Kudos to Perseus, the Slayer of Monsters

Caravaggio's Head of Medusa, 1597 (Public Domain)

One of the great art museums of Europe is the Uffizi in Florence. In addition to all the artworks inspired by Biblical themes, there is an abundance of references to Greek mythology, including this Head of Medusa by Caravaggio. (I took my own photo when there, but this is a better representation.) 

According to legend, it was Perseus who slew the Medusa, a woman who was cursed by the goddess Athena. Her hair was turned into snakes and anyone who looked at her would turn to stone.

Many of us who were familiar with Hercules were less familiar with Perseus. Did you know that Perseus was a half-brother to Hercules? They shared the same father: Zeus. 

I remember well my childhood fascination with Greek mythology, in part inspired by books in grade school and, in part, stimulated by TV shows like Sons of Hercules. I couldn't understand, though, why they had a show about the sons of Hercules instead of Hercules, an Anglicized version of the name Heracles.

Here's what Wikipedia says about the show: The series repackaged 13 Italian sword-and-sandal films by giving them a standardized theme song (which I remember to this day) for the opening and closing titles, as well as a standard introductory narration attempting to relate the lead character in each film to the Greek demigod Hercules. In reality, they were not filmed as Hercules films but rather as Hercules-like and gladiatorial and mythological hero films.

Long before Heracles performed his legendary labors, though, there was Perseus, one of the great heroes of ancient Greek mythology. Also born of Zeus, king of the gods, and Danaë, a mortal princess, Perseus belonged to two worlds: the realm of divine power and the fragile, uncertain world of humanity.

His greatest exploit was ths slaying of Medusa, the terrifying Gorgon. Armed with gifts from the gods, including a polished shield that served as a mirror, Perseus approached the monster without looking directly upon her. With a single stroke, he severed her head, transforming an instrument of terror into a weapon of his own. That explains why Caravaggio's image of the Medusa is painted on a shield.

This wasn't his only adventure. Journeying home, Perseus encountered the beautiful Andromeda, chained to a rock beside the sea as a sacrifice to a monstrous creature. He slew the beast and rescued the princess, whom he later married. (That's one way to get a wife.)

Like Cadmus and Bellerophon, Perseus belonged to that early generation of Greek heroes who confronted the monstrous and unknown. He was also an ancestor of Heracles, something like a great-grandfather, whose exploits would eventually eclipse his own.

The moral of the story with regards to Medusa might be that some enemies cannot be confronted directly. His victory required both bravery and ingenuity.

In our modern world, that principle holds true. Not every monster can be overcome by force. (I can tell you a story or two.) Sometimes survival depends upon courage mixed with creativity. And sometimes the greatest act of heroism is not destroying a monster, but rescuing someone from its grasp.

Determination and Persistence: Essential Attributes of a Writing Career

Determination and persistence are essential to achieving almost anything worthwhile. Obstacles are inevitable, setbacks discouraging, distractions everywhere. What keeps us moving when enthusiasm fades? Purpose.

A clearly defined purpose provides direction. It helps distinguish what matters from what merely demands attention. Without it, we drift from one attractive possibility to another, accomplishing little.

Persistence is not simply stubbornness. It's the discipline of pursuing a meaningful objective even when progress is slow. And it's the discipline of refusing to be distracted.

Looking back on my own writing career, several influences shaped its course, foremost of these being a sense of calling. That conviction gave my commitment gravity. Writing became more than a passing whim or short-term interest. It would become a lifetime endeavor. If I hoped to make a meaningful contribution, I needed to invest the time and effort necessary to build sound foundations.

Sherwood Wirt’s You Can Tell the World was a book that lit my fuse when I began my writing career. Wirt had been editor of Billy Graham’s Decision magazine for many years. He, too, had a desire to see more power in Christian writing. More meat, more bite. He had undoubtedly seen plenty of insipid material flow across his desk over the years, submissions that were well intentioned but impotent. He says as much right up front. “The demand for Christian writing of quality far exceeds the supply.”

He goes on to say, “The simple expedient of seeking advice from the right people can make all the difference to an aspiring writer.” And such was I at the time.

In the very first chapter he emphasizes the importance of immersing ourselves in great literature before we attempt to produce great literature. That is, if we do not know what great writing looks like how can we ourselves hope to produce it? He speaks of the influence of Darwin, Marx, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Camus and others. Their prose was powerful indeed, for it did not simply titillate the senses. It moved people to action.

