Only indirectly has the coronavirus pandemic influenced my decision to read books of short stories.Indirectly because bookstores are closed and I have several such volumes gathered here at home.This particular collection includes a book “especially written for young people” called Chilling Stories from Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone.This is a book I had as a young person, discarded, and then regretted discarding.I have to say that most books I discard I eventually regret.When you’re young and moving from apartment to apartment, though, you can’t keep all your books.Anyway, I re-acquired it several years back. The book doesn’t list an author.Instead, the title page says “Adapted by Walter B. Gibson.”Gibson was best known for writing The Shadow series.The end result is that I don’t know who wrote the stories in this book.They have the ideas of Rod Serling, but the writing isn’t in his style.
When I buy a book (I got this one used on the internet, back when it was young) I like to know the author.WorldCat lists Serling as the author, but the book was published pre-ISBN days, back when publishers could be a bit less than transparent about such things.Other websites put Gibson first under authors, followed by Serling.The publisher, Tempo Books, was an imprint of Grosset & Dunlap, which eventually came under the Random House/Penguin umbrella.Originally publishing primarily children’s books, Tempo lists this book for young readers, although as an adult reader I wonder if it could appeal to young people today.There’s no sex and any violence is really implied rather than explicit, but there’s some adult-level subtlety going on.Books for young readers are much different these days.
Just recently my daughter introduced me to the increasing sophistication of levels of book genres.Like most readers and writers I’m encouraged at how young adult books have taken off.A future generation of readers is cause for hope.There are now “new adult books.”These are targeted at those college aged or just over.Unlike young adult titles they’ll have sex and adult language.My Twilight Zone book lacks these, and it also lacks the sparkle of Serling’s teleplays.Serling was a playwright and screenwriter.These stories clearly contain his ideas but not his ability.I didn’t know that as a child.I do know that I never finished the book before now.One of the reasons, I expect, is that it didn’t really seem like I was reading Serling, even to my young self.Still, ghost stories during a pandemic have their own appropriate place, and who doesn’t want to be young at heart?
As an exile from academia, I do feel for my employed colleagues who are having to learn distance education techniques on the fly.I do also feel compelled *ahem* to note that I was trained in online teaching long ago at Rutgers University.The school declined to hire me then, and I’ve had no offers since.Now it’s become fashionable for academics with virtually no online experience to look to the hills—whence is their help to come?It’s not very often that I can claim to have been ahead of the curve.In fact, I’m usually so far back that I don’t even know there is a curve.Mismatches like this (someone who’s always been good at teaching, and trained to do so online, who’s been deemed exile-worthy while the unprepared now brush off their virtual bona fides) occur all the time in history.It’s one of the things that makes it interesting.
Higher education isn’t a luxury.I disagree with President Obama that all people should go to college, though.Not everyone needs to.Everyone should be able to attend, however, if they feel compelled to do so.There are a number of myths about it that politicians of all stripes should seek to dispel.One is that the more education you get the higher salary you’ll be able to demand.As a Ph.D. holder I know that is decidedly not the case.There are plenty of manual labor jobs that pay better than the options open for a humanities Ph.D. earner.I also know that universities don’t tell new doctoral candidates this fact.The old ways are changing.I’ve often wondered if the collapse of civilization would be slow or rapid.Living through it I now can see it looks slow from the inside.Future historians will need to assess for future readers how it looks from the social distance of chronological clarity.
Historically crises have helped people pull together.This one seems only to have divided us further.If our government knew how, it could now model kind and considerate behavior.It doesn’t know how.The selfish often don’t comprehend how the wellbeing of others can affect their own.Some companies are beginning to realize that customer loyalty after the crisis may depend on reasonable treatment at at time like this.For others it’s more difficult than house-training a new puppy.Nobody wants to go into exile.When you do, however, you can’t help but notice how it changes your view of things.Ironically I was hired away from academia the very year I had completed my training in distance education.I can image how it might’ve been.But then, I’m living in a land not my own.
The other day, while engaged in a mindless task, I had Bob Dylan playing in the background.When I say Bob Dylan I mean the Bob Dylan of the 1960s.I was an infant when he was singing songs like “The Times They Are a-Changin’” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.”As much as I cast the 1960s in a rosy glow, I was in fact a naive child through my portion of them.I knew about the Vietnam War, but I couldn’t point to the country on a map.Likewise, I knew about the assassinations of John and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr.I also knew that we had walked on the moon.My family at this stage didn’t listen to popular music.I grew up with hymns in my ears and the culture in which I was swimming slowing becoming absorbed through my pores.Dylan was part of the latter.
