“What is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me.”

— Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2.

When I was in college I decided to start a faith-based discussion group for men, about well, being a man. For some strange reason, I felt that it had to be very early in the morning, because getting up early was manly. In my campus-wide emails I also resorted to tasteless jokes about going out to chop down trees and break rocks with heads. Whatever this says about my social development is less relevant than the question that I was attempting to answer, however foolishly, with that group and those jokes: What does it mean to be a man?

This is a question that has tortured me since my adolescence, and tortures me still. Whether this essay will provide any relief remains to be seen. My small group, unsurprisingly, was not very popular, even with my Christian friends. Not many undergraduate guys were willing to get up for a discussion group that started at 6:30am on Friday mornings; or if they were willing, the flesh was weak. This does not mean that the group was a failure, because I had one regular attendee who I was able to talk quite deeply with, and I still think about him today. I was also told by a few people that they would have attended if it was at a less inconvenient time. This showed me that I was not the only one tortured by the question.

So, what does it mean to be a man? We will find out together, dear reader, whether I am any better equipped to answer this question than I was over a decade ago. But first I must define exactly what is meant by it. We could try to answer it by taking a survey of the men in our lives, and saying, “These examples show what it is to be a man.” But despite confounding us with wildly different conclusions, this method also reveals to us our bias. I think that most of us, consciously or unconsciously, have already taken a survey of the men in our lives, and the results have made us uneasy. That the question occurs to us reveals an insecurity about manhood that cannot be assuaged by the simple truth that no men are perfect. We would not be asking if there wasn't something resembling a real crisis. What I believe we really mean to ask is, “What does it mean to be a good man?”

In order to save myself and my readers a great deal of confusion and time, I will confine myself to defining “good manhood” in the context of two relationships that a man forms in his life. The first is a man's relationship to society, and the second is a man's relationship to women. I must also point out that my perspective as a straight, white, Christian man shapes this conversation, because in these great gray social topics, it is only our own examined experience that counts, as flawed and subjective as it is. If you would like to discount the application of the following words because of that, go right ahead, this is just one man's attempt to deconstruct and redeem his gender, and keep it interesting.

I must also note that these two relationships leave a great deal of territory open and unexplored. This openness of the question is partly why it is so torturous. The feeling a man gets, when he surveys his life and the lives of the men around him, is that we have all been pushed out into a roiling sea with no map. If we have been given compasses, they all point in different directions, because postmodern society, in destroying (perhaps rightly) the traditional framework of manhood, has not troubled itself to supply a replacement. If we take data about social outcomes and measures of happiness as a compass, we may end up 'better' in life, but we will have no way to describe why it is, in fact, 'better' to be socially and economically stable and happy about it. And we must be very careful to know what we mean when we talk about social and economic success. Is that stable job with a good income, in fact, ethical? Is the stability it provides in allowing you to give a comfortable life to your family worth more than the lives that the corporation or company you work for may or may not be destroying? If you do have an ethical job, are you hacking at the leaves of evil or the root of it? Does it pay well? Are you sacrificing your own well-being and time with your family to be a justice hero? Why are teachers paid less than lawyers? Are you involved in the lives of your kids? Is that involvement positive or negative? What about your wife or partner? Do you still cherish and value them? Do they love you? When was the last time you looked at porn? How wrong did it feel? Even if you have never looked, when was the last time you fantasized about another partner? If you are not the breadwinner, do you do your share of chores? If you do, does your partner have to remind you to do them? Do you do them well? Could you sleep easy at night if you were not the breadwinner? If you are a bachelor, do you clean your room? Can you cook? Do you care? When was the last time you volunteered for charity? Why is that relevant? Does anyone take me seriously? What makes life worth living? Do you feel lost yet?

This spiral of rhetorical questions is an example of the spiraling questions that torture me as a result of the first question. It feels almost impossible to say anything definitive, because any of the positive statements I might derive from the men that I admire—”Real men are patient.” “Real men are humble.” “Real men restrain their violence.” “Real men use their strength for the good of others.” “Real men sacrifice themselves for others.“—can also be applied to women. Is there anything gendered about patience and humility and strength and sacrifice? Indeed, if we take an honest look at the roles women have been forced to play throughout history, a patient and honest man should be somewhat overawed by the patience and humility and strength and sacrificial love of women. And even if we admit that men are, in general, physically stronger than women; how does that help us? Please do not misunderstand me. I believe that there are key differences between men and women, but I do not believe they are as easily defined as I once did. I do, in fact, do chores differently than my wife. One can tell the difference between how I fold laundry and how she folds laundry. But those differences are irrelevant. What is relevant is that so far from men and women changing, it is our society that is constantly shifting and changing around us, so that we must define ourselves in the face of the claims it makes. Society is the “atmosphere” of which Virginia Woolf speaks in Three Guineas:

“Odour then—or shall we call it 'atmosphere'?—is a very important element in professional life; in spite of the fact that like other important elements it is impalpable. It can escape the noses of examiners in examination rooms, yet penetrate boards and divisions and affect the senses of those within [...] It is true that women civil servants deserve to paid as much as men; but it is also true that they are not paid as much as men. The discrepancy is due to atmosphere” (Woolf 95).

For Virginia Woolf in 1938, atmosphere was denoted by the resistance that women faced when trying to enter the the professional spheres from which they had traditionally been denied access. As a straight white man in 2026, I cannot fully understand that atmosphere, but I will be bold enough to say that the bewilderment I tried to illustrate with so many rhetorical questions is how I perceive the atmosphere that men live in now. It is perhaps not as potentially damaging to the mind and body as the atmosphere that people of other genders live in, but that is not for me to say, and I do not think a competition about who has it worse would be productive. All metaphors have limits. We would do well to keep those limits in mind as we move from this long, confused preamble, to the body of the essay.

