Then, of course, I was reading the metaphysical poets once again—
especially Crashaw—and studying his life, too, and his conversion. That
meant another avenue which led more or less directly to the Jesuits. So in
the late August of 1938, and September of that year, my life began to be
surrounded, interiorly, by Jesuits. They were the symbols of my new respect
for the vitality and coordination of the Catholic Apostolate. Perhaps, in the
back of my mind, was my greatest Jesuit hero: the glorious Father
Rothschild of Evelyn Waugh’s Vile Bodies, who plotted with all the
diplomats, and rode away into the night on a motorcycle when everybody
else was exhausted.
Yet with all this, I was not yet ready to stand beside the font. There was
not even any interior debate as to whether I ought to become a Catholic. I
was content to stand by and admire. For the rest, I remember one afternoon,
when my girl had come in to town to see me, and we were walking around
the streets uptown, I subjected her to the rather disappointing entertainment
of going to Union Theological Seminary, and asking for a catalogue of their
courses which I proceeded to read while we were walking around on
Riverside Drive. She was not openly irritated by it: she was a very good and
patient girl anyway. But still you could see she was a little bored, walking
around with a man who was not sure whether he ought to enter a
theological seminary.
There was nothing very attractive in that catalogue. I was to get much
more excited by the article on the Jesuits in the Catholic Encyclopaedia—
breathless with the thought of so many novitiates and tertianships and what
not—so much scrutiny, so much training. What monsters of efficiency they
must be, these Jesuits, I kept thinking to myself, as I read and reread the
article. And perhaps, from time to time, I tried to picture myself with my
face sharpened by asceticism, its pallor intensified by contrast with a black
cassock, and every line of it proclaiming a Jesuit saint, a Jesuit mastermind. And I think the master-mind element was one of the strongest
features of this obscure attraction.
Apart from this foolishness, I came no nearer to the Church, in practice,
than adding a “Hail Mary” to my night prayers. I did not even go to Mass
again, at once. The following week-end I went to see my girl once again; it
was probably after that that I went on the expedition to Philadelphia. It took
something that belongs to history to form and vitalize these resolutions that
were still only vague and floating entities in my mind and will.
One of those hot evenings at the end of summer the atmosphere of the
city suddenly became terribly tense with some news that came out of the
radios. Before I knew what the news was, I began to feel the tension. For I
was suddenly aware that the quiet, disparate murmurs of different radios in
different houses had imperceptibly merged into one big, ominous unified
voice, that moved at you from different directions and followed you down
the street, and came to you from another angle as soon as you began to
recede from any one of its particular sources.
I heard “Germany—Hitler—at six o’clock this morning the German
Army ... the Nazis...” What had they done?
Then Joe Roberts came in and said there was about to be a war. The
Germans had occupied Czechoslovakia, and there was bound to be a war.
Ominous clouds on the horizon for the world and Merton. Hitler is on the move in Czechoslovakia, and the world is bracing itself for war. Of course, Merton also has the ghost of Catholicism Yet to Come haunting him, as well. He's taken no actual steps toward conversion. He's simply . . . obsessed with the idea. And with Jesuits.
Writers understand obsession. As a poet, I understand it even more. This Christmas season, my obsession has been Louisa May Alcott and Little Women. For a few weeks now, I have lived and breathed Jo March and her little family. They hijacked my annual Christmas essay and became the subject of my dreams.
Today, I indulged myself, as I have been this whole Christmas week. I watched Christmas movies (again), read a little bit of a biography of Louisa May Alcott, and then took a nap. I didn't accomplish a whole lot of anything. I didn't write anything. Didn't shovel snow or make dinner. I just . . . was.
And then I had a Zoom meeting with my book club. The book was Day of Days, and the author, John Smolens, is a good friend of mine. He and his beautiful wife joined us, and, for almost two hours, we talked about literature and memory and history and trauma and survivor's guilt. And everyone laughed and shared. There is really nothing better than being with a group of people, virtually or in-person, who love to read. Who are obsessed with good writing.
After Zoom book club ended, I packed my family in the car, and we drove to a local Christmas lights display. After being quarantined in my house for the better part of a month, it was wonderful to do something almost normal, even if I was wearing two facemasks. It was another indulgence of one of my obsessions--Christmas decorations.
Everyone has obsessions. They're what get us up in the morning, fuel our days. Without obsession, the world is monochromatic instead of technicolor. While I love film noir, I think that I would prefer to live Singin' in the Rain versus Sunset Boulevard. More song and dance, less betrayal and murder.
Here are some snapshots of this day in quarantine:
- Attended a Zoom church service this morning where Governor Whitmer attended and spoke. She talked about 2020, using the Latin term annus horribilis (horrible year). And then she said that every annus horribilis is followed by an annus mirabilis (wonderful year or year of miracles).
- Took my beautiful puppy for a good long walk in the snow.
- Spent a beautiful afternoon reading and napping.
- Got together with some of my best friends for a Zoom book club. Beautiful conversation.
- Saw some beautiful Christmas lights with my beautiful family
Movies. Writers. Books. Christmas lights. Friends. Family. These are the things that bring color to my life. Meaning. Especially in this annus horribilis where so much has been taken away from so many people.
Saint Marty embraces his obsessions. And he believes that an annus mirabilis is on the way.
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