Anthony here. Speaking of Tim Powers . . .
Tim Powers is one of my favorite writers. He writes "secret histories": novels that take place in and around historical times and places but which fill in the blanks, so to speak, giving the story of what was really going on — and turns out, what was really going on is usually supernatural and very, very weird. Powers finds little odd things in real history, like spy Kim Philby getting disproportionately overwrought over the death of a pet fox, and gives them explanations in the story that make a creepy amount of sense. He weaves history and “what really happened” so well that you might much later later find yourself reading about, say, the Port Royale earthquake of 1692 and thinking, “Oh, yeah, that’s when Blackbeard was messing around with voodoo.” And then you do a double take, because of course that’s not what happened. But Powers’ stories, weird as they get (and they get weird) make that much sense.
But what I really like about Powers’ writing is that he writes from a solid worldview. Evil actions are evil, and have consequences. Characters can screw up, and neither the character nor the reader has any doubt that what they did was wrong, even if you can understand why they did it.
In an interview, Powers once said,
I really don’t read contemporary fantasy much. But I hope it manages to work from a bigger perspective than the default philosophies of the late 20th century – like "Don’t be judgmental," and "Violence never settles anything," and "People don’t do bad things because of informed deliberate choices, but from lack of education or an abusive upbringing," and "Recycle your aluminum cans." Fantasy fiction that worked from this sort of standard-issue assumptions would reek of 1990, and would be pretty tepid stuff compared to the fantasies that grew out of the more robust philosophies that preceded (and will doubtless follow) those of the late 20th century."
Not that Powers preaches. In fact, he doesn’t set out to write to a theme or shoehorn a message into his stories. He thinks stories should be stories before anything else, and if you set out to “say something” you risk hurting the story. In the same interview, he said,
I was on a panel once in which a woman said, "Dracula is actually about the plight of 19th-century women," to which I replied, "No, it’s about a guy who lives forever by drinking other people’s blood – don’t take my word for it, check it out."
Ha.
Anyway, I was rereading an awesome (and creepy) Powers short story the other day and thought it was pertinent in light of what's been going on with the synod. To my great (and non-copyright-violating) pleasure, Jimmy Akin got the web reprint rights, so I can link to it here.
Through and Through
ALREADY when he walked in through the side door, there were new people sitting here and there, separately in the Saturday afternoon dimness. The air was cool, and smelled of floor-wax.
He almost peered at the shadowed faces, irrationally hoping one might be hers, come back these seven days later to try for a different result; but most of the faces were lowered, and of course she wouldn’t be here. Two days ago, maybe—today, and ever after, no.
The funeral would be next week sometime, probably Monday. No complications about burial in consecrated soil anymore, thank God . . . or thank human mercy.
His shoes knocked echoingly on the glossy linoleum as he walked across the nave, pausing to bow toward the altar. In the old days he would have genuflected, and it would have been spontaneous; in recenter years the bow had become perfunctory, dutiful—today it was a twitch of self-distaste.
There were fewer people than he had first thought, he noted as he walked past the side altar and started down the wall aisle toward the confessional door, passing under the high, wooden Stations of the Cross and the awkwardly lettered banners of the Renew Committee. Maybe only three, all women; and a couple of little girls.
They never wanted to line up against the wall—a discreet couple of yards away from the door—until he actually entered the church; and then if there were six or so of them they’d be frowning at each other as they got up out of the pews and belatedly formed the line. silently but obviously disagreeing about the order in which they’d originally entered the church.
Last week there had been five, counting her. And afterward he had walked back up to the front of the church and stepped up onto the altar level and gone into the sacristy to put on the vestments for 5:30 Mass. Had he been worrying about what she had said? What sins you shall retain, they are retained. Probably he had been worrying about it.
As he opened the confessional door now, he nodded to the old woman who was first in line. The others appeared to be trying to hide behind her—he could see only a drape of skirt and a couple of shoes behind her. He didn’t recognize the old woman.
He stepped into the little room and pulled the door closed behind him. They wouldn’t begin to come in until he turned on the red light over the door, and he needed a drink.
Read the rest there.
