Andrew Klavan’s new book arrived in my inbox with providential timing. Only a few hours before I started perusing The Kingdom of Cain: Finding God in the Literature of Darkness, I’d signed a publishing contract for my first novel — a story of murder, prostitution, and the many debased things that fallen man is willing to do in pursuit of his ambitions.
But a tiny part of me blushed at the plot I was preparing to put down on paper — what would compel a Christian, a self-professed church lady no less, to tell such a sordid tale? What compels other Christians to read them? Klavan, as might be expected from an award-winning crime writer and very public Christ-follower, has long been thinking about such questions and now provides an answer.
“We should look at the question from the other direction,” Klavan says, “what good does it do anybody to write about the world as it’s not?” And the world, as he details through the true stories of three notorious killers — including history’s first killer — can be a very dark place. Portraying that darkness accurately in our art, Klavan contends, is one way we can better recognize and appreciate the light.
As one endorser of The Kingdom of Cain said, the book is part meditation and part memoir. I’d add, it’s also part apologia, as Klavan makes an argument for the ultimate triumph of not just a generic goodness but a Christian goodness. Evil, he argues, in the tradition of C.S. Lewis’ The Problem of Pain, is the unwelcome guest to the original state of creation, which, as we know from Genesis, was very good.
“The shall-nots of the Ten Commandments are not restrictions on our true selves,” writes Klavan, “They are a guide to clearing the path to our original nature so we can become who we truly are.” Another way to say it is that the world began with a moral order, and what goes against that order is the intruder. Klavan explains why this reality should inform the work of any Christian artist seeking to write words that ring true. “I will write about absolutely horrific things,” he says, “but always in the moral world.”
What does writing dark works in the moral world look like? He shows us.
While analyzing the great fictional works his three case studies inspired, Klavan’s insights give new relish to film classics, offering fresh revelations about their appeal to audiences. One of his chapters on 1950s cross-dressing serial killer Ed Gein dissects how he is reimagined in the film Psycho. Unlike the novel it was based on, the movie recognizes not just the psychological brokenness of its villain, but his spiritual deformity. What the Catholic Hitchcock “understood in his bones,” Klavan writes, “is that there is a tension between the things of the spirit and the things of the flesh.”
And so, the great director played up that tension, bringing about his female lead’s murder right as she is in a moment of redemption, preparing to make amends for stealing $40,000 from her employer. This elevates the story from simple scare fest to tragedy.
“[Lead female character Marion’s] work in the film is the work of the spirit,” Klavan writes. Through her death, Hitchcock picked up on an aspect of Gein’s history that Psycho’s initial author didn’t — “the struggle to reconcile religion with eroticism is real.” This is something Hitchcock subtly points to by having Norman Bates use a biblical painting of Susanna and the Elders, which depicts two spiritual leaders trying to sexually exploit a woman as she is bathing, as a peephole to spy on Marion undressing for the shower.
From the Book of Daniel to the Bates Motel — the baser impulses of men will ever be a threat to women.
Other works inspired by the Gein case, like The Silence of the Lambs, compel because they not only tell us truthfully of the violence associated with perverted sexual desire, they also mock the idea that the explanations for such violence will be provided by psychiatry rather than religion. Hannibal Lecter is simply the face of unapologetic evil — like the icy Nietzscheans Leopold and Loeb (whose story Klavan also details), there is no Freudian concept that will restrain his malevolence. He would have to become an entirely new creature for that, a magic that only Christianity can work.
The book is full of similar, worthy insights, particularly when it comes to works inspired by the story of Cain. It is clear that for Klavan, there is no joy like the joy of accurately representing the human experience, and humanity is sinful. You cannot tell compelling stories while hiding reality, something the Bible’s authors apparently knew very well, given the horrors that fill Scripture’s pages from incest, to gang rapes, to, well, crucifixion.
Too often, Christians forget the “true” part of the Apostle Paul’s admonition to think about: “whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable.” Truth is sometimes ugly, but all truth is God’s truth, Klavan tells me, and will reflect God’s moral order. “Every honest story, every true story, has God,” he says
“Whether you believe or not, if you tell a true story, if you tell the truth about life, God will be there.”
