By Patrick Murtha

Whether a story is fiction or non-fiction, whether it is written in a book, acted on a stage or on a screen, or read to be heard, the story always has a moral or immoral effect. It often delights the imagination with the imitation of reality; it often converses directly with the intellect and the emotions and indirectly with the will, impacting the moral life of the soul. Unlike the study of moral philosophy or moral theology, the story, by its art, deliberately and delicately veils the obvious light of its morals behind characters and plots. Whether the observer contemplates the story and lifts that curtain or observes the tale as a sort of “recreation,” the moral remains, and the moral affects. The observer becomes focused on the characters, and their reasoning, their resolutions, and their results; and his mind is persuaded. His reasoning and his acting is moved subtly towards either virtue or vice. And so, Torquato Tasso sings to the Muse:

You know the world delights in lovely things,
for men have hearts sweet poetry will win,
and when the truth is seasoned in soft rhyme
it lures and leads the most reluctant in.
As we brush with honey the brim of a cup, to fool
a feverish child to take his medicine:
he drinks the bitter juice and cannot tell—
but it is a mistake that makes him well.

That story-telling persuades a person towards virtue or vice should come as no surprise. What area of life stories have not entered and induced action? What child, be he seven or seventy, does not become enthralled by a good story? A politician on his soap box will render an opponent silent with a short circumstance when simple logic and logorrhea make little headway. Professors, presenters, preachers—few step up to the podium without some story to tell. The great Solomon was a wise man with three thousand parables before he became a fool with one thousand wives. And what does Scripture say, regarding Christ’s teaching by story-telling, but “All these things Jesus spoke to them in parables to the multitudes: and without parables he did not speak to them,” (Mt. 13:34), as the Psalmist prophesied of Christ, “I will open my mouth in parables” (Ps. 77:2). Even in casual conversation, how much of the day-to-day discussion is composed of one person or another telling an anecdote or spinning a yarn? As the ancient Roman proverb professes, verba docent, exempla trahunt: words instruct, examples win over.

The sheer number of stories, whether actual history or a novel, throughout the long length of human history, should be sufficient to demonstrate the power and the pleasure of stories. One of the great quarrels, however, concerns their spiritual impact. Too often too many downplay the moral clout a story carries. So plentiful is the research and the opportunities of observation on this matter, as well as the warnings from popes and priests and other authorities, that a person must be intentionally blind not to perceive the influence: stories do indeed help mold human reasoning and human acting. That is, moral actions or morality. As Pius XI says regarding both art in general and movies in particular, “The essential purpose of art, its raison d’etre, is to assist in the perfection of the moral personality, which is man, and for this reason it must be moral.” This is evident even in the example of Christ and His parables. After He told how “A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among robbers…,” in order to exemplify “the good neighbor,” He told the legalist, “Go and do in like manner.” (Mt. 10: 30, 37) Also, when He said, “The kingdom of Heaven is likened to a man who sowed good seed in his field,” (Mt. 13:24) the story was to lead towards a reflection of what kind of ground each person was, and, from that contemplation, a conversion of soul. In other words, the purpose of a story is to influence the intellect to reason rightly in order to move the will towards virtuous action.