Man Vs. Violence: The Iron Giant

The Iron Giant is a 1999 animated film about a robot who crash lands off the coast of Maine during the Cold War. The Giant suffers damage to the head, and is diverted from its original purpose of destruction. The principal human character, a boy named Hogarth, discovers the Giant near his house and befriends him, but the military comes to investigate the crash landing, and Hogarth finds himself trying to hide the giant.

We are given two men (other than the Giant and the general) to compare in this movie. Dean, a beatnik junkyard sculpture artist; and Kent Mansley, the government agent investigating the crash. Hogarth's father died before the start of the movie, so it can be said that he is searching for a father figure. He is also living in an atmosphere of fear. The students are 'educated' in class with a film that superimposes a mushroom cloud over a peaceful town. “Suddenly,” the narrator says. “Without warning, ATOMIC HOLOCAUST.” From Kent, the rude, take-charge, slugger/bucko/chief/champ, we are shown the 'manly' response to fear of the Unknown Other. He says, “Who built it? The Russians? The Chinese? Martians? Canadians?! I DON'T CARE! All I know is we didn't build it, and that's reason enough to assume the worst and blow it to kingdom come!” This quote reveals that Mansley's fear, masquerading as bravado (he steals cars and ogles women and threatens to separate Hogarth from his mother in the name of national security), is based on the fear of losing power. This is the familiar demon that drives competition among men and the basis of that buzz-phrase, 'toxic masculinity.' Whether based on the violence of our ancient past or not, I have observed that, in general, boys are groomed to train in violence. And if not violence, some skill or specialization that can be used to gain or defend power. This, I believe, is why so many video games (most of which, in the early days, were made by men), involve fighting and big boobs. Why were atomic bombs built? To defend power. What justifies cruelty in conquest and racist policies? The defense of power. Viewed from this perspective, it is no surprise to me that white men have been the main perpetrators of the toxic male defense of power, because they have been the principal beneficiaries of that power. This is what I believe is driving the cruelty of Trump's politics, as well as the complicity that allowed him to get where he is.

James Baldwin once pointed out that the majority is not the group that is most numerous, it is the group that has the most influence [^1]. In other words, white men are afraid because our influence is eroding, and our cruel and cowardly politicians are desperately trying to hold onto it. When I watched this movie with my wife, she commented that Kent Mansley is a little unbelievable. After all, he disobeys direct orders after the general realizes that the Iron Giant only reacts to violence, and orders a nuclear strike on his own location. But having observed men throughout my life, and having observed the self-destructive impulses in myself, I can easily (sadly) imagine a Mansley. “I can do anything I want, whenever I want,” says Kent. This is the unspoken belief that drives the actions of even the most gentle of men. The fear of losing the license to do whatever a man wants is what leads to complicit passivity and self destruction. It is only by confronting and defeating this fear, over and over, that a man can walk the path to true manhood.

I must also take time to point out that so many of the movies and video games and books that we imagine to be found in man caves are full of heroes who are defined by their ability to commit violence. Heroes like John Wayne, John Wick, John McClane, John 117 and all the other non-Johns that are really various incarnations of Odysseus would not be in our media if they didn't have some violence to commit. The noblest of them use their violence to protect the innocent, and there is certainly nobility in putting oneself in harm's way, but it bears pointing out that it would not be necessary for them to do so if men were not so violent in the first place. Haley Bennet's character in Antoine Fuqua's The Magnificent Seven would not have to say “These men are here to help us,” if there were not already hundreds of men there to kill and rape them. I like watching Denzel Washington dish out justice as much as the next guy, but we must not lose sight of why that dishing out of justice feels so cathartic, and where it might lead us. In fact we can see where it has gotten us. The cowards who find their way to power spend trillions of our tax money on instruments of murder and death that they can drop on people from three thousand miles away. They are not putting their lives on the line when they can buy a Rolex and pretend to be James Bond. And so far from having a just cause like Sam Chisolm's, their cause has mostly been money. Perhaps, because I cannot muster enough empathy to understand their actions, the root cause of it is a Mansley-like terror that the great stolen horde they are sitting on could one day be stolen back, and they are willing to do anything to keep it all to themselves. What a pathetic way to spend one's life. What a pathetic failure of manhood, which ought to be marked by a willingness to sacrifice power for the beloved community.

The other man we are given to examine is Dean. He owns the town junkyard, is something of an artist, listens to jazz, drinks espresso, stays up late, has a cool bathrobe, lets Hogarth and the Iron Giant hide out at his place. He's cool, man. Dean is a counterpoint to Mansley, and as a white man on the lower echelons of privilege, he is able to show a better reaction to the threat of violence and the loss of power. When Hogarth spills his insecurities after drinking Dean's espresso, Dean responds with decent advice, “Who cares what those creeps think, you know? They don't decide who you are, you do. You are who you choose to be.” This advice is more relevant to the Iron Giant's journey, but it also reveals the all-important fault in the Mansley way of life, which is that a man does have a choice. As Steinbeck so gloriously represented in East of Eden, “Thou mayest” is the antidote to sick fear and cowardice. Yes, confronting the fear of losing power means confronting the fear of death, but we must all face death whether we want to or not. “Ultimately,” wrote Martin Luther King, “One's sense of manhood must come from within him.”[^2]. But Dean is not the most heroic representation of this confrontation because he is not the hero of this movie, the Iron Giant is.