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[[{“value”:”
Andrew Klavan’s new book arrived in my inbox with providential timing. Only a few hours before I started perusing The Kingdom of Cain: Finding God in the Literature of Darkness, I’d signed a publishing contract for my first novel — a story of murder, prostitution, and the many debased things that fallen man is willing to do in pursuit of his ambitions.
But a tiny part of me blushed at the plot I was preparing to put down on paper — what would compel a Christian, a self-professed church lady no less, to tell such a sordid tale? What compels other Christians to read them? Klavan, as might be expected from an award-winning crime writer and very public Christ-follower, has long been thinking about such questions and now provides an answer.
“We should look at the question from the other direction,” Klavan says, “what good does it do anybody to write about the world as it’s not?” And the world, as he details through the true stories of three notorious killers — including history’s first killer — can be a very dark place. Portraying that darkness accurately in our art, Klavan contends, is one way we can better recognize and appreciate the light.
As one endorser of The Kingdom of Cain said, the book is part meditation and part memoir. I’d add, it’s also part apologia, as Klavan makes an argument for the ultimate triumph of not just a generic goodness but a Christian goodness. Evil, he argues, in the tradition of C.S. Lewis’ The Problem of Pain, is the unwelcome guest to the original state of creation, which, as we know from Genesis, was very good.
“The shall-nots of the Ten Commandments are not restrictions on our true selves,” writes Klavan, “They are a guide to clearing the path to our original nature so we can become who we truly are.” Another way to say it is that the world began with a moral order, and what goes against that order is the intruder. Klavan explains why this reality should inform the work of any Christian artist seeking to write words that ring true. “I will write about absolutely horrific things,” he says, “but always in the moral world.”
What does writing dark works in the moral world look like? He shows us.
While analyzing the great fictional works his three case studies inspired, Klavan’s insights give new relish to film classics, offering fresh revelations about their appeal to audiences. One of his chapters on 1950s cross-dressing serial killer Ed Gein dissects how he is reimagined in the film Psycho. Unlike the novel it was based on, the movie recognizes not just the psychological brokenness of its villain, but his spiritual deformity. What the Catholic Hitchcock “understood in his bones,” Klavan writes, “is that there is a tension between the things of the spirit and the things of the flesh.”
And so, the great director played up that tension, bringing about his female lead’s murder right as she is in a moment of redemption, preparing to make amends for stealing $40,000 from her employer. This elevates the story from simple scare fest to tragedy.
“[Lead female character Marion’s] work in the film is the work of the spirit,” Klavan writes. Through her death, Hitchcock picked up on an aspect of Gein’s history that Psycho’s initial author didn’t — “the struggle to reconcile religion with eroticism is real.” This is something Hitchcock subtly points to by having Norman Bates use a biblical painting of Susanna and the Elders, which depicts two spiritual leaders trying to sexually exploit a woman as she is bathing, as a peephole to spy on Marion undressing for the shower.
From the Book of Daniel to the Bates Motel — the baser impulses of men will ever be a threat to women.
Other works inspired by the Gein case, like The Silence of the Lambs, compel because they not only tell us truthfully of the violence associated with perverted sexual desire, they also mock the idea that the explanations for such violence will be provided by psychiatry rather than religion. Hannibal Lecter is simply the face of unapologetic evil — like the icy Nietzscheans Leopold and Loeb (whose story Klavan also details), there is no Freudian concept that will restrain his malevolence. He would have to become an entirely new creature for that, a magic that only Christianity can work.
The book is full of similar, worthy insights, particularly when it comes to works inspired by the story of Cain. It is clear that for Klavan, there is no joy like the joy of accurately representing the human experience, and humanity is sinful. You cannot tell compelling stories while hiding reality, something the Bible’s authors apparently knew very well, given the horrors that fill Scripture’s pages from incest, to gang rapes, to, well, crucifixion.
Too often, Christians forget the “true” part of the Apostle Paul’s admonition to think about: “whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable.” Truth is sometimes ugly, but all truth is God’s truth, Klavan tells me, and will reflect God’s moral order. “Every honest story, every true story, has God,” he says
“Whether you believe or not, if you tell a true story, if you tell the truth about life, God will be there.”
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