About this Blog

Thursday, 17 August 2017

God's Love

God died for us, Holy Scripture says. You know what that means? He laid down his life for us sinners; died in our place. That’s love. It is a great mystery.

And it was for all of us?

For all of us.

Would He have still have died if it wasn’t for everyone?

How do you mean?

I mean, would He have died for just half of us?

Well, He didn’t have to. He chose to die for us all. Each and every miserable sinner. Me. You. Everyone.

But just say

Yes, yes, He would have died for half of us.

And would God have died for a quarter of us?

I’m certain so. God would have died for a quarter, even an eighth, of the human race, if it meant He would save them and take them up into Heaven to dwell with Him for eternity.

What’s an eighth?

Half a quarter.

How many people would that be?

Oh, the earth’s pretty darn full. Maybe a billion.


God is pretty special huh?


He loves us a whole lot.

Would God love us enough to save just a thousand people?

Just a thousand? Why sure, I don’t see why not. His love isn’t slave to numbers. A soul is a soul.

Would God have died for just one person then?




Doesn’t it matter that He’d have to leave the rest behind?

Of course. Never say that it doesn’t hurt Him to leave a sinner behind, you understand? It would hurt Him a whole lot. But He’d do it, if it meant saving just one.

What if that one person was really really bad? A really bad person.



Yes, I suppose.

He’d die for the worst person who’s ever lived?

Yes, I suppose that’d have to be the case.

God is strange.

His love is so great, kiddo, we can hardly understand it.

Is there anything he wouldn’t die for?

Not a thing. His love is that great.


You can say that again. Wowee.

What if it was only a duck?

What’s that?

Would God have died if He couldn’t have saved anyone but a duck?

A duck?




No, kiddo. I don’t think God would have died for just a duck.

Thursday, 11 May 2017

This is the Village of Beynac

This is the village of Beynac in the southwest of France. Here, everyone has one goat. 

They take care of their goat scrupulously, for they have only one. Some villagers care for their goat to the exclusion of everything else, grooming their goat, feeding it grapes and figs, and sometimes the milk of other goats. Villagers make cheese from their goat and sell it at the market on Saturdays, competing with other sellers who are their neighbours, since everyone in the village has a goat. 

Some goats make better cheese than others. There are a very few goats that produce a cheese their owners can sell for ten times what other villagers can ask for their goats’ cheese, it is that good. This is a very great accomplishment, perhaps the greatest. Above all, a villager prizes what his goat does. For that reason the villagers never go anywhere without their goat. On walks they bring a leash. At church they sit together in the pews. Some sleep with their goat. 

Every new villager must get a goat if they do not have one already, and this involves a ceremony of binding—just a small ceremony, you will see, if only to bind the villager to his goat. For it is a serious thing, owning a goat, caring for a goat. 

When a goat gets sick, you must nurse it. When a goat is healthy, you may show it off, and collect its milk for yoghurt and cheese, and sell it at the market on Saturdays. Your happiness depends on your goat, your sadness too, and a variety of other moods that you will come to know and experience. You are only half of yourself without your goat, and more than your whole self with your goat. Your goat is you; you are your goat. There is nothing that can happen to you that does not happen through your goat; it is everything, it is the answer and it is the question, it is the problem and it is the solution. 

This is the most important day of your life. Are you ready for your goat?

Saturday, 6 May 2017

Eleven Fantasy Novels: Resisting Fantasy’s Pulp Past

This post is for readers of fantasy fiction who, at least now and then, wish for something different from the genre; for readers who might want to escape "genre-ness" itself, without escaping fantasy. 

I have a deep fondness for fantasy fiction. I grew on Robert Jordan, Terry Brooks, Stephen King’s Dark Tower, etc., and one of my greatest experiences reading, ever, were the days spent reading Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus books. But one cannot love something so blindly without, sooner or later, getting hurt. My wound came the day I sat down with Raymond E. Feist’s Magician, which I had just bought in a brilliant gold soft cover edition, and which I was so wanting to like. “A boy's will is the wind's will, / And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,” went the epigraph by Longfellow, and I shivered. Then, after struggling some two hundred pages, I blinked with déjà vu. I put it down. It’s still unfinished today.