When we first meet the Iron Giant he is devouring a power line near Hogarth's home. Hogarth is home alone because his mom has to work late, and hearing the noise, the boy picks up his BB Gun and goes to investigate the noise. The Giant gets tangled in the lines and seems to be in pain. Hogarth starts to run away but decides to help him by flipping a lever to turn off the power station. In the scuffle, Hogarth drops his gun and the Giant stomps on it before passing out and waking up. This crushing of the gun is symbolic for the Iron Giant, because the Iron Giant, quite literally, was supposed to be a gun. He comes from an alien planet and later in the movie he decimates the US forces with futuristic weaponry. But because he was damaged, and because of his relationship with Hogarth, the Iron Giant realizes that he can choose who he wants to be. Perhaps the most affecting scene that explicitly confronts violence is the scene in which Hogarth and the Iron Giant meet a deer in the woods. The Giant is moved by the deer's beauty, but a few moments later we hear a gunshot, and the deer is dead. Two hunters come and are terrified by the Iron Giant. One of them drops his gun as he runs away. Hogarth explains that the deer is dead, that he was killed by a gun. Later that night Hogarth and the Giant have a heart to heart about death:

HOGARTH: I know you feel bad about the deer. But it's not your fault. Things die. It's part of life. It's bad to kill. But it's not bad to die.
IRON GIANT: You die?
HOGARTH: Well... yes, someday.
IRON GIANT: I die?
HOGARTH: I don't know. You're made of metal...but you have feelings. And you think about things. And that means you have a soul. And souls don't die.
IRON GIANT: Soul?
HOGARTH: Mom says it's something inside of all good things... and that it goes on forever and ever.

It is the Iron Giant who is confronted with the choice between violence or death. His programming tells him to destroy, and he is ultimately the strongest 'man' in the world of the movie. He could, if he chose, completely conquer the world. But Hogarth convinces him to reject his violence. The climax of the movie then builds, as Mansley disobeys orders and tells the ship to launch the nuke, and the Iron Giant chooses to collide with it in the air in order to save the town.

Shortly before this climax, Hogarth and the Iron Giant are playing in the junkyard. Hogarth is pretending that the Iron Giant is Atomo (a robot sent to destroy earth). Hogarth uses a toy gun and it activates the Giant's weapons, and he fires a laser. Dean saves Hogarth and yells at the Iron Giant, calling him a “big gun.” The Giant tries to refuse, but he is scared of hurting Hogarth and runs away. We cut to two boys on a roof on the lookout for the giant metal man. The railing breaks and they fall. The Iron Giant makes a diving catch to save them in the middle of town. When Hogarth and Dean find him, the Giant smiles and says, “I am not a gun.”

I cannot tell you exactly why this line stuck in my mind for so long after watching the Iron Giant for the first time as an adult, but I think I can now. As I envision what happens immediately after the Iron Giant says this (he is shot in the back by a tank), I feel as though I am watching a vision of what it feels like to be a man with good intentions. The world, as much as we would wish it were not so, does not exist to validate our dreams and best hopes. The world of men is mostly indifferent and randomly hostile. Moved by my better angels, I have made declarations of intent, only to be shot in the back and induced to reach for my weapons (for me, some plan to be profitable and the comfort of video games or worse). This is the same note that resonates with me when I watch Robert Rodriguez's El Mariachi, in which a guitar player (a mariachi) is induced to pick up a guitar case full of weapons instead of his instrument. Goodness and beauty do not simply come about, they are fought and sacrificed for. They are missed by fateful decisions which rely on safety and the lie that the highest good we can do for our families is make them comfortable and happy. They are sacrificed for in the middle of the night, in the most mundane ways, by giving up what you and the world once thought was glorious. Normal guys like me don't get to go out by blowing up a nuke (I hope?), and one of the hardest struggles I have faced (embarrassingly), is admitting just how much I want the glory of doing something as impressive and heroic and easy to praise—and giving that up for goods that are far greater than glory.

We are off the rails now, blown apart in the pieces of my life experience, much like the Iron Giant at the end of the movie. But now, let's try to bring those pieces back together. It is time to turn to Jane Austen and Mr. Darcy.

Man Vs. Woman: Mr. Darcy

“What are men to rocks and mountains?”

— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Ch 27.

If we are confused by a man's relationship to society, there would seem to be little hope that we can find ourselves in his relationship to woman. What topic has been written about, dreamed about, sung about, lied about, more? But enough excuses. Why, of all people, are we turning to Jane Austen? Perhaps it is because outsiders are sometimes the most suited to bring insight to a muddy relationship. Perhaps because Mr. Darcy is famous. He, by the most warped of all consensuses (memes), is an ideal man. Why? It is because Mr. Darcy, when confronted with evidence of his pride, takes proactive steps to fix himself and his harmful actions.

When we first meet Mr. Darcy there is no doubt of his pride. He snubs Elizabeth at a ball and passes the evening rather grumpily (Ch 3). Darcy is described as “haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting” (Ch 4). Through a series of misunderstandings, Elizabeth comes to despise Mr. Darcy almost as much as if he were her worst enemy. She hears and readily believes rumors that he disowned his innocent god-brother, she is disgusted by his cold and haughty manner in their social interactions, and she is utterly shocked when he proposes to her. It is important to note that Elizabeth's family, though not poor, is in need of a male heir because the father's estate is entailed. His five daughters, none of whom are allowed to inherit the estate, will be destitute if he dies without a male heir, and he and his wife are now too old to consider trying again. Since Mr. Darcy is exceedingly rich, many a woman in Elizabeth's position might have sacrificed her happiness for her family. But she is our heroine, and she is also somewhat prejudiced:

“There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit or sense” (Ch 24).