If it is your desire to write, and to write with power, whether in business or the arts or for whatever purposes that drive you, follow the path that others have trod. Read the classics. Study the manner in which ideas are assembled, and how language really works. Hemingway, despite his personal faults, by sheer force of will re-oriented modern literature.

Along the way, I learned that persistence also requires patience. Not every effort yields immediate results. Some seeds take years to germinate; some worthwhile achievements require a lifetime. The most important thing, though, is that if you’re called to be a writer--or whatever your calling--don’t allow yourself to be distracted. Those who accomplish great things are not necessarily the most talented. Often, they are simply the ones who keep going when others stop or turn aside.

Still, determination offers no guarantee of success. As Ecclesiastes reminds us, the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. Time and chance happen to us all. We cannot control every outcome, but we can choose what we devote our lives to. Ultimately, the measure of a life is not simply what we achieve, but what we faithfully pursue.

Journal Notes: June 13-16, 1993

Last night I pulled out one of my forty or so notebooks and began reading randomly. Photo albums are great for resurrecting lost memories. Journals provide snapshots of our internal journeys, struggles, reflections and impressions of our life experiences. They can also have therapeutic value as we unravel the emotional and psychological knots that entangle us. 

Everyone who keeps a journal or diary does so in his or her own way. There are no rules. My earlier scratchings were very different from later. Once I began blogging in 2007 my journal notes dropped off some, though never entirely. It is invaluable to have a private space where we can "let our hair down" and be wholly our selves, in God's presence, free from the critical scrutiny of others.  

What follows are some notes from four days in 1993. 

June 13, 1993
"Never measure the height of a mountain until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was."
—Dag Hammarskjold, Markings

"If I freeze in the moment like the rest who don't try, what good am I?"
—Dylan

In reading Unamuno I am confronted again with the need to go to Cervantes — the seminal fount of so much that is noble.

* * * 

Sermon today on Lot &c.  Genesis 19. "Lot hesitated."

I find I can relate. But by grace he was saved from the fire. His wife, on the other hand, was not saved. What I find myself asking is… Did Lot's wife really turn into a pillar of salt? Or is this a story to teach us something about looking back?

* * * 

For him who truly Hungers to live, only living fully, deeply, satisfies this longing. We satisfy our hunger to live by Living.

* * * 

Evening
Purchased the Don Quixote this afternoon and a book of Kafka's short stories. In opening the Kafka, it immediately opens to a short story that is a tribute to Quixote about Sancho's part in the story. Kafka tips his hat, as did Unamuno.

Shall I not also pay my respects?

* * * 

June 14

"We cannot afford to forget any experience, not even the most painful."

—Dag Hammarskjold, Markings

D.H.'s book is an honest, deep, "picking at the scabs"—trying to understand the mysteries of injury and healing, pain and meaning. And [it's] good writing, too.

Productive weekend included finding book treasures, watching movies, finishing practical tasks, and completing some writing. 

Of D.H.'s Markings: The book is a treasure trove filled with gold pieces.

Here and there, pockets of inspiration and hope nurture the weary traveller… and his heart is lifted.

Rejoice, sons and daughters of Jerusalem. Rejoice!

* * * 

June 15

Am reading the Quixote. In caricature we see our selves. How often are we not so unlike the Quixote, imagining ourselves fighting battles for righteousness while others only see a grown man making a fool of himself?

* * * 

June 16

We live, we move, we have our being.

This waking hour, this mortal frame

This fleeting breath we call life's game

Reminds us where our Rest shall be

Not here on earth, but eternity

* * * * * 

Should This Piece Begin with a Trigger Warning?

"In yesterday's creative writing classroom, a draft of a novel might have been considered poorly written or maybe even offensive. Today, it creates a quote-unquote dangerous and harmful classroom that is not a safe space. This is why some professors ask their students to include trigger warnings at the top of their work, or to simply avoid writing about any topic that might trigger another student in the room."

So begins Adam Szetela's YouTube video, How “Sensitivity Readers” Made Modern Fiction Boring.

Here's Szetela's concern. Because campus creative-writing programs have become the dominant training ground for writers, they're now shaped by a culture of hypersensitivity and safety. This sensitivity culture leads to concrete acts of censorship and self-censorship that damage literature. It's too risky to take chances. The result is a broader infantilization of literary culture that produces safer, more predictable, and weaker writing.

