bookwarmgames Friday Night Lights

To justify the ways of God [mode] to men: From Books to JPRGs and Back Again

On recent podcast conversations and sundry correspondence(s).

My mother-in-law pointed out the other night, quite astutely, that if I did a little more with marketing and Substack and YouTube, I should be able to get donations, maybe through Squarespace, subscriptions, or even sponsorships. She suggested I should work on getting a bed in this way. I must have looked tired, I guess.

But I’ve been staying up late reading Philip Pullman again, as I say, and making notes and podcasts, and corresponding with other readers for the benefit of their perspectives on it all. It’s an incredible privilege to connect with people all around the world through this project. The generosity of strangers never ceases to astonish me, and my gratitude for them sharing their time and ideas in this way–and, grudgingly, for the technology that facilitates our conversations, even as it eats away at the baseline of public discourse–only grows.

If someday I do turn some portion of all these recordings and researches into a salable publication, I’ll also be able to properly remunerate all my guests for their time with honoraria and grants, as I’ve dreamt of doing for a long time. For now, on all our parts, it’s unpaid labor, or in politer parlance, a labor of love.

To judge from the numbers, the internet wants to convince me that this love’s labor’s lost; but my strong hunch is that quality matters more than quantity, or at least, for my purposes of long-form commentary and analysis it does. If I can imagine that each one of those handful of listeners is someone like me–which I have to believe, or forfeit all the humility I pretend to own, as bedrock as anything about me and more important by far than fame or recognition of intellectual bona fides–then the data show that we’re doing just fine. I think I’m up to 50 subscribers!

On a recent episode of the podcast, David Nixon joined me to share his thoughts on The Book of Dust, and in the weeks since he’s followed up with a further recommendation: Paul Kingsnorth’s Against the Machine. When I hear about exciting leads like these in the orbit of my eccentric foci, Pullman’s books and those other great portrayals of religious thought in popular culture, golden age JRPGs such as EarthBound and Xenogears, I tend to perk up my ears. I found Philip Goff’s argument in Galileo’s Error persuasive as far as it goes, though I still have to read his more recent foray into Why? The Purpose of the Universe, no less. Iain McGilchrist, as far as I’m concerned, is a savant on the order of NT Wright, and their new books, The Matter with Things and The Vision of Ephesians: The Task of the Church and the Glory of God, respectively, similarly outrun my grasp as yet. And naturally, the Kingsnorth book is on hold at the library. I still haven’t finished my review of Kristin Poole’s Philip Pullman and the Historical Imagination, though that’s one I did manage to read and re-read, finding it excellent.

So for now I listen to their podcasts and videos. Once again, the internet comes to my rescue with its ambiguous riches. Search them up and see for yourself! (Or unexpectedly encounter them via another route entirely, like the Ephesians class in The Bible Project’s app…)

Manic Miner, cited in Kingsnorth’s “The Cross and the Machine”

On the video game side of things, my eyes are bigger than my memory card and my appetite likewise exceeds all reasonable bounds, so more and more I’ve been following along with let’s plays rather than playing new games myself. The spirit is willing, the flesh is weak–and paternity leave is fleeting!

Prof Noctis has been my resource for the new Final Fantasy VII: Remake Intergrade release on Switch 2. While he takes advantage of “God mode” affordances included in the game to speed things up, he’s also made time thereby to share the work of other creators, commenting on video essays and discussing “homework assignments” in the form of essays written by the audience, among them a couple by yours truly. Supposedly these will be published eventually in some form as well. Most importantly, though, he’s simultaneously playing through the intriguing mod of the original FFVII dubbed the Shinra Archaeology cut, a translation and adaptation with additional content based on that project’s painstaking study of the original release. It is fantastic.

Maybe because I’ve been watching videos where people say “God mode,” and Alex has been uploading videos where he and I discuss the tropes of JRPGs, among the best-known of which is that “you kill God,” the almighty algorithm, with all the astuteness of a mother-in-law, deemed the following video likely to be of interest. While it takes a while to get going, once it does, it does not disappoint.

Note the subtitles:

Do you hear the voice of life…

Do you hear the voice of the earth…

We were once human…

Then just remember: you’re not a god. – Hitsujibungaku

Which pretty much sums up the many, many hours of discussions we’ve been having of those golden age FF games on the PlayStation.

Meanwhile, my other streaming mainstay, Moses Norton, The Well-Red Mage, has nearly completed his years-long project of playing every RPG released on the SNES in English localization, on original hardware. Having written one volume of a book about the experience and currently working on the second, he took some time to talk with me about it. I loved the book, difficult as the circumstances of its release proved, and I can’t wait to see the full version when it is ready.