Here’s what’s stultifying. Fantasy literature has two lineages: the pulps and the myths. Leaving aside this latter parent, which is broad and ill-defined (we might include anything from folklore to Tolkien to religious texts), what is the legacy of the pulps? Not cover illustrations of bikini-clad spacewomen on the getaway from tentacles, thankfully. The answer, rather, is immediately apparent to anyone coming to genre fiction after exposure to the classics (Marcel Proust, Jane Austen, Henry James...) or even just writers in the upper echelons of the literary mainstream (Annie Dillard, Marilynne Robinson, George Saunders, name whoever): the prose. From the pulps, fantasy inherits an incredibly low bar in regards to the actual craft of writing, which makes comparatively little effort to take up formal or syntactical concerns as more than tools of story but for their own sakes.

This has much to do with the goals of the authors. Ian Fleming, not a fantasy author but at least one of the founding fathers of the spy genre, compared himself with a young litfic author this way: "The target of his books was the head and, to some extent at least, the heart. The target of my books, I said, lay somewhere between the solar plexus and, well, the upper thigh." In other words he's just trying to give his readers a good time. So are a lot of fantasy genre writers. However, for those fantasists wanting to write prose in which the reading pleasure comes, not just from adventure, magic, etc., but from the writing itself, everything hinges on how they cope with, or shake off, this pulp heritage. Yet there are few writers or reviewers who talk about this.

Take China Mieville’s breakout novel, Perdido Street Station. One can read any number of reviews that praise its intense, startling prose. I found the writing so-so at best. Moreover, in this novel Mieville exercises a tween’s imagination: he’s impressed by big guns, “gangster boss” psychology, and weird sex. Whenever there must be violence, it must be the goriest violence; whenever there must be sinister intention, it must be the cackle-gloating sort. One wonders where that far more tasteful, deftly handled noir The City and the City came from, because, at least here, the pulp roots are absolutely breaking through the concrete. 

Or take the more recent secondary-world fantasy by Sofia Samatar, A Stranger in Olondia. The book has been praised specifically for its lavish, sensual prose. Here’s a sample: “His [a guest’s] presence brought an air of excitement that filled the house like light, an air that smelled of festivals, perfume and tediet blossoms, and drew in an endless stream of curious, eager visitors, offering gifts to the stranger: yams baked in sugar, mussels in oil.” But the ornate style masks a mundane heart: this is Samatar’s only literary register. Everything is given this same treatment of the exotic, so that it very quickly becomes a monotone. While reading I wondered, Who could be deceived by this? Well, the novel won the British Fantasy Award for Best Novel for 2014, beating Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I'm open to being swayed, but in my opinion only in a climate still judging by pulp-fiction standards could this happen.

Now here comes M. John Harrison, a self-named “genre contrarian” who wants to poke his head into this echo-chamber. Every genre “needs constantly reminding that it isn't the centre of the world,” he says. How does he propose to do this? By subverting genre conventions. For example, in the Viroconium books he changes around place and character names, destabilising the sense of an existing secondary world. Or in The Course of the Heart, he undermines fantasy’s impulse towards a monological interpretation. He also just writes killer sentences. However, though much literary finesse is demanded by this approach, it is still situated in the genre camp, since it presupposes awareness of those conventions for it to work in the first place. 

What I want to do is suggest a different way one might graciously expose genre-fantasy’s pulp past. This is to look to those books that employ the fantastic, but which do so from outside the genre tradition—isomorphic fantasies, in other words.

It is an untenable differentiation, to be sure, and one made more by feeling than by any exact taxonomical science. Yet I think that it holds enough of its water that we’re not slipping on the ground. By “genre-conventions,” I mean more than tropes (the Dark Lord, the Hero, the deus-ex-machina...); I mean also, and primarily, the matrix of expectations of fantasy fiction which exert hidden pressures on the plot, voice, characterization, etc. I mean, for example, things like the reliance on a “guide” figure or “oracle” in portal fantasy for an authoritative interpretation of the world, and the consequent non-negotiability of history. Farah Mendlesohn explores such conventions in her book, The Rhetorics of Fantasy, and I couldn’t hope to cover them all. Those readers who are interested in enough in fantasy to have made it his far no doubt will have a feel for them and know what I mean.

Eleven Fantasies

Authors in this list are either pre-genre-distinction (in the way that H. G. Wells wasn’t writing “science-fiction” per se) or have worked outside its tradition, rendering the fantastical without leaning on genre conventions. This list isn’t meant to be definitive. It’s meant to offer a few examples of "outsider" fantasy, a “bouquet of suggestions,” if you will, for readers who have been looking for fantasy that operates by different literary rules.

