Life of Lydia

“Then first I knew the delight of being lowly: of saying to myself, “I am what I am, and nothing more.” “I have failed,” I said, “I have lost myself — would it have been my shadow.” I looked round: the shadow was nowhere to be seen. Ere long, I learned that it was not myself, but only my shadow, that I had lost. I learned that he that will be a hero, will barely be a man: that he that will be nothing but a doer of his work, is sure of his manhood. In nothing was my ideal lowered, or dimmed, or grown less precious; I only saw it too plainly, to set myself for a moment beside it. Indeed, my ideal soon became my life; whereas, formerly, my life had consisted in a vain attempt to behold, if not my ideal in myself, at least myself in my ideal” 

What did I expect out of Phantastes? I can hardly say. Maybe that’s because I decided to read it on a whim, and finished it within a week, all while having a debilitating sinus infection. But I certainly did not expect to find myself thinking “This is on par with Tolkien,” and later tell my friend that it had as much or more spiritual truth than Narnia. And yes, I really said that. 

Imagine that you’re in an art museum looking at a painting, impressed by how beautiful it is. You could probably come up with a few jumbled thoughts as to what makes the painting so impressive, but you don’t bother trying. You leave the museum with a wonderful feeling that you had come into contact with something different and more wonderful than everyday art like a McDonald’s logo. Now imagine that before you had left the museum a curator had come along, and in a slightly annoying voice explained how all the elements of the painting were just right to make it the beautiful work of art that it was. You basically agreed with everything they said, but somehow hearing it obnoxiously explained in excruciating detail made the painting seem less special. You felt like you understood exactly how it worked, and as a result your awe and respect for it were greatly reduced. 

I believe that a very similar situation is at play with Phantastes. I know it was beautiful and I have a few ideas floating around in my head as to why. Something about failure, redemption, and humility. But I am intentionally not articulating my thoughts into sentences because I don’t want to ruin the effect. I don’t want to “understand” the book, rather I want to read it and accept it as beautiful. 

Well done, George MacDonald.