To re-cap: Joe Urban, our determined narrator has located Gary Spencer, the last man alive who had read all of Richard Allen Garston's works. Spencer has changed his name to Father William and now resides at a Trappist monastery in Kentucky, the same one that Thomas Merton is buried at incidentally. Father William has agreed to open up a little with Joe regarding the writings and life of R. A. Garston. This is the first of several dialgues between the seeker and the source.Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston (Part 6)
We stood on a patio facing the road. Father William glanced up the hill toward the neat rows of crosses where the Abbey's many monks have been laid in their final repose and my eyes followed to the cemetery there where I had spent my previous day's contemplation. Strange, to me, was the notion that earthly celebrity had gained for Brother Louis Merton a more distinctively decorated plot than his fellows.
My eyes strayed back to the road, and to the hills beyond. Father William suggested we walk. I found the idea appealing and we were soon down the stairs, down the drive and across to the other side. My thoughts flew to the object of my quest.
"So why all the mystery?" I asked. "Why all the different explanations for not finishing anything?"
"Sometimes you don't feel free to tell the truth. People won't believe it or don't want to believe it or ask too many questions."
"And you believe he made a compact with the devil."
"I'm certain of it."
"Why's that?"
"I knew Richard better than anyone. He had to share with someone. I was there for him. I didn't condemn him. I listened, and he trusted me."
"So how did it happen? How does one go about making a compact with the devil? This is something you read about, but -- "
"I can't really answer that."
"But you said --"
"That isn't something he would have shared."
"But -- "
"It's like the frogs near here. If you walk about in the early evening you hear their chorus, each striving with all its heart to be heard. Now, you go to find one of these frogs and as soon as you step remotely near, no sound whatsoever. One minute, they seem ever so desirous to be discovered, yet in the next they conceal. Seldom will you find one in these marshes, because their intent is to remain hidden. Richard Allen Garston hid himself masterfully."
I began again to ask my question, and once more he re-directed. "I would still like to know --" I said.
"Let's begin with a different question. Where does fiction come from? You think there was no original Faust? In the case of Faust, of course, the real Faust was only accused of having been in league with the devil because the wonders of technology, at that time, had no explanation other than a supernatural one. Since they did not believe it from God, then it must be the devil. In other words, the truth was rejected, and a fiction was believed. Fear and ignorance were all around. Fiction is often rooted in fear. It is a counterfeit that hides the truth."I assented.
Father William continued. "Yet while it is true that things are ascribed to the devil that are entirely undevilish, there are other instances when it is very much the devil that traps people. Entices, then snares, and every good Christian knows that we need to be on our guard against the devil because he is ever prowling the earth, a liar and a deceiver...."
"Yes, yes, go on, go on. I attended Sunday school."
"But you don't believe in the devil."
"Does it matter? Sarte wrote --"
"Listen, you don't have to tell me what other people say or think or write. I was only noting that you don't believe in the devil."
"You're right. I was --"
"You were defending your position by obscuring the truth and quoting someone famous. It matters not a whit to me what you believe and do not believe, though ultimately, you'll find that it will matter very much for you." He looked at me in an uncondemning way, his eyes sad and open in a manner that invited me to peer inside his soul, but I evaded his look.
He continued. "My point is this. In fiction there are countless stories about devils, demons, darkness. And there are countless stories of love, heroism, courage, inner conflict, personal valor, human achievement, human stupidity. When you convince me that there is no such thing as love, courage, heroism, human achievement or stupidity, I will then be persuaded that there is no such thing as the devil. Fiction is a mirror, reflecting the way things really are." He looked off and away. "There is a devil and Richard Garston made a pact with him. As with everything, there is always a price."
"How did it come about? What kind of pact? What did the devil look like?"
We had climbed a hill and I found myself winded. Father William graciously paused to let me catch my breath. He looked skyward and whistled. I believe it possible that he allowed a smirk to crease his face though to smirk would have been a signal of pride for he was many years my senior. He did not, however, make comment. Instead, he kept to our theme. "My brother," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder, "you are asking me to divulge things which have been long buried. I'm not sure what good it will do to open these old graves."
"I don't know why it matters so much," I said. "For some reason, and I don't know why, I've felt compelled to learn more about this man. You have no idea how much sleep I've lost over it. Yet, it seems no small wonder that we are standing here talking today when I had already given up hope of ever finding you."
"So, what is it you wish to learn from me?"
"There was this writer who wrote for almost two decades. Hardly a word of what he has written remains. The writers with whom he shared portions of his work all acknowledge his genius, yet only two men have ever read the full body of his work. One of these quit life and devoted himself wholly to God; the other burned it all and said it was from the devil. I want to know how this happened. How did you see God where Garston's brother saw only darkness?"
"It's a common phenomenon," he said. "Look at the world where we live. In the 1930's Hitler was lauded by the London Times as a courageous and heroic figure. He instilled a renewed vigor and hope to the Fatherland. Others rightly deplored him. Two interpretations, one man. Marxist Socialist ideals have swept away hundreds of thousands of hearts in its tide. Never mind the millions who disappeared in Siberia. 'How can men's hearts be so blind?' one might ask. But the ideals of brotherhood and fraternity and community have deep roots in Scripture, and the echo reverberates in men's souls. Ayn Rand denounced altruism, but is Selfishness really a higher ideal? Where is the truth and where the fiction?"
I tried to sum up. "If I hear you correctly, it is possible that Garston's writings could lead one man to God and another away from Him."
He winced, took a deep breath. "Forgive me. Chest pains."