She refuses him outright. Indeed, even a woman prepared to sacrifice her happiness would be put off by the way Darcy presents his proposal. “His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which judgement had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.” It is in spite of his better judgement that he proposes; in separating the kind (and also rich) Mr. Bingley from Elizabeth's sister, he “has been kinder to his friend than himself”; he asks (not unjustly, for Elizabeth's mother and younger sisters are quite ridiculous) if he should be expected to rejoice in the hope of relations “so decidedly beneath” his own.

There are not many readers who do not sympathize with Elizabeth when she refuses Darcy, but when we learn from Darcy's letter the truth about his god-brother (a prodigal who tries to seduce Darcy's teenage sister for the fortune), things get more complicated. Add to this the fact that Darcy's behavior is not so rude as it seems to our culture. Darcy, like Elizabeth, is surrounded by rather ridiculous and haughty acquaintances (except for Mr. Bingley). And his grumpiness might be caused by a perception of just how preposterous British aristocratic society was. As a very rich man, he would probably have been treated with a great deal of flattery and sycophantic adoration (typified by the attentions of Ms. Bingley). His attraction to Elizabeth seems to be based on her willingness to converse with him honestly and intellectually (and her “fine eyes”). I say seems because Austen, like Shakespeare, leaves a great deal of interpretation up to the reader. To me, it seems that Elizabeth engages him on subjects that he has never been able to talk about with anyone else (Ch 11). This kind of intimacy is “dangerous” because it is the type of intimacy on which true connubial felicity is founded. But at the time of his proposal he is still too proud not to assume that Elizabeth would be happy to say yes. Her refusal exposes himself, to himself. And he is probably saying, at the same time Elizabeth is saying, “Till this moment, I never knew myself” (Ch 36).

The self knowledge that intimacy with another can prompt is one of the greatest benefits of marriage. It is also one of the greatest destroyers of marriage, for if either partner is not prepared to change and admit their own faults, they will drift away because the other partner will be a reminder of that fault that they wish to run from. What makes Darcy remarkable as a male literary figure is that he allows this encounter to change him. When Elizabeth meets him later by chance, on a trip with her aunt and uncle, his manners are remarkably warm. He is friendly and deferential to people “decidedly beneath” his own station. He invites her uncle to fish, and leaves Elizabeth (who also allows intimacy to change her) somewhat astonished. “It cannot be for me, it cannot be for my sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should love me” (Ch 43). Then comes the climax, in which Elizabeth's flirty younger sister elopes with Darcy's awful god-brother, and Darcy saves her by a significant sacrifice, a sacrifice which he wishes to remain secret and for which he expects nothing from Elizabeth.

Mr. Darcy is legendary because he shows very simply just what love for a woman can mean for a man:

“I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit... Such I was, from eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased” (Ch 58).

So far from being an unrealistic ideal (except for the money), he is a picture of how men really ought to act (accounting for differences of culture and personality) towards a woman. While it is true that two partners in a healthy relationship ought to give, it is very important that love be given without expectation or record keeping. Elizabeth, indeed, is also changed and allows her love to forgive and honor Darcy without compromising her ideals. This is, I think, really what that most misquoted of Apostles meant when he wrote “submit to one another,”[^3] for 'submission,' perhaps not the best translation of the Greek word, is one of the highest forms of love. Just as two partners in a dance must yield even as they propel and support each other, so must lovers.

Man Vs. Himself: Sacrifice and Active Love

“I can give her everything, but not my male independence.”[^4]

— Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina.

Where does this leave us? What conclusions can we draw? What does it mean to be a good man? The only theme I can draw from our survey of The Iron Giant and Pride and Prejudice is the theme of sacrifice. The Iron Giant sacrifices himself and his violent purpose to save Hogarth and the town, and Mr. Darcy sacrifices his pride to properly love Elizabeth. This is an ancient theme, that might not bear repeating if it were not so necessary to repeat. We have come a long way, and part of the crisis of manhood that we can all smell is, I think, the subconscious terror that men feel when they sense that the foundations of society that once upheld their Power and their Pride are crumbling. Perhaps now that there is less power and pride to give up (though we still have a long way to go), it is the concept of manhood itself that must be sacrificed.

When I was in high school, I was a big fan of the original NCIS with Mark Harmon's Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Gibbs, though not exactly macho, is nonetheless something of a man's man. He catches criminals, works on boats in his basement, and only drinks black coffee. There was something about the image of him that I wanted to emulate, so when I started drinking coffee I drank it black. Did I like it? Quite honestly, not really, but I stuck with it and still drink it black today. This is the power of 'atmosphere,' it quite literally changed my taste buds. How much more powerful can it be, then, when we consider issues more important than taste. What can this atmosphere do to how a man treats women, where he goes to work, who he seeks friendships with, and what he values? Atmosphere, in shaping these things, has the power to shape almost the entire course of a man's life. But only if we let it.

