The Gothic Forest in the New Millennium

Julia Fine, What Should Be Wild: a Novel

Young Maisie Cothay can kill or resurrect at a touch. Not just humans, either: she has accidentally resurrected winter-killed grass, taxidermy, and roadkill. Because of this, her widowed father raised her in her family’s ancient stone-walled manor house, in almost complete isolation, since birth. But at age sixteen, she finds herself without a guardian, scared and truly alone. So, like girls everywhere, she prepares for an epic quest.

Debut novelist Julia Fine creates a sort of Modernist Gothic tale, a story about a girl who cannot exist with society, but whose coming of age makes her desperately lonely. It has all the classic Gothic components: mysterious old house full of relics, dark forest, moving pathways, evil inheritance. Fine combines these elements with a dawning adulthood, with all the complexities that entails, in a symbolic Mulligan stew that’s remarkably unsubtle, but nevertheless pretty satisfying.

Maisie’s father raises her in Urizon, a massive, labyrinthine house that’s been in her late mother’s family for generations. She grew up with only books for companions, which explains her strange, Jane Austen-esque manner of speaking in the early 21st Century. Maisie’s only friends were Mrs. Blott, a grandmotherly woman from town, and a dog named Marlowe, the only living thing that resists the mortal effects of her touch.

Urizon overlooks a mysterious, trackless forest. Local legends abound of villagers who wandered into the forest and emerged, days or weeks later, gibbering deliriously about how the pathways move behind them, so they cannot find their way out. Despite encroaching modernism, the forest remains a primeval source of terror. We know, though Maisie doesn’t, how seven women in her matrilineal genealogy wandered into this forest… and are still watching her.

It’s tough to review books like this. Fine deliberately defies Rule Number One of postgraduate writing workshops: hide your sources. It’s impossible to read this novel without noticing how the Brontë sisters, Daphne du Maurier, and Shirley Jackson have influenced Fine. Ambitious readers could profitably do a source study on where this novel fits in Goth-Lit history. Fine’s biggest contribution is moving her main story into a world of smartphones and GPS.

Julia Fine

This placement within a literary continuum could be criticism or praise. Reading this novel, I never stopped noticing Fine’s genre influences. However, I never stopped noticing Fine’s genre influences, yippee! Though it’s possible, even easy, to identify where Fine appropriated plot elements and character types, she handles them well, constructing a story where the pieces fit smoothly, without a sense of being stitched together.

Fine keeps the novel’s setting fairly ambiguous. The Elizabethan manor house, overlooking a village straight from The Wicker Man, suggests England, as does the gradually revealed family line, dating back to the Iron Age. But certain cultural markers, including Maisie’s generous use of Americanisms, suggest a North American setting. Such ambiguity of place reflects Gothic tradition: the story is usually set everywhere and nowhere, to literary sticklers’ chagrin.

I can muster one definite criticism. Around the one-third mark, old age takes Mrs. Blott (what a perfectly Dickensian name!). Her role—old, maternal, vaguely sexless—transfers to her university-age nephew, whom Maisie can’t help noticing is handsome, with his runner’s physique and curly hair. This leads to Maisie’s nascent sexual awakening, which Fine describes in terms of her body: breasts, thighs, and other chicken parts. She sounds uncannily like a male writer.

So yeah, spoilers but not really: Mrs. Blott dies, Maisie’s father evidently wanders into the forest that sometimes takes people, and Maisie finds herself without guardians for the first time. But she gains her first connection with a human being near her own age. Maisie and Matthew resolve to rescue her father, though they don’t know where to begin. This commences Maisie’s symbolic rise to adulthood, in which sexuality inevitably plays a part.

Of everything Fine addresses in this novel, the one thing I wish she handled more subtly was Maisie’s sexuality. Other parts of her relationship with Matthew, and others, flow naturally, especially for a girl who experiences life primarily through books. The fantasy aspects never seem pasted onto the coming-of-age narrative. Fine is realistic where realism works, and Gothic where supernaturalism serves her story’s needs.

