Ruminating on The Father's Tale
IN BOOK TEN OF HIS Confessions, Saint Augustine of Hippo refers to the memory as “the stomach of the mind”—an image that probably seems strange to many modern readers, but one that I’ve found very helpful.
In this reference, Augustine isn’t referring to the kind of stomach we humans have, which are a kind of way station for food on its way to the intestinal tract, but the kind of stomachs found in sheep (as well as cattle and goats, etc.), i.e., a ruminant stomach. Ruminant animals gobble down their food and later bring it back up to chew it over, thus releasing the nourishment in their food and allows them to digest it better.
The whole of St. Augustine’s Confessions is essentially an extended exercise in spiritual rumination, recounting, in the first nine books, his earlier life—the experiences that he “gobbled down” without much reflection and now brings back to mind not only for his own benefit but also for the benefit of his readers, so that they too can derive spiritual nourishment from them. The final books of the Confessions, which move beyond his personal story, show that the spiritual nourishment Augustine has derived from decades of rumination have led him into even loftier realms of reflection upon God and His action in our lives.
Unfortunately, by the time many readers reach Book X, they have already swallowed his personal story undigested and find the spiritual reflections that fill the last few books to be unappetizing; such readers will find themselves, for years afterward, belching up the “naughty bits” of the tale of his youthful transgressions, which will be all they can recall of his story, having entirely missed the point where he really begins to meditate on what God has shown him through this process of remembrance and rumination. They should have stayed on for the after-dinner digestif, which is often the best part of any meal.
The Father’s Tale, a Story Worth Chewing On
As a ruminant creature myself, however, I’ve always loved Augustine’s idea of the memory as the place where we store our experiences until we have a chance to bring them back to mind and “chew them over” or ruminate upon them. In fact, one of the reasons I started this blog a few years ago was to give myself an excuse to chew over some of the things I’ve read. To my mind, rumination provides a great part of the pleasure of reading. This is why I prefer to read books that will reward further thought—books that are “good” in the sense that C. S. Lewis used that term in An Experiment in Criticism. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy a light snack from time to time, but one of the problems with reading things the literary equivalent of junk food is that they really don’t provide much of a “mental cud”—if you try ruminating on them, you find that there is nothing there.
A lot of my rumination these days occurs while I am taking a walk along the shore of the lake where I live. There’s no telling what will come to mind as I walk along. This morning, it was Michael D. O’Brien’s The Father’s Tale, a book I read a couple of months ago, which I’ve been allowing to sit in “the stomach of my mind” until it was ripe for rumination. It’s such a good book that I may have to read it again before I can get full value from it—not because it is difficult to digest, but because it is such rich fare that it will require more time and attention to savor it—that’s how good a book it is.
Judging from some of the reviews that appear on the internet, many readers pick up A Father’s Tale expecting it to be fast food—easy to swallow, with not much to digest. In places such as Goodreads, you’ll find quite a few reviews that indicate the reviewers simply had no idea how to read (much less ruminate upon) this book: they complain about the length of the book (nearly 1,100 pages—one reviewer suggested that you could trim it down to 300 pages and not lose the “essential story”) and the “absurdity” of the plot. Sadly, many prospective readers will be put off by such remarks; these days too many people prefer a “quick read” over a good book. They remind me of the crowds that followed Jesus around and listened to his parables (a “quick listen”) and then wandered away satisfied, while his true followers stayed behind to hear what the parables meant.
The truth is that this book is probably fare too rich for such readers, who are accustomed to novels that traipse quickly and superficially through plot points on the way to their happy (and predictable) endings. Such stories are the literary equivalent of a quick meal at a chain restaurant, while The Father’s Tale is a rich and varied banquet of several courses, one to be savored and ruminated before being digested. If you’re the kind of reader who hesitates to read long novels in case they turn out to be heavy fare, let me just mention a couple of things that might help you enjoy this story. (I’ll shift metaphors while I’m at it.)
A Book Is a Journey
If you have not yet read The Father’s Tale, here’s a tip: long books often take you places that you didn’t expect to go, and take many turnings along the way. As you read this story, imagine you are embarking on a long journey with an unknown itinerary—unknown to you, anyway. Tolkien tells such a story in The Lord of the Rings, and Michael D. O’Brien does it in The Father’s Tale; both provide delights that would be less delightful if you could see them coming before you got there. In both cases, the author has planned out the whole trip to provide a series of unexpected vistas through many landscapes, but he will get you safely home.
Another thing about long books: they are often a bit slow getting started, so don’t be in too big a hurry. Just as J. R. R. Tolkien spends quite a bit of time on Bilbo’s birthday party before Frodo’s journey begins, so too The Father’s Tale takes nearly one hundred of its more than one thousand pages to prepare both his protagonist and his reader for the wild ride that lies ahead. This is because the protagonist himself, like Frodo, is a bit set in his ways and does not anticipate making any kind of a move—until something happens that catapults him into action. So, this long story is a bit like a steam locomotive that must slowly build a head of steam in order before it starts hurtling down the tracks—but once it does, the story, its protagonist, and you, dear reader, will take off on a wild ride full of unexpected adventures and crazy turns.
About that “absurd” plot that one reader complained about on Good Reads: As you read, you may find that the book seems constantly to be changing from one kind of story into another—don’t let this upset you. The author takes his protagonist through a series of four stages, each of which may seem unexpected yet is motivated essentially by the protagonist’s own character, whether he realizes it or not. These stages (each of which O’Brien clearly signals by labeling them Part One, etc.) move the protagonist through some necessary changes, both external and internal. At the beginning of each Part, the protagonist’s life takes a sharp left turn. And what happens when you make four left turns? Well, as the old Shaker song says, by turning, turning, we come ’round right. After four sharp turns, our protagonist finds himself finally back home, but a change man—a man ready for the next part of his life.
If you decide to read The Father’s Tale (and I hope you will), you may, like the story’s protagonist, Alexander Graham, discover yourself going places where you never expected to be or may even reach a point at which you despair of ever reaching your journey’s end. But in the end you will “come round right” and find you have been greatly enriched by the experience.