When I say that the concept of manhood must be sacrificed, I do not mean that all concept of gender ought to be thrown out. There are physiological differences that we ignore at our own peril, but these differences have nothing to do with what we wear or where we work or how much we can bench press or who cooks dinner or who does the laundry or what sort of movies we watch. So much of what has been spoken of as 'manhood' throughout my entire life has been entirely cultural. When I say that the concept of manhood must be sacrificed, I mean that a man ought to do things simply because they are the right thing to do and not because they validate a meaningless social vanity.[^5] This means that I ought to care for my family as best as I am able because I love them and it is my duty as a parent. This means that I should place the needs of my wife's body over the needs of my own. This means that not being the primary breadwinner should not be a source of shame. I have struggled for years with my self esteem as a stay at home parent because I did not realize how much I wanted a career until I didn't have one. All I can say is that because the culture I move in accepts Moms into the role of homemaker more readily, I have found myself between worlds, and I would be lying if I said I did not have to face my envy and strangle it far more frequently than I would wish. Every friend and acquaintance I have talked to concludes that being a stay at home Dad is really noble and practical for our situation, and indeed this is a conclusion I have come to over and over, but knowledge and true belief are two different things. Knowing that the air is bad does not help you breathe in it. This is why I say the concept of manhood has to be sacrificed. This does not mean trading in your truck for a minivan, but asking yourself, every time you must move in the atmosphere of culture, why am I doing this? Do I really want this thing? Do I really enjoy this activity? Is my sense of self worth coming from outside of me, or from within?

In Three Guineas, Virginia Woolf points out the ridiculous outfits and baubles that the military (and then a strictly male) world uses to distinguish itself: “Your finest clothes are those that you wear as soldiers.” She also does not fail to include the academic world, with its robes and wigs and titles, and illustrates the vanity of men by providing a counterexample: “A woman who advertised her motherhood by a tuft of horsehair on the left shoulder would scarcely, you will agree, be a venerable object.” She then concludes that the best way for women entering professional life to discourage war (a major topic of her essay), is to “refuse all such distinctions and all such uniforms for ourselves.” In a similar way, I believe that the path to true manhood is the refusal of meaningless distinctions and uniforms. Whether they be video game skins, medals, watches, clothes, trucks, social media statuses, likes, competitions, hobbies, Strava times, podcast views, church leadership positions, or Magic decks. In short, any thing, even any good thing, that a man can use to give them self the appearance of good needs to be examined and held with an open palm.

The second, and perhaps more practical application, is the importance of rejecting passivity. The Iron Giant restrains his violence, but he chooses to expose himself in order to save the kids and the town. Mr. Darcy, rather than letting things run their course, actively fixes his mistakes without prompting from anywhere but his own conscience. I believe that cowardly passivity has been the cause of more evil than any other sin. Where was Adam when Eve was with the snake? Structures of oppression have been allowed to persist because millions of men have silently watched and gone with the flow. Only when the current deposits them in a stagnant pool, and they realize that their cowardice might be exposed, does the bottomless terror grip their stomachs and propel them to desperate cruelty. To be a man is to sacrifice vain desires and to love actively. As a father, I believe it is my duty to seek out my kids, engage them, and teach them the values that are important to know before they ask. This is to be done with love, gentleness, and full respect for their humanity and agency. If they do not have the skills or the moral fortitude to engage with the world by the time they graduate high school, I bear a great deal of the blame. To be a man is to prevent disasters before they happen, and not expect a medal for it. In my role as a husband, I am to seek out my wife not for comfort or validation, but to love and honor and woo her as a woman “worthy of being pleased.” As a citizen, it is my duty to engage with society and act for its benefit instead of trying to squeeze everything I can from it. These concepts of sacrifice and active love can be applied to friendships and family. Indeed they must be applied by the man to his own life, because no one else can do it for him. It is, tragically, much easier written than done, requiring constant humility and grace. For me, this involves a great deal of prayer and grit, in order to pick myself up and keep trying when I fail over and over and over. But it must be done if a man is to reclaim a sense of manhood that comes from within, and by living and breathing out that sense of self, change the atmosphere that has stifled all genders for so long.

Footnotes

[1] “Now, what I have been trying to suggest in all this is that the only useful definition of the word “majority” does not refer to numbers , and it does not refer to power. It refers to influence.” You will notice that I use influence and power somewhat synonymously. I believe Baldwin was trying to make the distinction that whoever is “in power” (elected or un-elected officials) is not necessarily the one with the influence. For the scope of my essay, I think that my point has been made. Majority does not have to do with numbers or even representation, but with who can influence the decisions of those in power.

[2] “I think the aura of paramilitarism among the black militant groups speaks much more of fear than it does of confidence. I know, in my own experience, that I was much more afraid in Montgomery when I had a gun in my house. When I decided that, as a teacher of philosophy of nonviolence, I couldn't keep a gun, I came face to face with the question of death and I dealt with it. And from that point on, I no longer needed a gun nor have I been afraid. Ultimately, one's sense of manhood must come from within him.“

[3] Ephesians 5:21: “...submitting to one another out of reverence for Christ.“

[4] This line is thought by Vronsky, the man that Anna leaves her husband for, when Anna is starting to become jealous. Vronsky is unable to give up his “male independence” to be a truly devoted partner.

#essay #JaneAusten #TheIronGiant #VirginiaWoolf #JamesBaldwin

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Bibliography

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Act II, Scene 2.

Woolf, Virginia. Three Guineas. Hogarth Press, Mecklenburgh Square, London, 1943. Accessed on Internet Archive.

The Iron Giant. Directed by Brad Bird, Warner Bros. Feature Animation, 1999.

Baldwin, James. “In Search of a Majority: An Address.” Nobody Knows My Name. Collected Essays. Library of America, New York, NY, 1998.

The Magnificent Seven. Directed by Antoine Fuqua, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures, 2016.

Steinbeck, John. East of Eden. Penguin Group, New York, NY, 2002.