This book primarily appeals to readers who already appreciate the Goth-Lit tradition, who understand how Fine’s consciously anachronistic storytelling serves a purpose. Audiences unfamiliar with Gothic tropes may find her choices confusing. But for the correct readers, Fine creates a supernatural story just realistic and relevant enough to add something new to the tradition.

The Flames of Passion, and Their Smoldering Remains

Catherine McKenzie, Smoke

Elizabeth Martin awakens one Tuesday in September to the smell of smoke. A career wildland firefighter, she swings into well-programmed Emergency Mode; but her husband Ben reminds her she’s retired for the sake of their marriage, and needs to act like it. Naturally, Elizabeth ignores her husband and races headlong into danger. There she discovers this man-made disaster has joined the long list of things threatening her illusion of domestic bliss.

Across town, Mindy Mitchell tries to get her friends, the Coffee Boosters, to do something generous for the fire’s first victim. Once Elizabeth's best friend, Mindy fell out with her a year ago, and now follows a group of manipulative suburban harpies she dislikes but can’t leave. To her horror, Mindy learns her son Angus has fallen in with a similarly dysfunctional peer group. Worse, Angus’s group may be responsible for the fire that's one shifting wind away from overrunning their entire town.

Veteran author and Montreal attorney Catherine McKenzie writes about the ways people fail to communicate, and how far our intentions fall from our consequences. Elizabeth and Mindy face the Cooper Basin Fire from opposite directions, but both stand to lose everything. The symbolism is unsubtle, but effective. The solution lies one conversation away, if the women can overcome their differences and talk.

These two women each want what they think the other has. Deferential, conflict-averse Mindy admires Elizabeth's apparent confidence, while Elizabeth, childless approaching forty, admires Mindy’s domestic stability. Elizabeth and Ben have agreed to divorce before page one, but still sleep in the same bed. The reason for their estrangement develops incrementally throughout the book. Mindy, meanwhile, marches listlessly through married life without much talking to her husband or kids.

These women’s difficult domestic situations evolve for readers against the unfolding backdrop of the Cooper Basin Fire. After a hot, dry summer, conditions are perfect for a sudden flashover event in the grasslands surrounding the mid-size, touristy resort town of Nelson. McKenzie is resolutely vague on where Nelson exactly is. Elizabeth, originally from Ottawa, gives hints it might be in Canada, but evidence suggests it’s probably in Wyoming.

Catherine McKenzie

Nelson’s city fathers want desperately to contain the fire, not only to preserve their community, but to protect easy tourist dollars. Wait, wasn’t that the backstory of Peter Benchley’s Jaws? Yes it was, and much like there, McKenzie uses the contrast between human facades and natural disaster to explore how fragile society actually is. The beauty, art, and commerce Nelson’s leaders preserve, come at the price of sweeping injustice under the rug.

Reading this book, I feel torn in multiple directions. The three relationships which play centrally in this novel—Elizabeth’s marriage, Mindy’s family, and the women’s friendship—could all heal nicely if people just spoke to one another. And the forces they fight against, particularly Elizabeth’s boss in the county attorney’s office and Mindy’s bitchy friends in the Coffee Boosters, come across as venal villains recycled from postwar Hollywood screwball comedy.

Yet I read this book, cover to cover, in two sittings. Analyzing the individual pieces, they seem initially pretty low-stakes; why can’t everybody ignore their baggage and remember there’s a massive grass fire threatening their town? But that’s the grad-school writing workshops talking, where everything has to be somehow massive. This novel’s parts coalesce into something stronger, the battle being for what narrative the characters accept as real.

Because real life often appears low-stakes, doesn’t it? The individual moral compromises we make to maintain our relationships, do our jobs, and not be alone in the world?  Only when they come together, when we realize each individual compromise has contributed to a mountain, does life have the momentum we associate with drama. McKenzie has written a story we cannot analyze for its elements, which appear boring separately; we must consume the whole thing together.

Elizabeth doesn’t talk to Ben, nor Mindy to her family, nor the women to one another, because humans fall into patterns of avoidance. The most important topics in our lives are also the ones we most assiduously resist discussing, because the emotional resonance rings too hard. Instead, we fall into preordained patterns of work, domesticity, and meaningless friendship. Only when something threatens to burn it down to we change.