He cites examples, beginning with Oberlin College. The school's faculty guidelines include a statement that trigger warnings show students that you care about their safety. In short, we live in "an era of mandatory sensitivity training programs, anonymous bias reporting systems, and other measures instituted by campus bureaucrats," which is having a corrosive effect on would-be novelists, poets, or playwright.

Szetela followed with another example, this one being at the University of Michigan where "professors and students demanded that Bright Sheng, theater and dance, be removed from his course after he screened an adaptation of William Shakespeare's Othello that included blackface." Heaven forbid!! "Exclaimed one student, I was shocked that Shang would show something like this in something that's supposed to be a safe space." Bottom line: Shang survived the Cultural Revolution in China, but he did not remain the professor of his own course here in the land of the free and the brave.

One of the challenges for professors, and writers today as well in this era of squeamish sensitivity, is staying current with the ever-shifting twists and turns of what is OK and what's a no-no. "On campus, even journalism has to be a quote-unquote safe space," Szetela suggests. "According to Northwestern University's newspaper, 'while our goal is to document history and spread information, nothing is more important than ensuring our fellow students feel safe.'"

Author, critic, and New York Times ghostwriter. Szetela's talk is just under 20 minutes. You can find it here.

 

Related Links
What Is the Goal of Educaton, Learning or High Self Esteem?

Are Children Today Being Raised "Too Safe to Succeed"?

Do You Read Banned Books?

The Role of Fog: Fifth Character in Long Day's Journey into Night

"How slow and slow and slow it goes
to mend the tear that always shows."
--Neil Young

Last night I watched the 1962 film based on Eugene O'Neil's tragic play Long Day's Journey into Night. Awarded a posthumous Pulitzer Prize and regarded by critics as the first major American playwright, O'Neil pioneered psychological realism and modern American drama.

I knew it would be dark. This was a period when some of America's greatest playwrights were  probing the deeper issues of modern life. What falsehoods do we live by and tell ourselves? How do we find meaning amid doubt, personal failure and upheaval? Why do appearances and reality so often diverge? How do we reaffirm our commitments when things feel like they are coming apart? Why are we so afraid to reveal our authentic selves? Why are some of us so emotionally frail? What are all these avoidance games that we play with ourselves and others? What is true self-acceptance? 

Three playwrights whose powerful dramas made an impact on me as they explored these themes were Tennessee Williams (A Streetcar Named Desire, The Glass Menagerie and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof), Arthur Miller (Death of a Salesman, The Crucible), and Edward Albee, who's Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was released in theaters the same year as Long Day's Journey.

O'Neil's play takes place in a single day in 1912. The four central characters are James, Mary, Edmund and Jamie Tyrone. It's a family with secrets--which they've kept from the outside world by keeping the world at a distance--and which they've kept from each other. By the end of this day the characters will each have a collision with the light.

The family is financially well off due to the success of James Tyrone, a once-successful actor who made a name for himself with a play that he bought to gain visibility and use as a stepping stone to his true ambition of being a great character actor. Instead, he made a lot of money, but the success in this role was so widespread that it kept him from other roles. He is emotionally stuck between genuine love for his family and deep regret over his past choices—especially his miserly habits rooted in childhood poverty.

Mary had once dreamed of being a nun, but then got swept up by James. He travelled, performed and brought home the bacon, while over time loneliness engulfed her so that morphine became her new companion. Emotionally fragile and increasingly detached, she begins the day trying to present a cheerful, “cured” front after a recent stay in a sanatorium. 

Jamie, the older son, is cynical, self-loathing, and alcoholic. He's emotionally raw and resentful. He loves his brther Edmund but also fears and envies him; he is bitterly aware of his own wasted potential and the family’s dysfunction. 

Edmund, the younger son, is sensitive, poetic, and physically ill with tuberculosis. He's the most clear-eyed yet emotionally exhausted of the family. Frightened by the diagnosis that has just come this day, he's furious at the cheap doctors and stinginess that have shaped the family’s history, and torn between love and revulsion toward his parents and brother. 

Cathleen, the housemaid, is a minor character who serves as a temporary listener and drinking companion for Mary while the men are out. She also provides a bit of comic relief in this somber day-long journey toward night. 

After watching a while, it became quite evident that the fog was a sixth, and somewhat signiicant, character in this drama. Right from the start we find Mary commenting on it as the morning haze has been slow to clear. Over time each of the characters makes references to the fog, which  functions as a powerful symbol of isolation, escape, denial, and the family’s shared inability to face reality clearly. 

