he was, until you try to find something similar. There is nothing similar enough to Tolkien to satisfy the desire for that particular quality of writing.

Patricia McKillip: She is not the sort of author that I would recommend indiscriminately. With the notable exception of "Winter Rose", her books tend to be light on plot, and a trifle disjointed. However, I cannot think of another living author who can write in such densely poetic prose as she does. She weaves brilliant, jewel-coloured tapestries of words, her pages bursting with flowering images, glowing scenes, golden glints of myth peeking out amongst the leaves of narrative. She uses unexpected words to good effect and knows the value of using plain, solid words without adornment. If the worlds she creates seldom become more than the bright scenes that appear in the borders of a medieval manuscript, her characters little more than figures picked out in crimson and gold against their brilliant backgrounds, she can be forgiven for the sheer beauty of the picture as a whole.

Robert Lewis Stevenson: His easy, almost careless style of writing is deceptive. He had great control over his narrative. He wrote with economy; there is no extraneous narrative, but neither is it stinted. He has an unfortunate inability to write genuinely engaging main characters, it is true, but he more than makes up for it with secondary characters like Long John Silver or Alan Breck Stewart. The thing I most admire about his writing, though, is that he had a real flair for dialogue. His conversations sound genuine, and accomplish the rare feat of not only giving you insight into the characters, but also advancing the plot.

Charles Dickens: My family are mostly not in agreement with me on this one. The general opinion seems to be that he was paid for his writing by the word, and you can tell. Much as I like Dickens, I must admit that there is some truth to that sentiment, and furthermore, acknowledge that one must be in the mood for Dickens in order to get through his books. Still, he had such an astonishing knack for memorable phrasing. How can one not admire an author who can inform us that Marley is as dead as a doornail, and the produce the following paragraph: "Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail." It is brilliant, humourous without diminishing the gloomy pronouncement that started the book. Dickens has a rather unjust reputation for sentimentality. Unjust, I say, because a number of his books - Oliver Twist, for example, or A Tale of Two Cities - are deadly serious in their subject matter. I rather think that what is taken for sentiment in most of his books, is actually a high esteem for the home, for charity, for virtue, which moved Dickens deeply.

P. G. Wodehouse: His plots are completely predictable; he recycles characters and scenes; he tosses in abbreviations and odd catch-phrases. At first glance, there seems to be no substance to his books at all... and yet, somehow, inexplicably, it always works. You know exactly what is going to happen in it. You know that the plot will spiral out of control, that increasingly tangled complications will keep arising, that all sorts of highly questionably enterprises will be undertaken for the noblest of reasons, and that at the end, it will - miraculously - all come right, and the rather dimwitted hero will get the girl of his dreams. Yet, there is a sort of fascination to it. I find that I read his books for the sheer pleasure of trying to figure out how he manages it, and wondering why it never grows stale.

There are, of course, a lot of other authors that I enjoy, these are just the ones who come most readily to mind... oh, and of course, Diana Wynne Jones too, for all the reasons Katrina laid out. A hearty thanks to her for bringing the subject up!

Requiescat in Pace

I was greatly saddened to lear that Liverpool children's author, Brian Jacques, died last week, on February 5th. I grew up reading the Redwall books - having received "Mossflower" one year as a gift. Whether it was a Christmas gift, or a birthday gift, I cannot now recall, for it was a very long time ago, but I remember the medieval cover vividly, and that I devoured it. I eagerly leapt upon each new book as it came out, and it was not uncommon for me to stay up way too late reading 'just one more chapter' until I had finished the book completely. I loved the rollicking style of his writing, his cheerful poetry, and unassuming bravery of his peace-loving characters. I enjoyed his use of dialect, especially the Somerset accent of the moles, and suspect that my delight in language may have been influenced as much by the Redwall books, as by Tolkien and the Irish songs the Clancy Brothers used to sing. I suppose that they are very simple stories, good vs. evil adventures, and rather formulamatic, but they are also jolly good fun, and I have never managed to outgrow my pleasure in them.

The LA Times has published an obituary for Brian Jacques, for those who are intersted, but what I would really recommend for those who would like to know more about the man, is to read the interview with him in The Wand in the Word. It was a delightful interview, and Mr. Jacques himself comes off as quite the character.