This book wouldn’t pass a postgraduate writers’ workshop. Having been trained to overanalyze my own work, I realize I’ve fallen into doing that to others. Yet reading its parts together, this novel has a much more complex, sophisticated texture than its individual parts. I’m glad I swallowed my reluctance and kept reading, because this novel proved much greater than I had any right to expect.

America Has Surrendered an Important Global Battle

John Moore's heartbreaking image has captured world attention

Late in his book Stamped From The Beginning, Dr. Ibram X. Kendi makes a point I’d never considered before (one among many): America’s elected officials didn’t embrace the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s because it was right. They didn’t write laws extending voting rights, police protection, and public schools to African Americans because they felt fuzzy inside. They weren’t moved by some overwhelming change in America’s social conscience.

They did it because they knew the world was watching.

Following World War II and the upheaval caused by carpet bombing and the Marshall Plan, America had the moral heft necessary to change the world. We alone had the military might, economic power, and simple numbers to help create a better world. Granted, this happened because Europe and Asia had been bombed into oblivion, their industrial and cultural bases obliterated to expunge global fascism. But still, America had a unique opportunity in world affairs.

This opportunity wasn’t unchallenged, though. Having paid the high cost of two world wars, the Soviet Union desperately didn’t want to meet the postwar global landscape alone. Having established COMINTERN and the Warsaw Pact, it settled into a long-term global strategy session. It provided strategic help to revolutionary anti-colonialists like Patrice Lumumba and Fidel Castro. And it waited.

As the public face of capitalism, liberal democracy, and Enlightenment freedom, America needed to press the case before a global audience that our model of government better suited the world’s needs than Soviet mandatory collectivism.And we couldn’t do that if we kept designated groups subordinate at home. Civil rights weren’t merely a social good in the 1950s and 1960s; they were a PR front in the Cold War. A front we fought aggressively.

I couldn’t help remembering this fact as President Trump’s concentration camps for immigrants became a national and international news-gathering controversy. John Moore’s heartbreaking photograph of an unidentified two-year-old girl weeping at the border over her separation from her parents, has become an international phenomenon. This has become the face America currently presents to the world. And it’s a face we should all feel ashamed of.

This isn’t hay. I’ve written previously that America won the Cold War in part by subsidizing art, science, and education. Come to our side, we pledged the world through our actions, and you’ll have more beauty, more knowledge, and more opportunities for upward advancement than any other system our planet offers. We won partly on this platform. Then, having won, we burned the platform to the ground.

This, sadly, is how the world will see America for years to come

It’s impossible to disregard America’s precarious place in today’s world. Having won the presidency partly by telling voters “the world is laughing at us,” Donald Trump has prosecuted his presidency by openly disregarding global opinion. He’s launched tariffs on our allies in NAFTA and the EU, sometimes in defiance of treaties, while snuggling up to notorious opponents of freedom like Xi Jinping and Kim Jong-Un.

Donald Trump is apparently immune to scrutiny, at home or abroad. He shows no awareness that people watch him, as America’s public face, and make determinations about how trustworthy Americans are on trade, rights, or economy. He doesn’t care that he’s telling the entire world they can’t trust us to keep our word, uphold our values, or present the global community a better choice than complete anarchy.

And I’m forced to wonder what’s the alternative.

The only countries capable of seriously challenging American global dominance today are China and Germany. China is currently on track to becoming history’s longest-surviving one-party state, and for obvious reasons, history takes a dim view of potential German world hegemony. This means we’re facing a potential future world without any sort of moral leadership, and the alternative is international lawlessness. Today’s economic and military complexity absolutely demands some form of world leader.

America absolutely needs to resume its former practice of showing the world its best face. We won the war against Soviet Communism, in no small part, by rejecting our worst impulses and enshrining antidiscrimination into our laws. Admittedly, we still have long strides to achieve the potential of our goodness. But showing the globe the worst aspects of our racist past is essentially surrendering the international PR front.

Donald Trump needs to become aware that the world watches him. Sadly, our era’s defining image may be that notorious G7 stare-down between Trump and Merkel. The forces who captained World War II are back at it again. And that, sadly, is the face the United States is currently showing the entire world.