One of the reasons I don’t often listen to music is that I really listen to it.It is so significant to me that I don’t like to relegate it to the background.While I work from home, for example, I don’t put music on.I find it difficult to concentrate because, truth be told, I’d rather listen to the music.As I had Bob Dylan on, I was doing a task where I could listen as the rest of my body went into autopilot.The angry white men who are running things now, it struck me, were alive in the sixties as well.As much as they seem like aliens who were beamed down after the expansion of human consciousness, they were lurking in the shadows all along.If they sing along to Bob Dylan they’re hypocrites.We need another Dylan.
Photo credit: Rowland Scherman, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
That’s putting quite a burden on an artist, I know.But Dylan captured the spirit of the times.Even as scientism was growing the reality of the Zeitgeist was obvious.I grew up in the chaotic seventies.The eighties were bland with the Reaganism reaction—angry white men wanted to get rich at others’ expense, and we let them.Not enough time has passed for history to decide on the spirit of the fin de siècle, I don’t think.You see, we seem stuck in a feedback loop.Dylan’s lyrics are as necessary now as they were more than half a century ago.I’m growing weary of angry white men and their petty concerns.Maybe I need to listen to music more often.
With the non-essential stores closed, my daughter asked me the other day “does that mean bookstores?”Sadly, yes.More weekends than not I spend some time in a bookstore.Fortunately we are well stocked for an apocalypse, book wise.Lately I’ve been on a kick of reading short stories.I’ve certainly written enough of them to fill a book or two, and it’s nice to start something you can finish in one sitting.I just finished reading, or perhaps re-reading Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man.I say “perhaps re-reading” because I know I read many of the stories in the edition of the book I bought as a tween.Some of the tales I didn’t recall at all, making me think I was reading selectively in those days.That’s the nice thing about story collections: you don’t have to worry about continuity.
That having been said, the conceit of the illustrated man himself is that of a framing device.His tattooed body is the canvas on which all of these tales are painted.A surprising number of them are religious in theme.Many of them take place on Mars.Rockets are ubiquitous.As a child I hadn’t realized that many of Bradbury’s stories were published in the late forties and in the fifties.They still felt futuristic to me, having grown up in a small town with very little exposure to technological developments.Reading many of the tales as an adult, I was surprised at how much they influenced my own fiction writing style.I must’ve read a lot more of them when I was younger than I recall.
My tweenage years were long enough ago now that memories slip into one another.I can’t remember when this or that happened, especially as regards reading.When did I first read about the incessant rain on Venus?Or about the writers living on Mars dying out as their books are destroyed?Looking back over my own fictional work I see Bradbury’s fingerprints everywhere.Bradbury couldn’t afford to attend college, so he did what he knew—he wrote.Of course, back in those days publishers and agents weren’t dealing with the volume they face these days.The internet has made writers of us all.And I have to admit that some of the stories in The Illustrated Man disappointed me.They didn’t reach the level of either depth or insight that I had recalled.Overall, however, the impression was good, if nostalgic.As the days become a long series of interconnected hours of sitting in the house, it’s a real gift to have short stories to punctuate the days.
The story of Frankenstein has many unexpected twists and turns.I’m currently reading a book about the writing of the novel—something I’ve done a number of times before.There was an aspect of this story that hadn’t really caught my attention too much, but then, circumstances changed.Suddenly old information became new.It all started with a missed opportunity from childhood.
It was a real puzzle.Although my grandmother lived with us her last years, I never knew the name of her mother.There had been hints.My grandfather’s book with birthdays in it listed the first name, so I had a Christian moniker and birthdate only.She’d died young, I knew, somewhere in the Washington, DC area.This had been the state of my knowledge for many years.My grandmother died before I was a teen, and before I took any interest in the family story.I knew her heritage was Germanic, her father having been a first-generation American.
So young Mary Shelley (technically Godwin) was on a tour of Europe with her lover Percy.Although they both came from distinguished backgrounds, they were cash poor.Running out of money they made their way back to England as cheaply as they could.They passed near Castle Frankenstein along the way, although there is no record that they actually visited it.The name seems to have stuck, as does the story that they potentially learned about a mad scientist who’d lived in that castle.This scientist was a theologian who dabbled in alchemy and experiments with dead bodies.I know what you’re thinking—it’s like a puzzle piece we desperately want to go in this place but its fit’s ambiguous.We’re not sure how much of this Mary Shelley knew.The alchemist’s name was Johann Konrad Dippel.I’d read about him before.