1) Lolly Willowes; or The Loving Huntsman (Sylvia Townsend Warner)

A story about a woman’s search for independence and her unwitting journey into... witchcraft. It was published in 1926, one year after Mrs Dalloway, and has prose to rival that great modernist novel.  

2) The King of Elfland’s Daughter (Lord Dunsany)

One-hundred years ago, Dunsany achieved the kind of heightened rhetoric that fantasy authors only fumble after today. This is a book about longing and about beauty, written by an author who knew what faery was.

3) Grendel (John Gardner)

A sad, energetic, deeply curious narrative told from the perspective of the monster of the Old English poem Beowulf. This is fantasy at its grittiest.

4) Lud-in-the-Mist (Hope Mirrlees)

Another exploration of faery, written by a friend of Virginia Woolf’s. I love the humour, the wit, and the premise: two rivers flow into the town, the Dapple and the Dawl—and on the Dapple forbidden fairy fruit is smuggled in from fairyland, which if eaten will awaken a great longing...

5) The Once and Future King (T. H. White)

A retelling of the Arthurian cycle. Despite its general jocularity of tone, White’s reflective, deeply wise interludes give the work a profound pathos. Arthur’s relationship with Merlin is a delight, and gives the story much of its energy.

6) Hobberdy Dick (Katherine Briggs)

A gem of a book, with the most lovable protagonist of all: a brownie. What’s a brownie? You may know them by the name “house elf,” or hobgoblin. This creature presides over a country manor when a certain Puritan family moves in...

7) Bridge of Birds (Barry Hughart)

A tale of “an ancient China that never was,” told with great warmth and a storyteller's pure delight in event. There is no excess in the prose, and each page has something to make you grin.

8) The Crock of Gold (James Stephens)

“In the center of the pinewood called Coilla Doraca there lived not long ago two philosophers...” So begins this little book of fantasy in the Irish folkloric tradition; its humour and philosophy are beautifully understated through small moments of human connection.

9) Haunting of Hill House (Shirley Jackson)

Watch a group of ghost-hunters in a rambling old mansion go to pieces with all the psychological subtlety and chilling care that characterizes Jackson’s fiction. This book is genuinely scary.

10) Lilith (George MacDonald)

“I am sorry I cannot explain the thing to you,” says the Raven to Mr. Vane at the narrative’s commencement: and I am sorry too. If the reader is able to put up with MacDonald’s inchoate dream imagery, they will be taken for a drug-trip through a kind of purgatory and into deep theology.

11) The Green Child (Herbert Read)

An restless youth strays far from the English countryside into a political revolution, then returns to discover an underground utopia. One critical calls it a “philosophic myth... in the tradition of Plato.” Wonder being both fantasy’s and Plato’s primal category, it is a fitting comparison.

Bonus: Three Poetical Fantasies

12) Prometheus Unbound (Percy Shelley)

This is a four-act lyrical drama. The work of mythopoesis that Shelley accomplishes here is impressive. Most terrifying of all his gods is Demogorgon, who is “Ungazed upon and shapeless; neither limb, / Nor form, nor outline; yet we feel it is / A living Spirit.” Most beautiful are his descriptions of nature in the after-world of Prometheus’s victory.

13) Idylls of the King (Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

King Arthur and his knights again, this time in a series of twelve narrative poems in blank verse. Elegiac and haunting, reaching its most tragic heights in, surprisingly, the section on Sir Balin.  

14) The Faerie Queene (Herbert Spencer)

Lavish Elizabethan poetry recounting the deeds of several knights who each embody a virtue. The story is an allegory—or rather, it gives ideas life. This is what, for example, one hero encounters in dragon Errour’s den: “she lay upon the durtie ground... Of her there bred A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed, Sucking upon her poisnous dugs, eachone Of sundry shapes, yet all ill favored.”


1) I haven’t included short story collections for a number of reasons. First, the form being far freer than the novel, it is also without as traceable a tradition (at least I’m not so expert as to do so). There is also the fact that many authors who are considered “non-genre” have nevertheless made use of the fantastic in their short fiction. For example, E. M. Forster, known primarily for his social novels, has a number of fantastical narratives in his collection The Celestial Omnibus. Truman Capote, Joyce Carol Oates, Italo Calvino, and John Collier, are some more examples.

2) I have avoided listing authors whose work is considered to be in the tradition of “magical realism,” not wanting to claim them for fantasy’s own. Some of these include Jorge Luis Borges, Isabel Allende, Gabriel García Márquez, and Salmon Rushdie. I have used the same principle of non-interference with Absurdism, e.g., Gogol, Gombrowiz, Kafka, and Flann O’Brien.