"I'm sorry. If this is--"
"That's all right. Nothing to do with our discussion. "
"Yet you said he made a compact with the devil."
"Yes, this is true."
"So explain to me how --"
"Come now. You've seen that silly optical illusion with the faces and the lamp. Some people see the faces, others the lamp. It's really not that difficult."
"Are you suggesting..." I didn't know how to articulate it and my words tapered off.
"Richard said it was like this. His writing was a form of combat. I can't explain it exactly, but the best I gathered was that he would create a character and that character was in a situation. The devil would then interfere, would paint the character into a corner, would utilize circumstances and the character's own weaknesses to destroy his or her confidence. Richard strove to give his characters a reason to go on, to pursue their ideals or dreams or whatever. They were battling for hope."
I rubbed my lower lip with my forefinger. It was sore and somewhat raw because I had been chewing on it.
"Your expression tells me you expect more than this."
I nodded."
If you believe, as I do, that the Bible could be written by men who were inspired, breathed into, by the Spirit of God, Espiritu Santo, then it is only a small step to accept the reality of a dark spirit writing words through human agency."
"I want to know how it happened."
"Scripture teaches us not to dwell on these things. As Paul writes to the Ephesians, it is shameful to even mention what the disobedient do in secret."
"You must have been curious yourself."
"This is not the purpose of your visit, is it?" he asked. His piercing eyes turned to slits, then widened again.
"Does it matter? Sarte wrote --"
"Listen, you don't have to tell me what other people say or think or write. I was only noting that you don't believe in the devil."
"You're right. I was --"
"You were defending your position by obscuring the truth and quoting someone famous. It matters not a whit to me what you believe and do not believe, though ultimately, you'll find that it will matter very much for you." He looked at me in an uncondemning way, his eyes sad and open in a manner that invited me to peer inside his soul, but I evaded his look.
He continued. "My point is this. In fiction there are countless stories about devils, demons, darkness. And there are countless stories of love, heroism, courage, inner conflict, personal valor, human achievement, human stupidity. When you convince me that there is no such thing as love, courage, heroism, human achievement or stupidity, I will then be persuaded that there is no such thing as the devil. Fiction is a mirror, reflecting the way things really are." He looked off and away. "There is a devil and Richard Garston made a pact with him. As with everything, there is always a price."
"How did it come about? What kind of pact? What did the devil look like?"
We had climbed a hill and I found myself winded. Father William graciously paused to let me catch my breath. He looked skyward and whistled. I believe it possible that he allowed a smirk to crease his face though to smirk would have been a signal of pride for he was many years my senior. He did not, however, make comment. Instead, he kept to our theme. "My brother," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder, "you are asking me to divulge things which have been long buried. I'm not sure what good it will do to open these old graves."
"I don't know why it matters so much," I said. "For some reason, and I don't know why, I've felt compelled to learn more about this man. You have no idea how much sleep I've lost over it. Yet, it seems no small wonder that we are standing here talking today when I had already given up hope of ever finding you."
"So, what is it you wish to learn from me?"
"There was this writer who wrote for almost two decades. Hardly a word of what he has written remains. The writers with whom he shared portions of his work all acknowledge his genius, yet only two men have ever read the full body of his work. One of these quit life and devoted himself wholly to God; the other burned it all and said it was from the devil. I want to know how this happened. How did you see God where Garston's brother saw only darkness?"
"It's a common phenomenon," he said. "Look at the world where we live. In the 1930's Hitler was lauded by the London Times as a courageous and heroic figure. He instilled a renewed vigor and hope to the Fatherland. Others rightly deplored him. Two interpretations, one man. Marxist Socialist ideals have swept away hundreds of thousands of hearts in its tide. Never mind the millions who disappeared in Siberia. 'How can men's hearts be so blind?' one might ask. But the ideals of brotherhood and fraternity and community have deep roots in Scripture, and the echo reverberates in men's souls. Ayn Rand denounced altruism, but is Selfishness really a higher ideal? Where is the truth and where the fiction?"
I tried to sum up. "If I hear you correctly, it is possible that Garston's writings could lead one man to God and another away from Him."
He winced, took a deep breath. "Forgive me. Chest pains."
"I'm sorry. If this is--"
"That's all right. Nothing to do with our discussion. "
"Yet you said he made a compact with the devil."
"Yes, this is true."
"So explain to me how --"
"Come now. You've seen that silly optical illusion with the faces and the lamp. Some people see the faces, others the lamp. It's really not that difficult."
"Are you suggesting..." I didn't know how to articulate it and my words tapered off.
"Richard said it was like this. His writing was a form of combat. I can't explain it exactly, but the best I gathered was that he would create a character and that character was in a situation. The devil would then interfere, would paint the character into a corner, would utilize circumstances and the character's own weaknesses to destroy his or her confidence. Richard strove to give his characters a reason to go on, to pursue their ideals or dreams or whatever. They were battling for hope."
I rubbed my lower lip with my forefinger. It was sore and somewhat raw because I had been chewing on it.
"Your expression tells me you expect more than this."
I nodded."
If you believe, as I do, that the Bible could be written by men who were inspired, breathed into, by the Spirit of God, Espiritu Santo, then it is only a small step to accept the reality of a dark spirit writing words through human agency."
"I want to know how it happened."
"Scripture teaches us not to dwell on these things. As Paul writes to the Ephesians, it is shameful to even mention what the disobedient do in secret."
"You must have been curious yourself."
"This is not the purpose of your visit, is it?" he asked. His piercing eyes turned to slits, then widened again.
I wasn't really sure.
CONTINUED
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