King, Martin Luther Jr. A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches of Martin Luther King Jr. “A Testament of Hope.” Harper Collins, 1986. Page 323.

El Mariachi. Directed by Robert Rodriguez, Los Hooligans Productions, 1993.

Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. Arcturus Publishing Limited, London, 2011.

Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina. Part Six, Chapter 25. Penguin Group. New York, NY. 2000.

NCIS. Created by Donald P. Bellisario and Don McGill. Bellisarius Productions, CBS Studios, 2003-present.

Content warning: This essay contains discussion of rape.

In Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy, after Tess tells her new husband that she is not a virgin and he rejects her, Thomas Hardy describes a scene in which the husband sleepwalks, carrying Tess through a field, over a river, to an abandoned stone coffin outside of a run down Abbey. He lays her in the coffin and falls to the ground asleep. Then Tess sits up in the coffin. This scene is one of Hardy's “moments of vision,” a moment that Virginia Woolf described as a passage in which both author and reader seem “to be suddenly and without their own consent lifted up and swept onwards.” It is perhaps vain to attempt to discern the meaning of this passage. Hardy himself, who stated in the explanatory note of the novel that “novels are impressions, not arguments,” might deplore such an effort — but I am the reader, and as Woolf also wrote about reading him, “it is for the reader, steeped in the impression, to supply the comment.” ¹

In order to probe the deeper meaning, it is first necessary to trace Hardy's steps as he carries Tess to that coffin. Tess of the D'Urbervilles is a novel about a pure woman whose purity is abused and mocked by an unjust world until it tramples her for sport. Even at the beginning of the novel when she is still a young country girl with little experience, Tess is the moral center of her family. When she comes home and discovers that her father has gone to drink a few hours before he is to take a load of beehives on an overnight journey by horse, it is Tess who rebukes her mother for letting him go. Joan Durbeyfield, convicted by her daughter's rebuke, goes to fetch the father but ends up staying at the bar, and Tess is forced to fetch both parents and help carry her drunk father home. At this as in many later points in the story, Tess's purity is abused by society and “Nature's holy plan” — Her father is too drunk to wake, and Tess is forced to make the journey with her brother. They both fall asleep, the horse is killed in an accident, and Tess is pushed by her family and her own guilt to call on a wealthy family that has assumed the name of the Durbeyfields' long dead relatives, the D'Urbervilles. This is the inciting incident of the novel, and it is here the theme is introduced in earnest. Who is made to pay for the dissipation and pride of the family's father? It's purest member.

When Tess arrives at the D'Urberville estate she exclaims “I thought we were an old family, but this is all new!” In fact the D'Urbervilles that Tess is induced to claim kin with have falsely assumed the D'Urberville name. A rich merchant looking to settle down and blend in as a county man in the South of England had used his fortune to fabricate a family tree that connected him to the ancient family line. Here again we see that society values money and appearance more than true integrity. Tess, a true descendant of the D'Urbervilles by blood, reaps no benefit, while the sham descendants enjoy all the good standing and honor. It is at this point that we are introduced to Alec D'Urberville, most generously described as a well-to-do degenerate. Struck by Tess's “luxuriance of aspect” and innocent nature, he engineers her hiring and constantly stalks and teases her without her consent. He takes advantage of his position as a privileged man and her employer to coerce Tess, and one night when Tess is very tired and vulnerable, he rapes her.

This crucial event is not narrated in detail. Hardy is purposely vague. Whether or not this is because he had to satisfy a publisher's or an artist's prerogative is not relevant. There is more than enough to infer what happens: Hardy asks why her guardian angel is absent, why Alec is allowed to trace such a course pattern on Tess's skin, and reckons that this could have been a retribution for Tess's ancestors who may have “dealt the same measure even more ruthlessly towards peasant girls of their time.” In spite of this some readers may still be tempted to ask whether it was actually a rape. After all, Tess did not kick and scream or cry out. But all doubts can be extinguished with a single question: Did Tess consent to sex? No. She never even consented to a flirtatious word. The closest we get to the moment is an exchange with Alec in which Tess says, “I didn't understand your meaning until too late.” Alec replies that that's what every woman says, to which Tess answers, “Did it ever strike you that what every woman says some women may feel?” Through Alec, Hardy shows just how little society values the word of the woman compared to that of the man, and though I sit here typing this essay over a century later I am sad to say that scant progress has been made in this regard.

When she realizes she is pregnant Tess resolves to return home. Once again, Tess's purity is abused by society because she does not accept Alec's professions of love or offers of money. The pregnancy would compromise her position at the D'Urberville estate, and more importantly it would not be right. She does not love Alec and she never did. To accept his “love” now would be to lie, so she leaves to have the child. While she waits Tess takes long walks in the woods, and on these walks Hardy comments that “she looked upon herself as a figure of Guilt intruding into the haunts of Innocence. But all the while she was making a distinction where there was no difference. Feeling herself in antagonism she was quite in accord. She had been made to break an accepted social law, but no law known to the environment in which she fancied herself such an anomaly.” Nature recognizes Tess's purity, even if society does not.

After she has the baby Tess is able to feel something of the purity that Hardy sees in her. She takes a job threshing, and realizes that her lot as a mother is not so distressing; what makes it distressing is society's view of her. But then the baby falls ill, and here perhaps more than anywhere else, Tess's purity is made to burn through the pages against society's corruption. Tess's father refuses to send for the parson on account of the “smudge which Tess had set” upon his nobility. He locks the door, and Tess is left to pass the night with her dying infant. Tess is frantic not just for her child's life but for his soul. He has not been baptized, and the girl-mother's head runs wild with the tortures the baby might suffer in hell according to the doctrines taught in the church of her time — so she baptizes him.