3) There may be a number of Japanese authors whose use of the fantastic falls well outside genre conventions. I happen to know only a few: Natsume Sōseki, Kōbō Abe, and Haruki Murakami (that latter’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles is among my favorite books). But again, I don't want to claim these as "fantasy."

4) I haven’t included the Inklings in this list (C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien) because they are on every other list.

5) Some books came close to making it and are worth mentioning. They aren’t perfect fits either because in a few (a) there are enough genre conventions present to disqualify them, (b), there isn’t enough fantasy, or (c) I didn’t enjoy or react to them strongly enough to put them on a list. 

A Face in the Frost (John Bellairs)
The Last Unicorn (Peter S. Beagle)
Outlaws of the Marsh/Water Margin (attributed to Shi Nai'an)
Little, Big (John Crowley)
Howl’s Moving Castle (Diana Wynne Jones)
The Wizard Knight and The Book of the New Sun (Gene Wolfe)
The Wood Beyond the World (William Morris)
The Turn of the Screw (Henry James)
Orlando (Virginia Woolf)
A Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde)
The Lives of Elves (Muriel Barbery)
The Worm Ouroboros (E.R. Eddison)
Decent into Hell [or any other novel] (Charles Williams)
Phantastes and Lilith (George MacDonald)
The Buried Giant (Kazuo Ishiguro)
Titus Groan (Mervyn Peake)
The Temptation of St Antony (Gustave Flaubert)
The Sorcerer's Revolt (Luo Guanzhong and Feng Menglong)

Monday, 30 January 2017

Kafka's Prague

I decided to visit Prague this weekend—because it’s only four hours away from Berlin, where I’m living, and because it was Kafka’s home city. I didn’t plan anything, I just booked a room and prepared myself for a weekend of meandering. On the train ride there, it struck me: this spirit of decisiveness, which we know now and again and revel in, was described by Kafka himself in one my favorite of his short vignettes, “The Sudden Walk.” He writes:
When it looks as if you had made up your mind finally to stay at home for the evening, when you have put on your house jacket and sat down after supper with a light on the table to the piece of work or the game that usually precedes your going to bed, when the weather outside is unpleasant so that staying indoors seems natural, and when you have already been sitting quietly at the table for so long that your departure must occasion surprise to everyone, when, besides, the stairs are in darkness and the front door locked, and in spite of all that you have started up in a sudden fit of restlessness, changed your jacket, abruptly dressed yourself for the street, explained that you must go out and with a few curt words of leave-taking actually gone out, banging the flat door more or less hastily according to the degree of displeasure you think you have left behind you, and when you find yourself once more in the street with limbs swinging extra freely in answer to the unexpected liberty you have procured for them, when as a result of this decisive action you feel concentrated within yourself all the potentialities of decisive action, when you recognize with more than usual significance that your strength is greater than your need to accomplish effortlessly the swiftest of changes and to cope with it, when in this frame of mind you go striding down the long streets - then for that evening you have completely got away from your family, which fades into insubstantiality, while you yourself, a firm, boldly drawn black figure, slapping yourself on the thigh, grow to your true stature.                                                                                              All this is still heightened if at such a late hour in the evening you look up a friend to see how he is getting on.
In the German there is a line which seems to bring together the meaning of the story: “wenn man durch diesen einen Entschluss alle Entschlussfähigkeit in sich gesammelt fühlt.” This is the line, “when as a result of this decisive action you feel concentrated within yourself all the potentialities of decisive action,” but the marvel that is lost in English is the word “Entschlussfähigkeit” (which means not the decision but the power that makes the decision) and its juxtaposition with “Entschluss” (decision). In a word-for-word translation we get: “when you through this one decision all the power of decision gathered in you feel.”

Prague's official monument to Franz Kafka.
This is what I love about Kafka—he sees all the little ways in which our freedom is expressed, or trapped.

In Prague, the first thing I did was visit the Kafka museum (despite my resolution not to spend a dime, I couldn’t not go). I was impressed by the exhibition; it gave me a real sense for life in Prague at the time Kafka was writing. His books and letters and diary entries lined the walls, and after a while one began to feel that this peculiar man was nothing but words. He said it himself: “I do not have literary interests, I consist of literature, I am nothing else and cannot be anything else.”