To affect this moral persuasion, this right reasoning for right action, a story must first reflect reality, that tragic yet happy reality of fallen and redeemed man and his relation to God, his Creator and Redeemer. The plot must imitate a man deliberating on a particular action, choosing to act or not to act; and then it proposes an appropriate or reasonable conclusion to that choice. In The Iliad, for example, Achilles is determined to humiliate Agamemnon who has humiliated him. The poem follows Achilles’ rage—“murderous, doomed,” sings Homer, “that cost the Achaeans countless losses, hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls, great fighters’ souls.” The poem unveils to the observer Achilles’ reflections, his resolves, and then the deadly grave results. The humiliation, the anger, the longing for justice and, more than that, for revenge—all of the various human emotions and thoughts and actions and reactions are, though fictional, true to life, true imitations of human good and evil. The observer cannot help but pity Achilles for the great injustice done him by Agamemnon, but also be horrified by the great injustice that Achilles’ self-centered fury afflicts upon the Greek army. Many virtues and many vices are at play in the poem, a very moral epic. As St. Basil writes, “Now as I have heard from one skillful in interpreting the mind of a poet, all the poetry of Homer is a praise of virtue, and with him all that is merely accessory tends to this end.” As a fiction, it imitates the possible reasoning and acting of man, and then it shows the logical or reasonable conclusion of such thoughts and such actions. The contemplative observer of the tale perceiving these things, will adjust his thinking appropriately and, if his thinking, his acting to conform with what is reasonable. What is said of the fictional yet probable rage of Achilles is verified in the wise-sayings of the Sacred Scriptures: “Anger hath no mercy, nor fury when it breaks forth: and who can bear the violence of one provoked?” (Prov. 27:4) or also “Corrupt men bring a city to ruin: but wise men turn away wrath.” (Prov. 29:8) In short, a good story is nothing more than the study of wisdom and prudence: for wisdom is the right reasoning about things and prudence is the right choosing about things rightly reasoned.

Whether the story is authored by William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Jane Austin, Evelyn Waugh, J. R. R. Tolkien, or recorded by Hilaire Belloc in his histories or St. Augustine in his Confessions, the reality of stories remains the same: they express, either fictionally or factually, the human thoughts, actions, and consequences. While histories present what is true in fact, fiction presents what would possibly be true if those characters and those concerns truly existed. As part of this reflection of real humanity, there are heroes or protagonists and villains or antagonists. Too often we want our villains to be Hitlers and Herods—men who supposedly never did good—or we want our heroes to be Little Lord Fauntleroys or Pollyannas—fictional characters who, supposedly, never did evil. These representations are unreal. It is possible for such characters to exist in fairy tales or even fables, where the simplicity of the tale and the simplicity of the audience do well to grasp the glaring contrast between grace and sin. But human nature is not so stark in virtue or vice. Moses, for all of his virtues and all of the times he talked with God, had at least one moment of doubt, crying, “Hear, ye rebellious and incredulous: can we bring you forth water out of this rock?” (Num. 20:10) In fiction the noble knight Roland has great chivalry and courage, but also great pride, a personal fault that becomes fatal to himself and his fellow knights. So Proverbs tells us, “a just man shall fall seven times and shall rise again: but the wicked shall fall down into evil.” (Prov. 24:16). King David himself fell twice into grave sin: first, into adultery and murder; and second into pride. His greatest act of heroism was not in defeating Goliath, but in defeating his own guilt with penance and humility. Cardinal Newman, defending the Church’s use of literature, notes that literature “is the Life and Remains of the natural man, innocent or guilty.” If literature is expressive of this natural and moral man, it must present man as he truly is: a sinner, and hopefully, like Waugh’s Charles Ryder or his Guy Crouchback, a sinner looking for redemption and sanctification. Stories must look at man as he is. “If you would in fact have a literature of saints,” says Newman, “first of all have a nation of them.”

Again, just as the hero of literature or the hero of life is generally not entirely good or perfect, the villain, be he in Shakespeare or Homer or Virgil or in real-life, is never entirely evil. The reality of villainy is that villains are not, as some like believe, “pure evil.” The wicked witches of the fairy tales may be, but human villains are not. Shylock, who is one of Shakespeare’s great villains, intentionally hopes and even plans to murder that “philanthropic” merchant of Venice Antonio. Shylock is not entirely without some justification for his hatred of Antonio, nor is Antonio without some justification in his scorn for Shylock, who charges enormous interest. What does the villain Shylock says to the protagonist Antonio?

…many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my moneys and usances:
Still I have borne it with a patient shrug,
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat-dog,
And spit on my Jewish gaberdine…

To which Antonio replies, “I am as like to call thee so again.” Antonio is a generous man, but he lacks true Christian charity. The “charity” he teaches Shylock is far from the charity St. Paul teaches the Corinthians. And Shylock responds, “The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.” These things do not excuse Shylock, but it allows the observer to realize how his own seemingly small Antonio-like faults have serious consequences. In the end, however, Antonio, the fallen but just man, as well as the villainous Shylock, is “saved” by a lawyer-lady, Portia of Belmont—this name meaning Gate of the Beautiful Mountain, an allegory of the Blessed Virgin.

