An Infinite Line of Humanity Uncomfortable With Itself

In the spirit of inhabiting the spirit of the age I thought I might go see Wonder Woman after all. Being in the position of hating all movies, but most of all hating movies that have anything to do with books, but also having no emotional attachment whatsoever to Wonder Woman, and also being married to a man who loves to go see movies, this might be a decent compromise. I am Never going to click on Anne with a Stupid E, but Wonder Woman? Sure, whatevs.

So I think I figured out what’s wrong with humanity. And I thought I would share it with you because you’d probably be helped by this important little grand unified theory of everything.

Ready?

Jesus is the only fully inhabited page

Truly. People and books. It’s that they’re so close. Part of being human is that one constantly stretches out and reaches for some fullness of person. We inhabit our own selves so badly, the body and soul living so uncomfortably together, that the usual way of being human is the seamless trading of one character for another, a trying on of one character or person after another, of illustrating oneself to oneself, relentlessly. Just around the corner, over that other hill, through just one more valley, just past that shadow, in the valley past the millions and billions of cats, through Mirkwood, and Violet Vale, having paused for a cup of Ovaltine, because these kinds of difficulties are so often eased by hot milky drinks, just over there you will find that perfectly described, perfectly imagined perfection that you know would make you perfectly happy.

Like for me, if I could have just written as perfectly as Barbara Pym, I would have been perfectly happy.

When Matt was trying to understand why I couldn’t possibly watch the new Anne, I pointed my finger at him, in bitterness, and said something like, ‘The trouble is that Anne is real. She is alive. She is herself. She is a fully orbed perfect creature inhabiting that page. Anything you do to bring her off the page will destroy her.’

Whereas Wonder Woman? Whatevs. Make all the movies you want.

Making movies is just like transgenderism. You see there on the page what you think must be perfect. The person inhabits your mind in its ideal form. But then you try to rip it off the page and bring it to life in yourself, and you can’t. Because you are a hazy badly embodied person, and the ideal can’t come alive. Transgenderism must be just some ordinary point on the infinite line of humanity uncomfortable with itself.

It’s what makes the Bible, truly, such an extraordinary reversal of our condition. The Word, after thousands of years of words describing people living badly within themselves, steps off the page and perfectly embodies not only his own soul, but the totality of the book. He doesn’t have to bring himself about because he already
Is. He doesn’t have to approximate some form, because the form comes from him. He doesn’t have to rough out a sketch and try to make it vibrant or alive or anything, the perfection of the ideal is alive, comfortably, in himself. So far from being destroyed by the translation from word to picture, the thing that we all seek after in ourselves was effortlessly brought to life.

Even then we can’t see him. We look at the page and then make a movie. And those movies are the pinnacle of getting it wrong every time.