In this scene Tess is transfigured into a saint. This is another moment of vision, one in which Hardy almost seems to forget that Tess is a fictional character and not a real human being. He describes the airy note which Tess's voice took on “when her heart was in her speech, and which will never be forgotten by those who knew her.” Her face has a touch of dignity which is “almost regal”, and to her siblings, whom Tess awakens to witness and affirm the baptism with their little “Amens”, she does not look like “Sissy”, but “a being large, towering and awful, a divine personage with whom they had nothing in common.” Yet in the morning the well-named infant Sorrow is dead, and Tess goes to ask the parson about his soul. She asks whether the baptism is just the same to God, and the parson says it is, but when asked if it would secure a Christian burial he cannot “for certain reasons.” Once again society refuses to recognize Tess's purity, and she is forced to bury her baby with criminals and drunkards. Only Hardy continues to gaze at Tess where society turns away: after the burial she erects a homemade cross and brings flowers in a marmalade jar.

Wanting to leave home and start a new life, Tess jumps at an offer to work on a dairy farm distant enough from home that no one would know of her past. It goes well, and Tess passes what is probably the happiest summer of her life. She makes friends with the other milkmaids, learns the trade well, and enjoys belonging to the community at Talbothay's dairy. She also falls in love with Angel Clare, a gentle and philosophical man who turns out to be as fulfilling as a sack of wet sandwiches. Tess vows not to love him, but she cannot prevent the attraction, and she is thwarted again and again in her attempts both to tell Angel about her past and to ward off his affection for her. Just after they are married, Angel tells Tess about his sexual encounter with an older woman of the world. Tess is almost happy to forgive him as she tells him about Alec, but the double standard strikes her again, and Angel does not forgive her. Like the rest of society he sees Tess only for what she is not, forgetting that “the defective can be more than the entire.”

Angel's subconscious is not so easily duped, and after the two go to sleep he wakes and carries Tess from her bed into the night. He calls her his darling, laments her death, and kisses her before he lays her in the coffin. Whether or not Hardy intended it, this moment of vision is a metaphor for the entire novel. Hardy, lamenting Tess's fate, nevertheless carries her tenderly throughout the pages of the book, showering her with affection and attention even as society casts her off, so that after she is dead in the coffin she sits up in the mind of the reader and lives on. Perhaps Hardy himself, like Angel, did it in a state of unconscious compassion. Either way the effect is achieved unmistakably.

I first read Tess of the D'Urbervilles in High School for an AP Literature class. It was my first experience with Thomas Hardy and I forgot nearly every detail of the plot, but I never forgot Tess herself. Hardy left her impression on my memory, so much so that when I saw a copy at a used book sale over five years later I decided to buy it, and years after that I suggested to my wife that she should read it because “I remember kind of liking it.” Now, having re-read it as an older man without the joy-killing obligation of having to read for class, I have realized that my memory is proof of my thesis. Hardy killed Tess in the novel, but she sat up in the coffin and lived on in my mind.

In the novel society abuses and tries to pretend Tess does not exist, but I never forgot her. Her far reaching personality imbues the pages with a “burning sensibility.” I can see her, cheeks red with cold as she trudges over the snow to a miserable job, smiling ironically with Marion and blowing a kiss to her feckless husband in the direction she imagines him to be; or wandering among “lonely hills and dales,” “her flexuous figure” mingling with nature as she ponders her lot; or milking dexterously with the other maids as flies buzz and the cow's chew and slap their tails. To borrow a phrase from Virginia Woolf, she has taken on a “more than mortal size” in my memory. Hardy, in carrying Tess to her doom, has drawn an inverted relationship between Tess's standing in society and her standing with the reader. As society crushes her lower and lower, her memory rises higher and higher, so that she is soon as high as the black flag of the tower that announces her death. And so carried in the reader's mind, after she is dead and the book is closed, she then sits up.

¹ Both quotes are from an essay Virginia Woolf published shortly after Thomas Hardy's death, titled The Novels of Thomas Hardy.

#essay #nonfiction #thomashardy #virginiawoolf #tessofthedurbervilles

First, thank you for reading! To echo a sentiment from Thomas Hardy, I greatly regret that I will never be able to meet many of you in person and shake your hands, but perhaps we can virtually shake hands. It is a poor substitute, but it will have to do in this strange world.

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“She remembered, all of a sudden as if she had found a treasure, that she had her work. In a flash she saw her picture, and thought, Yes, I shall put the tree further in the middle.” — To the Lighthouse (84)

On page 84 of To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf describes how Lily Briscoe, squeezed by social pressure during dinner at the Ramsey's house, remembers “all of a sudden as if she had found a treasure,” that she can improve her painting by “moving the tree to the middle.” She then picks up a salt shaker and puts it down “so as to remind herself to move the tree.”

These are two rather mundane sentences. They do not evoke strong emotion and they do not have particular significance in the immediate context. But Virginia Woolf weaves them into the text, using the movement of the salt shaker to remind both Briscoe and the reader twenty pages later that to “move the tree to the middle,” does not simply mean improving one's painting; it also means finding purpose and value outside of society's expectations (for Lily it is to marry). Then, when Lily comes back to the Ramsey's many years and pages later, after Mrs. Ramsey's death, the reader and Lily are taken back to that flash of inspiration at dinner with a simple phrase: “Move the tree to the middle, she had said (102).”