I noticed it right frmothe start, but when Mary made this statement, I began to cue in. "It wasn't the fog I minded. I really love fog." Then later, Jamie Jr. likewise affirmed this family characteristic.  "I love the fog. The fog was where I wanted to be..."

Here's a sequence that makes it clear why the fog is a central character in this play.

Mary Tyrone: “It wasn’t the fog I minded, Cathleen. I really love fog. It hides you from the world and the world from you. You feel that everything has changed, and nothing is what it seemed to be. No one can find or touch you any more. It’s the foghorn I hate. It won’t let you alone. It keeps reminding you, and warning you, and calling you back.”

Mary: “How thick the fog is. I can’t see the road. All the people in the world could pass by and I would never know. I wish it was always that way.”

Edmund: “The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. You’d never know it was here. Or any of the other places down the avenue. I couldn’t see but a few feet ahead. I didn’t meet a soul. Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted—to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself.”

In Act 4, Edmund compares Mary’s state to the fog: “The hardest thing to take is the blank wall she builds around her. Or it’s more like a bank of fog in which she hides and loses herself. Deliberately, that’s the hell of it! You know something in her does it deliberately—to get beyond our reach, to be rid of us, to forget we’re alive!”

Further on Edmund again returns to this theme. “Like a saint’s vision of beatitude. Like the veil of things as they seem drawn back by an unseen hand. For a second you see—and seeing the secret, are the secret. For a second there is meaning! Then the hand lets the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, and you stumble on toward nowhere, for no good reason!”

James Tyrone and Jamie also react to or are affected by the fog. James comments on the weather and the night of fog; Jamie is associated with the same atmosphere of drunken isolation.

This being a seaside residence, we hear another character accompanying this fog, the foghorn. The foghorn, which exists as a warning for ships, repeatedly calls our characters back, underscoring that the escape the fog seems to offer is incomplete and temporary.

Powerful plays--like great movies--vibrate with great lines. In this play's closing scene Mary says, "What is it I'm looking for? I know it's something I lost." 

We may have to revisit this one.

* * * * * 

The 1962 film version of the play, directed by Sidney Lumet, features Kathryn Hepburn and Ralph Richardson (as the father), with Jason Robards and Dean Stockwell as the sons. From what I've read, the 2025 version of this story, featuring Jessica Lange and Ed Harris in the lead roles, is especially sharp.

To learn more, visit Long Day's Journey into Night.

Misnomers, Misconceptions, Oxymorons and Malapropisms

I was writing something about misconceptions this week, which got me thinking about interesting words about words. I'm pretty sure most of us learned all these words in school, so this should just be considered a refresher course.

A misnomer is a name or term that is inaccurate, misleading, or wrongly applied to a person, place, thing, or concept. It occurs when a word's literal meaning contradicts the actual reality of what it describes. Here are some examples:

"Lead" pencil: A pencil's core is actually made of graphite and clay, not lead.
"Tin" foil: Modern kitchen foil is made entirely of aluminum.
Koala "bear": Koalas are marsupials, completely unrelated to bears.
"French" fries: This style of fried potato actually originated in California. (Just kidding. Belgium.)
"Guinea" pigs: These are rodents native to the Andes, not Guinea, and you probably already know they are not pigs.

I wanted to highlight misnomers because we seem to have become inundated with them. For example, if a gathering involves widespread violence, looting and property destruction, calling it a "peaceful protest" becomes a political misnomer. Conversely, critics might use a misnomer like "riot" to describe a completely orderly march to alter public perception.

In the realm of ethics we see a different kind of language abuse. Calling a natural disaster like an earthquake "evil" is often considered a conceptual misnomer in secular philosophy. Because an earthquake has no mind, intent, or moral agency, it can be "bad" or "destructive," but it cannot be morally "evil."

Misnomers are not precisely the same as misconceptions or oxymorons. A misnomer happens when a name is completely inaccurate to the physical reality of the object. The object is real, but the language used to name it is factually incorrect so it's actually the wrong label.

Here's another example: a jellyfish is not a fish, it's an invertebrate. And guess what? Panama hats are originally from Ecuador, not Panama. Again, these are misnomers.

A misconception on the other hand is a false premise, a myth, or a flawed conclusion that people widely hold to be true. It lives in the human mind rather than just the dictionary definition. We've all heard this one cited so often it's repeated as if it were true: "Humans only use 10% of their brains." Neurological imaging shows we use virtually every part of our brain over the course of a day.