What Does It Mean To Be “Black”?

1001 Books To Read Before Your Kindle Battery Dies, Part 91
Ibram X. Kendi, Stamped From the Beginning: the Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America

What makes a racist? Tough question to answer. Despite Americans’ persistent myth of racial progress, most of us have seen the continuing occurrence of outright bigotry at least occasionally. Smarter writers than me have commented upon how racism remains written into America’s social code, even when dressed in race-neutral language. But what if the problem runs deeper, and influences more decisions, than even most Americans realize?

Historian and African Studies professor Ibram Kendi admits, in his introduction, even he’s imbibed racist ideas, which he only recognized when he began writing this book. Racism remains as widespread in America as the air we breathe; spotting it sometimes takes a radical effort of countercultural thinking. Kendi and I hope Americans will, after reading this book, speak boldly against racism we see. Even when it doesn’t look like naked bigotry.

Racism didn’t always exist. St. Augustine explicitly rejected creating divisions among people; we’re all descended from Adam, he insisted. Aristotle and Ibn Battuta said something similar. Not until the 1460s, when Portugal conquered Ceuta, in Morocco, and brought Moors back for slave markets, did Europeans start seeing different-colored people as separate races. The Portuguese needed a moral justification to sell human beings captured in war, and racism was born.

That establishes Kendi’s theme throughout this book. American folk wisdom holds that slavery and segregation arose from widespread racist ideals, but Kendi says this reverses cause and effect. He writes explicitly on page 174, and implicitly elsewhere: “Racist ideas always seemed to arrive right on time to dress up the ugly economic and political exploitation of African people.” We could say the same about other races too.

Kendi identifies three threads in American racial thinking. (Race, for Kendi, means White and Black. He briefly acknowledges other races, but they aren’t his focus.) Segregationists believe Black and Brown people are innately inferior, and should remain separate from mainstream White society. Assimilationists believe Blacks aren’t innately inferior, but their culture and behavior are; if Blacks simply learned to comport themselves more White, inequality would wither.

Professor Ibram X. Kendi

Against these two threads, Kendi poses pure Antiracists. These people oppose all attempts to divide people, whether biologically or culturally, into constructed racial categories. This gets complicated, because many Assimilationists call themselves Antiracists, even while embracing categories.. It’s also complicated because many superficial Antiracists engage in what Kendi calls “colorism,” exemplified in the old schoolyard rhyme “If you’re black, get back.” Remaining actually Antiracist requires constant vigilance.

Racism has evolved throughout American history; it has never been only one force. Kendi observes that evolution through five figures he believes exemplify the stages of American history: Puritan preacher Cotton Mather, Founding Father Thomas Jefferson, abolitionist editor William Lloyd Garrison, pioneering Black scholar W.E.B. du Bois, and activist Angela Davis. They focus threads in American history, while their own evolving opinions reflect their time, and racism’s changing demands.

Jefferson, for instance, was anti-abolitionist, but also anti-slavery, at least in his writings; he struggled with the contradictions, but never reconciled them before his death. Du Bois started out accepting Assimilationist ideas of Europe’s cultural superiority, and Black people’s obligation to “improve” themselves in White eyes. His opinions shifted as he realized Black improvement usually resulted in Whites moving goalposts, and as he had firsthand encounters with Africa.

If these important American luminaries can struggle with race and liberty, Kendi says, then our own ongoing struggles mean we’re still capable of improving. But only if we let ourselves. American race history hasn’t been a progress from improvement to improvement. We’ve seen several setbacks, some shockingly recently, when race relations have moved away from communication and freedom. And we’ve seen Black Americans struggle with how to define themselves.

Don’t undertake this book lightly. Kendi peers deeply into historical events your high school history textbook elided to maintain its optimistic tone. His investigations of the economic motivations behind American racism, and the way race relations evolve to keep labor cheap and compliant, are often harrowing. Reading this book, you will feel great regret and sadness over bad choices made, historical opportunities lost, and Americas that could have been.