For those who have not tried to write compelling prose, this example may seem underwhelming. But as with many masterstrokes, “moving the tree to the middle” can be appreciated by imagining what you might have done instead. Even if you had lit on the idea of moving the tree to symbolize Lily's commitment to her art, would you have been brave and innovative enough to recall it twenty pages later, not with simple exposition that a reader cannot miss, but with a glance “at the salt cellar on the pattern”? This use of the word “salt” enhances the tree idiom. It is a word you can taste. It draws the reader into Lily Briscoe's mind and lived experience. This is immersion. This is how Virginia Woolf rewards the reader for journeying into the human soul with her.

This is just one example of the many recurring motifs in To the Lighthouse that Woolf weaves together as she tosses the reader on the waves of her characters' lives. There is Cam and James' “fight against tyranny (163, 184),” Tansley's refrain in Lily Briscoe's mind that women “can't paint, can't write (86, 158),” “Heaven (153, 171),” and many more. They illuminate the pages like the steady turning of the lighthouse itself, stroked both with subtlety and boldness in the way that only a master who knows when to break the rules can. She mixes metaphors. Her punctuation breaks convention. She puts an entire chapter in parentheses, and reduces another to a single sentence. This is a book published in 1927 that is bolder and yet more restrained than 99% of modern literature in its form and subject. Virginia Woolf is not only an important female writer, she is a master wordsmith of the English language.

Poe once wrote that originality “demands... negation.” In Virginia Woolf's prose there is a great energy and fierceness, but also great precision. Conversations at dinner can whirl into sailors fighting a gale so as not to fall to “the floor of the sea (84)”, “Heaven [can] never be sufficiently praised (153)!” for an awkward conversation saved by “the blessed island of good boots,” and an adolescent son at tension with his father vows to take a knife and strike him “to the heart (184).” In isolation these excerpts are melodramatic, but they are so well-timed amid the deep exploration of her characters' thoughts, that Woolf succeeds in painting the giddy heights and abyssal lows of the human experience. Rather than overwhelm the reader with her extreme metaphors, Woolf exercises restraint and drops them at just the right time like the final blow of a hammer. It is hard reading that demands much from the reader, but it is also some of the most rewarding that I have encountered. The experience is best described by Woolf herself in an essay about the love of reading:

“It is by reason of this masterliness of theirs, this uncompromising idiosyncrasy, that great writers often require us to make heroic efforts in order to read them rightly. They bend us and break us. To go from Jane Austen to Hardy, from Peacock to Trollope, from Scott to Meredith, from Richardson to Kipling, is to be wrenched and distorted, thrown this way and then that.

For these difficult and inaccessible books, with all their preliminary harshness, often yield the richest fruits in the end, and so curiously is the brain compounded that while tracts of literature repel at one season, they are appetizing and essential at another.”

“How One Should Read a Book” by Virginia Woolf

When I consider that she received no formal higher education, that she suffered from manic depression, that she developed a love of reading and writing from her family's library, I cannot help but see Lily Briscoe's struggle as Woolf's own. How many men in Woolf's life whispered to her that women “can't paint, can't write?” How many times, sitting with the pen in her hand, did she struggle to hold onto her vision as “the demons set on her who often brought her to the verge of tears and made this passage from conception to work as dreadful as any down a dark passage for a child (19)?” This is not to romanticize the tortured artist, it is to empathize. Writing serious art is hard enough without external resistance. I can only imagine what Woolf faced, and my heart breaks for the premature loss of her life and the unfinished works she left behind. It is not because of an artist's afflictions that great art is made, it is in spite of them. And it is in spite of the Charles Tansleys, in spite of the demons and the dreadful passages through the dark, in spite of her critics and her own exacting standards, in spite of “the old question which traversed the sky of the soul perpetually (161)”, that Virginia Woolf has had her vision and succeeds in painting it by “moving the tree to the middle.” To read To the Lighthouse is to be immersed in a magnificent portrait of “daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark (161).”

I read this book shortly after graduating from college, and I am glad I did. Had I read it younger, I am not sure I could have appreciated it, because it is challenging reading for even serious readers. I have since read The Waves, and Mrs. Dalloway, and some of her essays, and I have never been disappointed. Her prose puts me in a rapture. Before I read To the Lighthouse I had not thought this type of writing even possible. It shocked me, like jumping into a cold ocean, but once I acclimated I found that the currents, though strong and forceful, were also gentle and purposeful. They never took me farther than was necessary or let me linger still for too long. This careful refinement of pace and passion is present in all the work that I have read by Woolf, and it is perhaps at its most perfect in To the Lighthouse.

If creating art is an expression of love, then a writer could be a lover, and “there might be lovers whose gift it was to choose out the elements of things and place them together and so, giving them a wholeness not theirs in life, make of some scene, or meeting people (all now gone and separate), one of those globed and compacted things over which thought lingers, and love plays (192).”

Virginia Woolf was such a lover.

#nonfiction #essay #virginiawoolf #tothelighthouse

Woolf, Virginia. To the Lighthouse. 1927. NY, NY, Harcourt Inc, 1981.

Woolf, Virginia. “Virginia Woolf: ‘How Should One Read a Book?’” The Yale Review, The Yale Review, 1 Sept. 1926, yalereview.org/article/virginia-woolf-essay-how-should-read-book.

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Thank you for reading! My name is Hunter Dansin. I am a writer, musician, and coder living with and loving my growing family. My first book, Dawn Must Follow Night, is the first book in an original fantasy series that confronts darkness within and without.

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