Another "old wives' tale" (and I mean no disrespect to older wives here) is that cracking your knuckles causes arthritis. Medical studies have consistently shown no link; the sound is just gas bubbles bursting in the joint fluid, so it is a misconception.

Oxymorons are the fun one in this batch. An oxymoron is a deliberate pairing of two contradictory or opposing terms to create a poetic effect, add emphasis, or point out a paradox. It is a stylistic choice, not an error. Example: "Deafening silence." There is no such thing as a deafening silence. Silence cannot literally deafen you. Maybe it rings true because it highlights a stillness so intense that it feels heavy. I dunno. "Liquid gas" is another oxymoron. Matter generally exists as one or the other, but the phrase describes a substance (like propane) that's been pressurized into a liquid state.

In 2019 I wrote a blog post titled Oxymoronica: Paradoxical Wit and Wisdom for People Who Enjoy Word Play. It's a book review with plenty of exampes as well as a link to the book itself. 

The last word on this list also illustrates the humorous side of language. A malapropism is the accidental or comedic misuse of a word by replacing it with a similar-sounding word that has a completely different meaning. A number of Comedians like the Marx Brothers routinely used word play. Whereas Groucho was famous for puns and double entendres, Chico carried the water when it came to malapropisms, playing a character who seems to misunderstand English. When asked where he was from, he'd reply in a thick Italian accent that he was "from across the Atlantic Auction." 

I first became aware of malapropisms when our family moved to New Jersey. The Bowery Boys were a staple of New York television in 1964. and Leo Gorcey played a character named Slip Mahoney famously butchered the English language, talking about "optical delusions" and "I  depreciate it" (instead of appreciate). He tried to sound smart by using big words. 

And who can forget Archie Bunker's colorful mistake-laden language. "Patience is a virgin," he once said, intending to say virtue. Or "What do I look like, an inferior decorator."

The origin of the word actually comes from a character in an 18th century play called The Rivals, by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. One of the characters was Mrs. Malaprop who was full of 'em. One of her lines: "She's as headstrong as an allegory on tbe banks of the Nile."

All that to say language can be fun. Whether it's verbal sleight of hand or aural misdirection, it's magical when it works.

Drawn Near: A Fawn, a Sunset, and a Poem

As a Young Fawn, I

As a young fawn I, with awkward step
found an opening in the wood;
unfolding eyes beheld and touched
what I could little understand —
that though I’d freely come to see,
‘twas his hand that was drawing me.

I wished not that our eyes would meet,
my heart, berserk with wildness, quaked,
but when his eye fell fast upon me
I, too, even dared to gaze
shamelessly,
that eternal moment touching.

Though first my heart had bid me flee
I had to know just why he’d come
to this place, my forest home.
(And it’s funny how he heard my fears
from distant hills re-echo.)

Magnetic sunset pink and gold
was all I meant that hour to view,
yet clearly it seemed meant for us
together on that hill to share
a dramatic fairy tale
that wasn’t bound by miles of string.
                                    New Jersey, 1975

THE REST OF THE STORY
It’s generally considered bad form to explain the meaning of one’s poetry. This does not mean, however, that one should never discuss the experiences that inspired them. Robert Frost often discussed his poetry, sometimes illuminating its meaning and sometimes deliberately preserving its ambiguity.

I myself think there are times when it’s perfectly suitable to share the backstory, to explain the event or events that ignited one to craft a poem or song. I think here of Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” as well as numerous Beatles songs. One of my favorite contemporary poets, Billy Collins, has frequently discussed the experiences and observations behind his poems, often with humor.

With that being said, As a Young Fawn, I was an attempt to capture an experience I had in 1973. One evening I had taken a walk at dusk with my sketchbook. I seated myself on a path at the top of a hillside overlooking a sunset. I was absorbing the peacefulness there, sitting still, taking it in, when very softly a young fawn came walking along a path that intersected with where I was seated. She was quite tentative, but curious.

I’d been contemplating what to draw and as the fawn and I made eye contact I began drawing her. As I did, she drew nearer, was breathtakingly near.

It was autumn and may even have been hunting season. Two rifle shots echoed from the distance and my new acquaintance suddenly took flight.

I wrote the poem two years later while reflecting on this unexpected, seemingly chance encounter which I saw as a vivid metaphor for my own life's spiritual journey.