Of all my serial interlocutors, there are few more devoted to their craft and more deserving of wider recognition than Moses; then to see that recognition come all too suddenly in the form of undeserved notoriety, followed by a slow and deliberate recovery of confidence and reputation, with steadily accumulating acknowledgment of the extent of the harms on all sides and the possibility of forgiveness at least broached if not realized–I’m fairly in awe of his willingness to stick with these old games, playing them on air for all us sinners, when the internet is just as complex as the people who attempt to use it, and our interactions there are liable to be just as fraught, with all the potential for misuse we are heir to, only magnified by its reach.

And I’m very excited to hear that he’s considering playing next that much lengthier list (however you slice it) of RPGs that were never released officially outside Japan, but for which the resources now exist to allow many more of us to experience them on hardware that is as close to the original as possible, and with the aid of fan-translations and other study aids, whether collaborators helping out on the stream or coding agents of one sort or another facilitating a quick trot or interpretation of the text onscreen.

I’m imagining a version of Tolkien Professor Corey Olsen’s Students of the Word or my friend Brian’s Quran study program for video games like MOTHER 2, which I’ve always wanted to play in the Japanese original, as well as all those games I don’t even know about beyond perhaps the names. Because we are only human, let’s hope our electronic critters will be faithful to the good intentions of those of us attempting to use them for such harmless, educational purposes, but wiser than we always are about going wherever they lead.

bookwarmgames Friday Night Lights

From Caedmon to The Wire: World Pictures and the Play of Language

We find ourselves in a bewildering world. We want to make sense of what we see around us and to ask: What is the nature of the universe? What is our place in it and where did it and we come from? Why is it the way it is?

To try to answer these questions we adopt some “world picture.”

—Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time

I’ve been reading Philip Pullman again, and reading as much as I can find of what he alludes to in the course of his stories. Among the books Dr Hannah Relf lends to young Malcolm Polstead, our protagonist in La Belle Sauvage, is A Brief History of Time, which exists in our universe as well. While I enjoyed The Body in the Library by a parallel Agatha Christie, presumably, which is the first book he chooses to borrow from her library, it’s the world picture conjured up by Hawking–and not the specific account of space-time so much as the idea of a “world picture” as such, as a way to answer fundamental questions–that has led me to think about Pullman’s project anew. After all, one of the first, unforgettable images from The Golden Compass is literally the picture of a world, another world visible in the aurora, projected from a lantern slide; and some of the final images in The Rose Field… well, we’ll get there when we get there.

Pullman’s illustration for Chapter 2: The Idea of North

Sometimes it becomes possible for an author to revisit a story and play with it, not to adapt it to another medium (it’s not always a good idea for the original author to do that), nor to revise or “improve” it (tempting though that is, it’s too late: you should have done that before it was published, and your business now is with new books, not old ones). But simply to play.
And in every narrative there are gaps: places where, although things happened and the characters spoke and acted and lived their lives, the story says nothing about them. It was fun to visit a few of these gaps and speculate a little on what I might see there.
As for why I call these little pieces lantern slides, it’s because I remember the wooden boxes my grandfather used to have, each one packed neatly with painted glass slides showing scenes from Bible stories or fairy tales or ghost stories or comic little plays with absurd-looking figures. From time to time he would get out the heavy old magic lantern and project some of these pictures on to a screen as we sat in the darkened room with the smell of hot metal and watched one scene succeed another, trying to make sense of the narrative and wondering what St. Paul was doing in the story of Little Red Riding Hood—because they never came out of the box in quite the right order.
I think it was my grandfather’s magic lantern that Lord Asriel used in the second chapter of The Golden Compass. Here are some lantern slides, and it doesn’t matter what order they come in. – Philip Pullman, the “lantern slides” edition of His Dark Materials

While most people I’ve talked to have expressed disappointment with the ending of The Book of Dust, and that was my own initial reaction, I’ve found it is growing on me with rereadings, particularly as I’ve been listening to the audio versions read by Michael Sheen. It doesn’t hurt that his interview with Pullman, accompanying the final volume, is the best of its kind that I’ve found so far. Particularly resonant are their discussions of the procession and the story, commenting on a little demonstration or rhetorical flourish of Pullman’s in another interview, a video for the Bodleian Library; and of the alethiometer contrasted with the myriorama as images of reading and writing or telling stories.

From procession to story, around 2:30 in Behind the Desk: Philip Pullman

So it strikes me that the first requirement of a compelling world picture–speaking only for myself–is that it should partake of that commingling of beauty and truth which Keats’ Grecian Urn attests. If in time irradiating its truth-beauty some contradiction should arise in our perception of that dear picture between the sense of its truth and its felt beauty, then we have to either discard it–Lewis has written powerfully about that in The Discarded Image–or, recurring again to Keats, we can abide with it at the limits of our “negative capability.”