Christmas Reading.

Have you ever noticed how difficult it is to find genuinely Christmas-spirited literature? There are a lot of books whose plot is incidental to Christmas. There are a number of significant stories with a point, that are, quite frankly, a bit depressing. There are sickly sweet stories, that try too hard. There are cynical stories that make a mockery of everything. The well written Christmas story is a rare thing indeed. Therefore, in the interest of genuine public spirit, I present the following list, in no particular order:

The Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. That is an obvious one, of course. There is a reason that is has been the Christmas story for a number of years. In addition to being extremely well written, and sprinkled throughout with typical Dickensian humour, it boasts a main character has a strong, dramatic moral arch, and a deeply affecting resolution. Though it is primarily a secular story, it is heavily influenced by a Christian world view. And Dickens's descriptions of the Christmas celebrations are the most authentic of any you are likely to find.

The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry. A singularly charming short story of true love, and a happy marriage in spite of - or perhaps, because of - poverty. The sacrifices that Della and James make to get each other a Christmas gift are sweetly touching, and the ending paragraph, that explains the title, inevitably chokes me up.

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. When the horrible Herdman kids take over the annual Christmas pageant, everyone expects the result to be a shambles. What actually happens makes for an often hilarious, and ultimately touching story.

The Father Christmas Letters: by J. R. R. Tolkien. Every Christmas for years, Tolkien wrote letters to his children in the guise of Father Christmas. The letters, written in scrawling calligraphy and lavishly illustrated, mostly recount various mishaps and disasters that befall the residents of the North Pole. The ensuing chaos inevitably endangers the year's Christmas packages, but Father Christmas, and his helper, the North Polar Bear, never fail to save the situation at the last possible moment - generally with a good deal of Tolkien's droll humour thrown in.

A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas. Try to get the version illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman. There are few books that capture the feel of Christmas the way this one does. The book brims with joy and cheerful sentiment, that never turns into sentimentality. The descriptions are densely poetic, the imagery vivid. One can feel the clean, cold air, with the salt tang in it, smell the goose, hear the gas lights hiss. It is a quick read, and I read it nearly every year.

The Spirit of Christmas by G. K. Chesterton. A collections of essays, plays and short stories built around the celebration of Christmas, both as a religious holiday, and a secular one. The sheer jolly wholesomeness of it is an excellent antidote to the maudlin insipidity that seems to be the hallmark of the season these days. Unfortunately, this book is rather hard to get a hold of.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight Anonymous. This is an old poem, written in Middle English, but you can easily find it in Modern English too. The action takes place between Christmas and New Year's, and Christmas motifs run rampant in the descriptions. There are several themes running through it: knightly nobility vs. virtue, temptation, but not falling into sin, the nature of courage and honour, and their place in living a truly Christian life. These themes are treated seriously, but never overwhelm the story, nor the Christmas setting.

The Sherwood Ring by Elizabeth Marie Pope. I am cheating here slightly, since this historical novel is not a Christmas book at all. However, there is a crucial plot development that takes place on Christmas Day, and there is something extremely satisfying in the way the author takes the incidental setting and lavishes such attention to all the little details that it makes the Christmas celebration - in the background though it is - quite memorable. (To be honest, The Sherwood Ring is just a satisfying book all the way around. It is one of my fall back books when I don't know what else to read.)

Concerning Books

I came across the following quote from C. S. Lewis today:

"No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond."

It makes a very good point. There are certain books that I enjoyed very much as a child, that I still take even greater pleasure in today. "The Hobbit" is one that springs readily to mind. I read it for the first time when I was very young, and enjoyed it hugely. I enjoy it even more now, because I can now appreciate Tolkien's singular style of writing, and his very droll sense of humour - two things that I did not appreciate when I first read it. However, I think one could expand upon this quote a bit: that the only really worthwhile books, are the ones that you can go back to again, and again, and that always have something to say to you. The best books are not the bestsellers, which tend to be wildly popular for a year or two, and then fall into oblivion. Nor are they those serious, self-conscious works of literature, which garner great acclaim when they are published, but tend to remain a bit obscure, and are read primarily by those who are serious and self-conscious. Nor again, are they necessarily the classics, though a good many classics will fall into the realm of worthwhile books. They are, after all, classics for a reason.

