I feel like Evelyn Waugh’s early 20th century British novel begs my re-visiting as I have only peeled its skin without having sunk my teeth into the rich center. But I have a few thoughts on my first read.
First, I’m glad that my edition left Waugh’s letters in the Appendix because he clearly states that the book is about religion–theology. That topic hits hardest in the latter half, but the reader glimpses it from the beginning. As I’ve listened to preliminary discussion of the text on the Close-Reads podcast, I have also been made aware that many call the novel a conversion story, which would definitely lean toward the interpretation that Sebastian, Julia, and Charles did not remain heathens and agnostics, but truly embraced the faith. It is with these notes, that I move into my observations.
For now, I will sit with that interpretation, although I’m sure there’s room to debate it. One thing that struck me was how the narrator (Charles Ryder) and his two subsequent loves (Sebastian and Julia Flyte) could possibly represent the three theological virtues, upended. Charles, of course, distrusts Roman Catholicism and actually calls himself an agnostic, one without true faith. Sebastian, feeling homeless even in the house where his family lives, turns to find a false hope in alcohol where he hopes to numb his guilt and sorrow. Finally, Julia, who lives to be loved, first by Rex Mottman and later by Charles, is always restless with the guilt of adultery that hangs over her head. Faith. Hope. Love.
None of these characters are saints. None of these characters are given radically transformed lives (at least in the sense that they become some glowing Christian martyrs, fully leaving behind any struggle with sin.) But Waugh is more interested in the grace that is extended to each of the least of these. None of them are deserving, and none can earn that grace. They simply request it–Sebastian finds himself as the poor object of charity in a Catholic monastary in Tunisia. Here, while he never fully recovers from alcoholism, he finds respite; he finds hope, a hope in a God who heals and adopts him into a family. Julia requests grace, too, in sacrificing her love for Charles to love and to serve God in the end. It never feels as if her war efforts as a “single” woman are penance for her adultery; instead, she has chosen a love that is not merely sexual, a love that only comes from grace. And of course, Charles, the focal point, as vehement as he is against the priest performing last rites at an atheist’s deathbed, unexpectedly falls to his knees and simply prays that God would forgive and that Lord Flyte would repent. He doesn’t need all of Catholicism’s confusing twists and turns (his explained at that point (his reasons for dismissing it in the first place.) He has an epiphany that faith is much more simple.
Now, why is Charles alone, bitter, and disillusioned when we find him years later during WWII? Well, I guess we could also ask is it true that those who repent and have faith suddenly turn and live a glorious life of sunny happiness? Granted, some do. We don’t get enough time to see every detail or every explanation for Charle’s life as it has become. We do know, though, that when he sees the small lamp still burning in the little chapel at Brideshead that he is reminded of the light that does not die.
“There was a part of the house I had not yet visited, and I went there now. The chapel showed no ill-effects of its long neglect; the art-nouveau paint was as fresh and as bright as ever; the art-nouveau lamp burned once more before the altar. I said a prayer, an ancient, newly learned form of words, and left, turning towards the camp; and as I walked back…I thought:
‘…Something quite remote from anything the builders intended has come out of their work, and out of the fierce little human tragedy in which I played; something none of us thought about at the time: a small red flame—a beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design, relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; the flame which old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out; that flame burns again for other soldiers, far from home, farther, in heart than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians, and there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.’”
Of course there is so much to unpack here and throughout about how art and literature can lead someone to insight into the mystery of faith, but for now, I’ll leave it at that. I think this book is about grace, grace for those who don’t deserve it, who are seeking, who are not embodiments of faith, hope, and love, but receive faith, hope, and love nonetheless.
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