This is where I strive to engage with Pullman, rather than rejecting him, believing us “capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason,” as he himself has pointed the way, having these very lines quoted by another one of his scholars, Dr Mary Malone, in The Subtle Knife. When I think of his work as a kind of invitation to think and feel in this way, its challenges, while no less agonistic and at times agonizing, take on a beautiful, sporting quality. And like few other authors, Pullman conduces to the “having of wonderful ideas,” in Duckworth’s model for learning, and to “the realization that prayer consists of attention,” in Weil’s formulation, which I take to be an end beyond the end of learning for its own sake.

“The poem was the authority here, not the teacher.”

One thought I’ve been noodling on along the way, which I’ll just lay down as best I can for now, is that language–language learning at the most basic and most advanced levels alike, literacy and reading of all degrees of interpretive complexity, and literature at its furthest avant garde edge–seems to live and move and leap ahead by way of play.

To adduce a handful of instances representing the movement between world-pictures and worlds:

  • Homeric games and the bow-stringing challenge
  • David dancing before the Lord; dance for Huizinga “the purest and most perfect form of play that exists”
  • Caedmon’s Hymn, considered the first English poem, and the story of its composition given in Bede
  • Chaucer’s pilgrims, making of their tales “ernest” and “game”
  • Shakespeare’s wandering players and kings and the “invention of the human” (Bloom)
  • Joyce’s “shout in the street” in Ulysses, and its echoes back in Araby

If these are the leaps that come to mind, still there are immense degrees of nuance in between each of them. Between Shakespeare and Joyce, a fair amount of literature survives. Or to zoom in further: between Keats’ vision of (his Bright star‘s vision of)

The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores

and Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach with its “melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,” and the near-contemporary Oxford Movement; or between Blake’s Marriage of Heaven and Hell and Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, and Byron pushing at the boundary of reason with no little energy, with Mary Shelley producing Frankenstein as a byproduct of their play; or to jump ahead, within the work of a single writer, from Nabokov’s “link-and-bobolink,” “the correlated pattern in the game,” in Pale Fire to his Terra and Antiterra in Ada, where the “game of worlds” becomes almost literal; so much of any writer’s work which we still read seems to consist in the give and take between modeling and effacing world pictures.

And it seems like this is always including, if not in fact by way of, metaphors of play.

Where they get especially ambitious–or playful–writers absorb scientific and religious worldviews alike into their imaginations. Spariosu has given a much fuller treatment, and Sloek a much richer theory, but there is Kierkegaard’s interpretation of Don Giovanni; Bakhtin’s reading of Rabelais; Dostoevsky’s incorporations of scripture, and Bulgakov’s rewritings of it; Vonnegut’s invention of Kilgore Trout, or Milosz’s Bruno; John Crowley’s other worlds; Pullman’s, and his sprite-like narrators… 

I’ve tried to stick to the English language, but translations have crept into my magic circle, as literature itself wouldn’t mean much in any language without the likes of Homer, the Bible, Shakespeare, and Dostoevsky connecting ideas to images, but also helping their readers with the task of making connections between ideas and action, and thus knitting together the inner world or life to the outer, even up to and including that “consummation devoutly to be wished,” though Benjamin asserts that the storyteller is as much generated by as generating death, “death of the author” be darned.

Still, the question arises–the one Hawking asked back at the start–of what world picture or model best facilitates such summing up of the incommensurables, the infinitesimals, or which anyhow values it as an endeavor worth attempting, whether we have the language to express it or no. And it is a question to which in these posts I am continually responding, and trying to understand others’ responses.

For me, this has to include the roots of the language, religious and scientific and poetic alike. Caedmon has to be there, as well as Hawking, and Christie to help us solve the mystery. Then, perhaps with a little help from our friends, we can also better parse the world-pictures that assail us on the screens that surround us, like this one:

Just now hearing about this eruption of PlayStation iconography at last year’s Super Bowl halftime show by Kendrick Lamar, for example, and about shadow boxing from Babcock, so we’ll see if we can collaborate to write something about that. Or the great chess scenes in Nabokov or The Wire:

And I still haven’t read the large claims of the likes of McGonigal and Combs for the ameliorative power of games, nor Bogost on their rhetoric and persuasiveness, nor Miller on the theology of the same.

Looking next time, though, at Kendrick Lamar’s design patterns, with some serendipitous discoveries in Ortega y Gasset, starting with “The Sportive Origin of the State” (Translated into English; original Spanish) via Postman’s Technopoly (and footnoted in good old Homo Ludens to boot).