Kendi’s forward to the paperback edition includes acknowledgement that Donald Trump complicates American race issues. The most outspokenly racist President since Woodrow Wilson, Trump challenges our myths about eternal improvement. Yet Kendi refuses to concede to pessimism. No, everything isn’t sunshine and eternal progress in American race relations. But, Kendi says, we’ve seen enough improvement, enough times, to believe that addressing this problem is maybe possible. Maybe now is the time.

The City of Lost Livestock

Rosamund Young, The Secret Life of Cows

The Young family has operated the same livestock farm in northern England’s Cotswolds region for over sixty years. By Rosamund Young’s description, they were organic farmers before the term “organic” was invented. They didn’t expect to pioneer a movement; they just bought a farm and, knowing little about livestock, they let the cattle graze where they wanted. The effects on their cattle were both unexpected, and instantaneous.

Rosamund Young actually puts little of herself into this book. She has written about the complex personalities and unique behaviors of livestock living on her property; she exists, for us, only in relationship to her cattle. Yet she presents her animals as dynamic individuals, whose bucolic adventures have the depth of Thomas Hardy townsfolk. In tone and content, Young reminds me of reading James Herriot as a child.

Outsiders often see cattle as uniform, interchangeable, and stupid, Young says, because we see them from outside. If left to themselves, livestock know their own best interests. (Young’s anecdotes mostly focus on cattle, but she also raises, and occasionally writes about, sheep, pigs, and chickens.) They find the best grasses, form friendships, raise their calves, and generally make a community. And they do this without high-handed human intervention.

One young cow has such tender sensibilities that she won’t cross wet fields; getting mud on her shanks is beneath her dignity. Another simply disdains human help and does her own thing, until the day her hooves get tangled in barbed wire, forcing her to quietly permit humans to disentangle her. Several anecdotes dwell on mother-daughter relationships which, when calves aren’t weaned for milk, last for years. Cows often help raise their grandchildren.

It takes a herd, apparently.

Young spins stories of her animals, with the aplomb of an old friend trading stemwinders at the watering hole. There’s a hint of the peat-fire British rural pub in her storytelling. She doesn’t enforce chapter breaks and beginning-middle-end structure on her stories. This sometimes makes her anecdotes difficult to follow, especially if you put the book down overnight. But it gives her stories a personal touch missing from scholarly texts.

Rosamund Young with Dot, one of her cows (photo from The Guardian)

There’s serious science behind raising animals naturally. Grass-fed beef is higher in nutrients, less prone to parasites, and is generally considered tastier. Such science isn’t Young’s emphasis, however, and she frontloads it in her long introduction. Rather, she emphasizes how herds, when permitted to graze freely and interact naturally, organize themselves around raising children and protecting one another. Left to themselves, livestock form a community.

This stands in contrast to industrial livestock farming. In her introduction, Young describes scientific research indicating that cattle raised in confinement get smaller and smaller skulls across generations, as their brains go unchallenged. Cage-raised chickens need their beaks removed to prevent them pecking one another to death, because they’re bored. Industrially raised animals become stupid, violent, and less healthful for humans.

As a former educator, it’s impossible for me to avoid obvious comparisons. State-run schools, like confined animal operations, operate for cost effectiveness, not the well-being of the children, or those who will employ the children later. Though schoolteachers, like hired farmhands, generally love their work (and accept penurious wages for that love), they’re inadvertent participants in a system that harms their charges and graduates ill-prepared product.

Save that for later, though.

By standing back and providing the help her livestock needs, when the livestock needs it, Young describes how animals flourish, live long lives, and produce beautiful children. But more than that, her animals husband the earth, each species consuming just the right foliage, each individual consuming the right balance. Young describes streams running clear and classical British hedgerows waxing prosperous because the animals husband nature, and she husbands the animals.

Young admittedly elides one important fact: she’s raising these animals for food. Though she briefly mentions her family cleans, dresses, and sells its own meat, it scarcely comes up again. And she keeps talking about “cows,” with only a few anecdotes about “bulls.” This allows her to avoid mentioning that bulls are sorted from an early age: a few become breeding stock, the rest become meat, usually around sixteen months.