Finally, if the story is going to be a true reflection of real human nature, the reality of human good and evil must also be truly reflected. This does not mean the story must moralize, or say, “Look, child, do not murder for it is evil.” The point of a story is not to teach morals in such a way, but again, by example of action and consequence. The good story will show the natural effects of good or evil actions. What is the consequence of murder, but chaos, disorder, unhappiness, a gnawing conscience, which can lead also to a plethora of other sins to stifle that torturing nibbling. What is the consequence of charity, but order, happiness, peace of soul. A good story will show how virtue, though hard, leaves the soul in harmony and happiness; a good story will show how vice, though easy and pleasurable, tends toward spiritual turmoil and unhappiness. These true portrayals, even though fictional, aid in the moral growth; the opposite in which vice is painted in vibrant and flamboyant colors, giving a false impression of its reality, aid in the moral deformation of the soul. As Pius XII says, “For these new possessions and new instruments which are within almost everyone’s grasp, introduce a most powerful influence into men’s minds, both because they can flood them with light, raise them to nobility, adorn them with beauty, and because they can disfigure them by dimming their luster, dishonor them a process of corruption, and make them subject to uncontrolled passions, according as the subjects presented to the senses in these shows are praiseworthy or reprehensible.”

Consequently, no story exists that does not stimulate or stifle the moral life in some way, however small, however subtle. Too often, especially with so-called “recreational” reading or movies or music, the tendency of many is to downplay this influence. One need only consider the analogy of food. Once a middle-aged man, whom everyone knew as a mirthful fellow, was enormously incredulous about the influence of food upon the body. “Sure,” he said, “some food has nutritious value. Some food is good—I mean healthy—to eat, like spinach and asparagus; and some food is merely pleasurable, like this cotton candy. So you will see, I will eat it and nothing in me will change.” He crammed the candy in his mouth. After a moment, a very brief minute or two, a seemingly trivial change came to his already jovial spirit. He bounced when before he’d skip. Before he would have teased young ladies, now he flirted. Before he would have clapped the young men on the shoulders, now he feigned fisticuffs with them. “I am young!” he roared. In fifteen minutes a fatigued jollity visited him. “How young I felt,” he sighed, and candy became a regular part of his daily diet. A couple years later he passed a mirror, and he pondered himself. “What has all this sugary goodness done to me?” he cried, “What have I done to me? My stamina is not what it once was, my health is not what it was once, and my girth, my circumference, is much more than it once was.” Just as what goes into the mouth affects the body, what goes into the eyes and the ears holds a sway, very often subtle and imperceptible. Perhaps, with an immoral work comes an immediate and yet temporary temptation, but the long-term affect may be more terrible: erroneous rather than right conscience and reasoning, a weakened rather than a strengthened will, a more controlling rather than a controlled passion. Good stories, on the other hand, should bring about the opposite result: a correct conscience and intellect, a fortified will, a disciplined concupiscence—in other words, a right moral life is aided by stories that are reflective of reality, the fallen nature of man, the possibilities of grace, and the effects of virtue and vice.

Bibliography

Basil, Address to Young Men on the Right Use of Greek Literature, Essays on the Study and Use of Poetry by Plutarch and Basil the Great, trans. Frederick Morgan Padelford, 97-120.

Homer, The Iliad, trans. Robert Fagles, Penguin, 1990.

Newman, John Henry. The Idea of a University, Longmans, 1923, pg. 228, 231.

Pius XI, Vigilanti Cura, 26 June 1936.

Pius XII, Miranda Prorsus, 8 September 1957.

Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, Act 3, scene 1, opensourceshakespeare.org.

Tasso, Toquato, Jerusalem Delivered (Gerusalemme liberata), trans. Anthony Esolen, John Hopkins UP, 2000, Book 1, 3.

 

TITLE IMAGE: The Reading Lesson, Knut Ekwall (1843-1912).