I’d spent nearly an entire summer some years back working on my grandmother’s family, finding little.Just two years ago I did a casual search on “Find a Grave,” and to my surprise, I found my great-grandfather.I knew it was him because his second wife’s name matched information from all the family records.The cemetery record, in Maryland rather than DC, had his first wife’s name.It was that easy.After decades of searching, a few keystrokes revealed the mystery.When it also listed her parents, the significance of her mother’s maiden name—Dippel—escaped me.Now I have no way of knowing if this is the same Dippel family of Castle Frankenstein, but it put flesh on the bones of my long-standing interest in monsters.Seeking them out may be the same as learning family secrets.Perhaps it always is.
All the way back in seminary my friends and I used to joke about virtual church.What made it so funny was that the idea seemed ridiculous.The very raison d’être for church (which essentially means “gathering”) was, well, gathering.We joshed about putting a communion card into an ATM and getting bread and wine.Little did we know we’d live to see virtual church become a reality.While I prefer not to tip my hand as to my affiliation (I began doing this when teaching at secular schools, for if a professor of religion is being academic about their specialization their affiliation should have no bearing on the class) I confess I am the member of a religious community.That community has become virtual, as of today.
This isn’t a permanent thing.Unless coronavirus is a permanent thing.As I spoke with my clergy person about it, I wondered how many people would attend virtual services.Sermons would need to be stellar.Who would hear if I tried to sing hymns (this is not a pretty thing, take my word for it)?My laptop doesn’t even have a disc slot into which I could insert my offering.Churches, synagogues, mosques—they’re about community.What does community feel like when you’re sitting there in your pajamas, at least on the part that the webcam doesn’t pick up?Does the minister see you in virtual church?Have I, like number 6, been reduced to a numeral?I suspect the current crisis is going to be a real test for faith communities.Meeting together would make us all feel like snake-handlers now.
The funny thing was, back in seminary it was a joke.At Boston University School of Theology in the late 1980s we knew that churches weren’t really growing.Some megas had started and we now see them following the mushroom cloud to its dissipation stage.As little as we meant it, we could see devices creeping into the mix.I did not use a computer until after seminary.Funnily enough, thinking back to the pre-1990s, we survived without cell phones.If you were going to church you were going. To. Church.These days of pandemic in the pews will be a real test of the preacher’s power.For Episcopalians the mediating of grace had to be done in person.I remember watching worriedly as the priest, clearly with a sniffle, was the first one to take a sip from the community chalice before holding it out for others to drink.We wondered about efficacy of ATMs dispensing consecrated hosts.It was only a joke, then; really it was.
I recall the time I first heard the word “merch” used as a verb.I was with some wonderful ladies on the second annual Women’s March, in New York City.We had to leave fairly early to get there from Jersey and as we made our way to the march route, we saw the goods. Vendors had all kinds of things on sale, from the ubiquitous tee-shirt to refrigerator magnets.One of the women in the group said, “I guess you can merch anything.”And so you can.People will buy all kinds of identifying marks.It’s a craze I personally don’t get into.I buy plain clothes, having more of an Amish aesthetic.Still, I was a little surprised to notice that the Society of Biblical Literature is now merching itself.
Now, who can blame a non-profit for trying to score a little on the side?We all know what that’s like.What I find myself most curious about is who would want to advertise that they’re working on a degree that will, in all likelihood, find them on the breadline when it’s all over?I’ve known many who’re proud to be nerds—they’ve got employment to give them creds.Those of us tormented by the meaning of it all, not so much.My decision to go to grad school was accompanied by the blessed assurance that there’d be plenty of opportunities, but there was no merch.Indeed, I was two years into my doctorate beforeI even found out what the SBL was—the great connector whence came jobs.At least in theory.I found my post at Nashotah House because a friend told me about it.I still have some of their merch.
Knowing what I do now, would I have done it any differently?It’s difficult to say.Who can recall the frame of mind of his younger self with such clarity as to know his choices?Having studied Bible I was curious whence it came—to turn back even further the pages of history.As I sit here in the early morning I have on my last two remaining pieces of Edinburgh merch.My moth-eaten woolen divinity scarf and my blue alma mater sweatshirt.I try hard not to think how close to three decades ago it was.I was so sure I’d find a job with that rare Scottish degree, imprint of John Knox’s breeches still fresh upon my head.Instead the merch of my current employer—a coffee mug—stands before me, reminding me that work alone awaits.