Now, it was always this declaration that made me uneasy about Kafka. After all, isn’t literature supposed to be a way deeper into life? Isn’t it supposed to illuminate things, enhance experience, lift our eyes so that we see life-itselfand not some facsimile? Why does he construct this binary between the two? Surely that’s pathological. 

I left the museum, however, with quite a different sense.

It was the emerging that did it; I came out, and there was the familiar world. Don’t get me wrong; Prague is not familiar in the regular sense of the word. For starters, it’s a city with so many statues, many of them crouching or hunched, that you can’t walk around without feeling like you’re looking over the shoulder of some saddened Saint or other. But though Prague is exotic, it’s a city—and I’ve been to cities before. That’s what I mean. I was in another city, while in the Kafka museum there stood in large white letters on a black wall a fragment from Kafka’s notebook: “Some people came to me and asked me to build a city for them.”

Another monument to Kafka, with moving parts.  
And so I began to wander around Prague, looking at buildings and into shops. I saw St. Charles Bridge. I saw Prague Castle (you know they had the world's only indoor jousting inside?). I found the Café Louvre and had a coffee—another financial capitulation, forgive me, but it was the cafe in which Kafka’s literary circle met regularly. I had a very long and very normal conversation with another tourist who shared my table, the place being so crowded for the very reason I was there. I went out again, tracked down Kafka's old office. I had a sense that freedom lay elsewhere for the moment.

This is the best I can do to describe the feeling: it was the conviction that it’s in language that we are free or not free, that the state of a person will show up somehow in their words, and that language is the way we exercise our souls.

I don’t know whether Kafka felt this, or believed this, but I think he must have. He wrote, “I do not have literary interests, I consist of literature,” and though there may be a little despair, escapism, or discomfort with his body in the statement, there is in it also the very reason why writing was so urgent, so exciting, for him. At the office, Kafka served the bureaucratic state he wrote about in his nightmarish novels; at the writing desk, he did not need to serve anybody. He knew where he could exercise his soul, and it has me thinking—though maybe Kafka would cringe at being so crudely inserted into the political field—that there is at least one clear and easy way to be counter-cultural: read. Exercise yourself in an unusual direction. Imagine differently. Make a metaphor. Comprehend something.

Wednesday, 14 December 2016

The Good Ol’ Days

It’s likely, in this psychologically-literate age, that most people know about the “rosy-retrospection bias, if not by name than by some colloquial equivalent. It is the tendency to remember past events with more fondness than they deserve. For example: I have a memory of playing soccer in the rain with my dad and older brother when I was around seven or eight. I was certainly miserable and cold—but what good times! (To be clear, this is not nostalgia but something more basic; nostalgia, let’s say, is when a person wilfully embraces the rosy-retrospection bias.)

Now, is this only a mis-remembering, or is Father Time trying to teach us an important lesson? Recall a memory—the more distant and the more mundane the better for this experiment. I have recalled a time, some six years ago, when I worked at an IGA supermarket as a shelf-stocker. Every Saturday morning I woke up at 5:50am in order to arrive at work at 6:00am. The same ten pop songs harassed my day, and my lunch break was long enough to read perhaps six or seven half-absorbed pages from a novel. I was miserable. Only, in my memory, I—well, I just am. I don’t feel any of those little ego-caused feelings of impatience, worry, or annoyance that would have typified my moment-by-moment consciousness in those days at IGA.  

Your turn. In your memory, are you vexed, self-conscious, embarrassed? Perhaps you are able to surmise such feelings, but does the memory itself give them to you? Is there, waiting for you in your past, any angst for the future, any self-esteem issues, any regret? Or are you, like me, just there, facing shelves in the supermarket, an ego-less thing gliding through time and collecting experience?

It was in Schopenhauer’s treatise The World as Will and Representation that I first encountered this strange observation. It is, in a sense, the “rosy-retrospection bias” that psychologists have observed, but Schopenhauer thinks about it differently. Our memories, he writes, seem to occur by means of a “will-less perception,” and it is that which “spreads so wonderful a charm over the past”:

“For by our conjuring up in our minds days long past spent in a distant place, it is only the objects recalled by our imagination, not the subject of will, that carried around its incurable sorrows with it just as much then as it does now. But these are forgotten, because since then they have frequently made way for others. Now in what is remembered, objective perception is just as effective as it would be in what is present, if we allowed it to have influence over us, if, free from will, we surrendered ourselves to it. Hence it happens that, especially when we are more than usually disturbed by some want, the sudden recollection of past and distant scenes flits across our minds like a lost paradise. The imagination recalls merely what was objective, not what was individually subjective... We are thus able to produce the illusion that only those objects are present, not we ourselves.”

