Buechner's Magic Kingdom

The Eyes of the Heart is the fourth and final in a series of memoirs by Frederick Buechner in which I was strung along on an unexpectedly tumultuous journey through moments of laughter, tears, discomfort, uncertainty, and resonance.   

In this book, Buechner's library - charmingly known as the Magic Kingdom - is full of books (of course), curated objects, and mementos, which serve as the springboard for his actual and imaginary conversations with family and friends.  It's a unique way of remembering and, I confess, at times I was confused about which conversations were actual memories and which were conceived in his consciousness as a means of calling someone back to life and memory.  Both effectively brought his characters into my view where - though often tragic - they were treated with gentle dignity.      

The library almost functions as a "character" as it comes to life through his vivid descriptions.  In the following passage, he comments on the current silence of it's many inhabitants (Chesterton, Hopkins, Carroll, Gandhi, Donne, Shakespeare, Dostoyevski, etc), asking questions that hit home with me. 

"The air of the Magic Kingdom is electric with the silence they are keeping.  What would I have been if I had never heard them break it?  What would I have failed to see if they had not pointed it out to me, and what would I have never heard without their ears to hear it through?  What would I have missed loving without them to show me its loveliness?  What marvelous jokes would have been lost on me?  What tears would I have never found the heart to shed?  And yet no less a gift is the mercy now of their keeping still...and the whole room holding its breath.  They are there for when I need them, but in the meanwhile, there is not a word out of any of them." 

For anyone who hasn't read Buechner previously, I probably wouldn't recommend this as a starting point.  Some of his musings might feel more unsettling without a broader context of his work.  Consider starting with The Hungering Dark or Telling the Truth as a gateway to his writings. 

The Hungering Dark

When I grabbed this book from the shelf and added it to my beach pile, I noticed it was bookmarked where I had stopped reading it previously, and wondered why I didn't finish as I'm usually committed to doing so.

Today when I picked it up and glanced through my underlinings in the first half, I remembered why.  It had been too much for me to take in at once.  It would have been gluttonous to keep devouring Buechner's words when I was sated and couldn't actually absorb any more.  There was nothing to be gained from continuing.  

I had the appetite to finish it today.  Buechner puts words to thoughts I have felt, but have been unable to articulate.  The way he sees, processes, evaluates, and speaks into the world resonates deeply with me.  I commend his meditative writings to you.  (I specify his meditative writings because I have not yet read his novels, but hope to do so before too long.  Per my friend Serena's recommendation, I'll likely begin with The Return of Ansel Gibbs.)  

For your enjoyment, a brief passage from The Hungering Dark: Pontifex

"'No man is an island,' wrote Dr. Donne...'for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee.'  ...any man's death reminds us of our common destiny...our lives are linked together.  But there is another truth...that every man IS an island.  We sit in silence with one another, each of us reluctant to speak, for fear that he may sound like a fool. And beneath that  there is of course the deeper fear...that maybe the truth of it is that indeed he is a fool.  So either we do not speak, or we speak not to reveal who we are, but to CONCEAL who we are.  Instead of showing ourselves as we truly are, we show ourselves as we believe others want us to be.  We wear masks, and with practice we do it better and better, and they serve us well--except that it gets very lonely inside the mask, because inside the mask there is a person who both longs to be known and fears to be known.  In this sense every man IS an island separated from every other man by fathoms of distrust and duplicity.  

"We need each other greatly, you and I, more than much of the time we dare to imagine, more than most of the time we dare to admit.  Island calls to island across the silence and once, in trust , the real words come, a bridge is built and love is done - not sentimental, emotional love, but love that is pontifex: bridge-builder.  The islands become an archipelago, a continent, a kingdom whose name is the Kingdom of God."