Though I wish Young addressed the meat issue better, that’s incidental to her point. She prefers discussing how animals organize themselves without humans steering them to our convenience. Raising animals naturally may be more time-consuming and costly in the near term. But her animals to well, feed humans abundantly, and nurture their own land. Let’s remember that cattle aren’t stupid, they’re subtle.

A Serious Bible For Serious Times

Rachel Held Evans, Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again

Rachel Held Evans’ fourth book commences with a vital question: how can modern Christians read the Bible receptively? Given its bouts of misogyny, genocide, and intolerance; its apparent scientific illiteracy; and its often contradictory moral compass, how can we take the Bible seriously? Despite Evangelicals’ common claim, nobody reads the Bible literally; all believers select what they consider authoritative. Why, then, don’t we chuck the whole thing out?

Raised conservative Evangelical, Evans describes her childhood relationship with the Bible as a “magic book.” She loved church, attended a Christian college, believed the dogma. But adulthood left her disillusioned, like many of us. Reading the Bible with grown-up eyes, she discovered it little resembled the picture books and Sunday School flannelgraphs of childhood. She struggled with doubt, left her church, and began questioning everything.

Years of mentorship under theologians, academics, pastors, and street-level Christians taught her to understand the Bible, not as textbook or instruction manual, but as story. Human beings think in narrative. We need important concepts in ethics, science, politics, and other topics translated into stories before we understand them. And that’s what these biblical writers did, providing stories for peoples struggling to find their places in an often oppressive world.

To help understand what she means by “story,” Evans rewrites biblical moments into modern forms. Job’s argument with God as a screenplay set in a modern Christian university. The autobiography of the Samaritan Woman at the Well. Peter walking on water as a Choose Your Own Adventure. Biblical writers told these stories in the language of their time; Evans makes a stab at retelling them in our language.

Many Christians’ nagging desire to find universal aphorisms in Scripture blinds them to the remarkable characters and epic struggles which permeate the Bible. We read national histories, but also family histories; pitched battles and lingering wars, but also deep internal struggles with doubt. These stories resemble our own stories, the generational memory of favored grandparents and national myths. We indulge the same impulses that drove the biblical authors millenia ago.

Rachel Held Evans

This isn’t a mere storybook, however. A seasoned journalist, Evans combines deeply personal, even autobiographical, ruminations on the Bible with the latest scholarship on how stories bind humans together and raise a thinking mind. Her personal struggles with faith share equal footing with public debates about stories’ meanings, especially amid changing values about sexuality, gender, and politics. Our world is changing; how does that affect our stories?

One story features a First-Century pastor reading one of Paul’s epistles to the congregation. We forget that Scripture was written to be read aloud, an engagement of multiple senses in public. In both her stories and her chapters, Evans attempts to recapture the wonder first-generation Christians must have felt discovering Jesus for the first time. We lose the plot when we become hypnotized by strict exegesis or seek moral absolutes.

Scripture admittedly does have occasional blunt declarations of truth. The Commandments, for instance, or the Levitical laws. But nobody (except the most Orthodox of Jews) applies all laws equally; we have stories, experiences, moments that help us decide which truths apply. The Bible, Evans writes, isn’t one book; it’s several books, written across several centuries, a panoply of stories feuding to provide the best explanation of the reality we share.

I especially like when Evans notes that Christians use Scripture to foreclose debate. “The Bible says X, so do it!” Jews, by contrast, use Scripture to commence debate: “The Bible says X, what does that mean? Did it come from a context? Does this commandment ring through the ages, or must we strive to understand God’s will now?” Christians could profit from reclaiming this spirit of debate.

Evans wrote this book in the year surrounding her first child’s birth. Unsurprisingly, questions of how we pass stories from generation loom large in her investigation. The Bible represents a sophisticated oral and written tradition specifically intended to preserve a people’s heritage and beliefs across the span of time. Evans doesn’t have simple solutions. She simply says we must not fear to bring the eternal story into our changing world.

Maybe the Bible isn’t a “magic book” anymore. Maybe adults, facing a world very different from that which birthed the Bible, must have a different relationship with the story than we once did. But Evans invites us faithful doubters to reclaim the story heritage our ancestors took for granted. Maybe then we can rediscover what it means to love and have a relationship with our beloved Bible.