In other words, memory gives us an idea of what it would be like to exist without will—by which Schopenhauer means that aspect of our subjectivity we call ego. You know ego. It’s that servant of ours who, in his overzealous performance of his duty, leads us not just to keep food in the fridge and watch out for oncoming vehicles, but (alas) to bite our nails over promotions and glance worriedly in mirrors. Schopenhauer’s point is that ego doesn’t live well in memory; the atmosphere is toxic to its kind.

Could it be that Time, by removing our ego from our experiences and leaving these traces we call memories, is giving us a hint at how it is done?

Try another memory. Are you wanting, worrying, wasting time—or are you simply existing? Is your experienced characterized by what is subjective—a desire, say, or distaste, or anger? Or is it characterized by something else, something simpler, something more essential to who you are? Can you feel now, perhaps, that thing you could not feel at the time, that thing that you crave in the present, that thing that is very much like... happiness? And is it possible that this is not a deception, not a mis-remembering, but something in a certain sense actually truer (gasp) than the way you experienced the memory when you were in it?

This is why the metaphysician in me cannot abide the psychologist’s glib “rosy-retrospection bias.” For if something is falsified in memory, something is also clarified. Something is given for our use—a hint, if you will, on how to achieve detachment from petty willing. For isn’t it the case that when we immerse ourselves in times gone by, in our own personal version of what the Romans called the memoria praeteritorum bonorum (The memory of the good pasts), that there is a part of us that wonders: why can’t all of life be like this? To experience life as we experience a memory—that, it seems to me, would be a thing like contentment.

Saturday, 29 October 2016

In the Tiergarten, Late October

Above the falling leaves stands
the angel of victory: something
great has been conquered
for the walkers in the park.

All is equal to my desire;
the trees ache with the color
of my heart. The ghosts of all
past summer suns are here, haunting;

here a chill wind blows just so
to sweeten the loneliness;
and here, like a warm body through
a curtain, I can feel my secret—

the one we have by existing and hide
in our existence, where it is safe
from every mind, angel’s or mine,
because it cannot be whispered.

Thursday, 6 October 2016

A Creation Story

God made a person. Also, God made a cave, because he needed something in which to set the person.
        “I hate it here,” said the person. “I want to go out there.”
        God wondered at these first words of his creation. “You wouldn’t like it out there,” said God.
       “Still, I want to.”
So God took him outside of the cave.
“But,” stammered the man, “it’s just like the cave. Only more so. How can I live here? There’s nothing.”
And so God said, “I suppose you are right. How about I make another of your kind. You can play games together, and things.”
“Ok,” said the person.
And God set beside the first person a second person, and the two recognized each other as man and woman.
The second—whether it was the man or the woman does not matter—said, “You have given my partner a gift; now what gift will you give me, oh God?”
“Well, I suppose it is only fair,” said God.
“Please give me a child, so that we may be a family.”
This God granted. The child, however, saw that he too was entitled to a gift and, not one to be cheated, said, “Please, God, I would like a stick.”
“A stick?” said God.
“Yeah, something long to whack things with.”
“Ok,” said God. “I suppose I’ll need first to make—”
“Yes, something that produces sticks,” said the child.
And so God made a tree.
“You too?” said God, for the tree was giving him a considering look. The tree wished for something to caress him by day and night, and so God made wind. Wind wanted something to sculpt and mold, so God made clouds, and when clouds submitted the tricky request for something to do—well, God was busy for days making all sorts of plants for them to water. These wanted what in essence was best approximated by sunlight, and the sun wanted companions (but of a smaller sort so as he could remain superior), and so on and so on until somehow in all this, something—no one knows what, and it was right to keep itself hidden—made a problematic demand, and God had to pause. “Well,” he said, “I am a Just God and I suppose I can’t stop now”—and he made mosquitoes. That, perhaps, was the moment God truly committed to the project and no longer worried himself over what strange thing he had set in motion. Soon cats were wishing for mice and mice for cheese and cheese for only God knows what, and the world began to look very much as it does today.
         But they say—and who knows?—that the wishing must still be going on somewhere, in some peculiar corner of the universe for which we have no conception. If so, we at least know this about it: God, vexed beyond measure, is giving gifts.