The best books, however, the ones that are worth reading, and re-reading, are the ones that speak to the soul. By that, I do not mean just those books that are beautifully written, or deal with great themes, though, of course, such books would be included. I mean books that are genuinely human, and deal with genuinely human things. They can be anything from "A Tale of Two Cities" to P. G. Wodehouse's Wooster and Jeeves books. They can be simple children's stories, such as the Redwall books, or they can be epics, like "The Lord of the Rings". They can be tales of adventure, such as "The 39 Steps" or can deal with ordinary, every day happenings, like D. E. Stevenson's "Mrs. Tim Christie". But one things they will all have in common. Namely, that they touch some part of whatever it is that makes you you. They might make you laugh, or cry, or thoughful, or just plain glad to be alive, but whatever it is, you will be better for having read it.

Book Review

Not too long ago, I came across several quotes by the Catholic British author, Caryll Houselander. I had never heard of her before that, even though my taste in literature runs very much in that direction. The quotes made a big impression on me, and one in particular stuck firmly with me: “Reverence must be paid even to those sinners whose souls seem to be dead, because it is Christ, who is the life of the soul, who is dead in them; they are His tombs, and Christ in the tomb is potentially the risen Christ.” I work in a public library, and, during any given day, will come in contact with a variety of difficult, or downright nasty people, and I have been noticing lately, that I find it difficult to be truly charitable to people. Oh, I am nice enough, of course, and I am polite and helpful. It is not really charity, though. I am simply doing my job. I generally have quite a contemptuous view of mankind in general. However that particular quote inspired me, and since then, I have been trying hard to see Christ (or at least, the potentially risen Christ) in the people whom I work with each day.

It was on the weight, primarily, of that one quote, that I decided to read some more by Caryll Houselander. I had looked her up upon reading those quotes, and was not quite sure what to think of her. She was almost always described as a 'mystic' and that particular word generally sends off warning signals for me, since these days, it is almost always used in context with new-agey spirituality. The little bits and pieces of her writing that I came across, however, seemed very orthodox, so I decided to try one of her books. I elected for one called, "This War is the Passion" which was written in London, during WWII.

I am glad I did, for it is a very good book indeed. Caryll uses the War as a sort of backdrop to the spiritual life, and though this occasionally makes the book feel a bit dated, in general, it works brilliantly as a way of casting Christian spirituality into the realm of daily life. She begins by pointing out that suffering is actually a blessing in disguise. Suffering (at least to some degree) is unavoidable, but to Christians, and particularly to Catholics, who are trying to live a truly spiritual life, suffering is not wasted. We are all bound together by the life of Christ within us, so that the sufferings of each one of us is of merit, not only to ourselves, but to the whole of the Church - and by extension, the World. She points out that all men are made in the image and likeness of God, and reminds us of Christ's words, that whatever we do to the least of our fellow men, we do to Him... and she does it in such a way that you realise, all at once that the ordinary, daily encounters with other people (which you will have to make anyway) are actually opportunities to put that teaching into practice. She has an uncanny ability to take a concept that we are all familiar with - that Christ was true Man as well as true God, for example - and by the freshness of her writing, suddenly make it suddenly seem something staggeringly new and fantastic. She does not sugar-coat anything. She is able to make us see the ineffable sweetness of God's love for us, and the value He places on our love for Him - all out of proportion to its worth. But she also makes it very clear that so great a love will mean great sacrifices - on both parts.

"This War is the Passion" is not a very long, and could be read in a single evening. It is very full of ideas, though, and is well worth taking the time to read slowly, and, indeed, to re-read. Caryll's writing is clear and deceptively simple. She goes naturally from point to point, building each chapter off the one proceeding. She has a knack for being able to use the perfect word, or phrase, or metaphor, but, like all good writers, knows to use this talent sparingly, and so, to good effect. It is a practical book, but full of poetry. It is inspirational, but not sweet, or sentimental, and for all the focus on suffering and sacrifice, it is ultimately a tremendously encouraging book. I recommend it highly.