Han Solo Deserves the Right to Die

Han Solo at the end of his journey.

The pop culture brouhaha recently circles almost entirely around the latest Lucasfilm extravaganza, Solo: a Star Wars Story. The debate largely moves around fans who gush enthusiastically about how awesome it is, versus industry critics casting blame for its lackluster take and slow momentum. Is Solo a statement about where we currently exist as a society? Or a numbing admission that we’ve reached Star Wars exhaustion? I can’t help wondering if there’s an Option C.

I shouldn’t have to say “Spoiler Alert,” but look away: Han Solo dies in The Force Awakens. They finally gave Harrison Ford a heroic death fighting the good fight, which he wanted thirty years ago. But having given Solo the valiant end his character earned, Lucasfilm, owned by that ultimate profit machine, Disney, cannot stomach letting the cash cow die, so they begin filling in details from before. They’ve created the opportunity to keep him alive forever.

Characters like Han Solo exist within a psychological arc for their audiences, a process of discovery. While Luke Skywalker fights to discover his inheritance with the Force, Han Solo, who has no parents or inheritance, fights to discover his identity. He struggled to connect with something. The first time we meet him, he boasts of his fast ship and superior smuggling skills. He tells Luke “Don’t get cocky,” tacitly admitting the ship can’t handle two egos.

Han Solo at the beginning of his journey

Because George Lucas didn’t know whether he’d ever get to make The Empire Strikes Back, he gave Han Solo what could’ve been a satisfying ending, when Solo helps destroy the Death Star. But by the next movie, he’s back to fretting over his debt. He’s also trying to annoy Princess Leia into loving him, which, in 1977, probably looked charming. However, in the #MeToo context and my burnout on the Leonard Hofstadter model of courtship, he looks, frankly, creepy.

But again, Solo chooses the self-sacrificing path when he helps the Princess escape certain death on Hoth. Throughout the remaining footage, he survives torture before being frozen, helps overthrow a gangster, and accepts a military commission to help destroy the Empire. Because he’s chosen an identity, a cause he’s willing to embrace. He’s stopped living for the next adrenaline rush and accepted that life is worth living, because something’s worth dying for.

Which explains why I felt disappointed, in The Force Awakens, to discover he’d returned to smuggling. He’d returned to his life of thrill-chasing, basically, because the production house wanted to rebuild the dynamic from Episode IV. We had the young Jedi idealist (Rey/Luke) and the escapee from Imperial dominion (Finn/Leia); we needed the arrogant pilot to complete the triumvirate. No wonder Poe Dameron spent the movie mostly offscreen.

But his time was over. He wasn’t free-flying and giddy anymore; as a father with a grown son and a grizzled beard, he couldn’t be the lawless man-child we once loved. He had to mentor the new protagonists. So when the protagonists graduated his tutelage, he needed, like Obi-Wan Kenobi, to die. No, not retire, die. Not only did the story need to assure he wouldn’t suddenly return, but he’d earned the right to sleep.

Be serious here: can you imagine Han Solo dying quietly in bed, surrounded by his grandchildren? Of course not. Han Solo isn’t the kind of character who retires from the story. If he can’t die standing up, it compromises his entire identity. He’s learned, across his narrative arc, that life matters because it could end, so he needs to fight. The culmination of such a journey must be dying while fighting to make life worth living.

Han Solo at the... wait.
What the hell is this?

So yeah, I had problems with Solo returning to his beginning, but he received the end he deserved. The end we, his audience, deserved. We watched him develop from an overgrown teenager, addicted to adrenaline in lieu of human connection, to someone who stood for something, and who ultimately died standing up. Finally, his journey was complete. And then… Walt’s people brought him back! Arrgh! Why? Because he had more to learn? Of course not.

In fifth grade, I remember mourning because Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain ended. I wanted the story to continue forever. Yet it took only a little while to realize: that character fought so much, so hard, so long. He’d earned the right to be done. Now I needed to commence my journey, not substitute his. Likewise, Han Solo’s story has definition because it has a beginning, middle, and end. But Walt’s people can’t accept that.