Thais [Paperback]

Easy-to-read yet artful novel in the traditions of Thomas Love Peacock, Dr. Johnson (Rasselas, especially) and Francois Rabelais. The story is about religious follies in the early days of Christendom, but has plenty of relevancy to our time. France was witty and relentless when it came to superstition, hypocrisy and religious megalomania but he had tremendous sympathy for humanity's spiritual yearning and the plight of the characters. I found an old copy printed in the 20's. Somebody needs to bring this fine book, and other works of Anatole France, back in print. Updated translations will help as well.

This book tells the tragic story of Paphnutius, a self-righteous monk who temporarily abandons his isolated desert life to save a famous courtesan and actress, Thais, from a life of sin. As the rescue of Thais unfolds it becomes clear that the main drive of Paphnutius is not virtue but, greatest sin of all, his own vanity. Thais is his trophy for God. A witness to his own spiritual breakdown, he tries more and more extravagant acts of penitence that, to his despair, deepen his moral crisis. Ultimately his efforts are condemned by Paul, the saintly fool, as nothing more than Pride, Lust and Doubt.

The moral message, about the dangers of self-righteousness, is clear and well delivered. Some consider the book anti-religious or anti-christian. It obviously isn't either. What it criticizes is the danger to have one's common sense blinded by religious zeal in a way which ends up being ultimately self-defeating.

The spiritually confused Paphnutius is portraid kindly by Anatole France, which makes his tragedy even more poignant. One cannot but sympathise with his intense, yet misguided, efforts.

Anatole France is best known as a satirist, including such pointed goofiness as his "Penguin Island." This story lacks the overt humor of PI, but lacks none of its thrust.

The story itself is simple enough. Paphnutius, an ascetic hermit, lives a desert life of fasting, flagellation, and isolation in the name of his God of Love. He recalls the dissipations of his mundane life before donning the sack-cloth, most especially his dissipations with seductress Thaïs. In a twisted infatuation, he determines to become the pander who will deliver her body and spirit to the exclusive service of that god, "for her own good" of course. France's story allows Thaïs a relatively gentle passing from this plane. Paphnutius, however suffers the agonies in himself of all the contradiction that he imposed onto those around him, without ever discovering the source of his self-inflicted injury.

As with a dinner of many courses, France's writing delivers its substance in the main dishes but its piquancy in the little bits on the sides. He introduces a minor character to baffle the self-righteous Paphnutius, an anchorite who practices austerities like his own but not for a god like his own - a neat jab at religious extremists who can't understand that they don't have a monopoly on morality. He also introduces the effete philosopher who reads about morality, when no other entertainment presents itself. Then he offers us Thaïs herself. She beguiles men's minds on stage, and amasses a fortune of love-offerings in her harlotry. But she returns good value for value given, and those who have lost the most to her seem to think it a fair trade. France may not propose any clear code of upright behavior, but he's energetic in tweaking the bluenoses who claim to have all the answers.

Despite being a century old or more, this has a lot to say about today's religious loudmouths, the ones who live in the black-and-white world of obedience or opposition. France doesn't single them out, though. He also sees and describes lots of others, both the elevated and the debased. Without providing any clear answers or even clear questions, he offers an interesting and contrasting set of case studies. The interaction of those characters is their comparison, and France leaves any conclusion to the reader. Which, of course, is where it belongs.

//wiredweird

PS: I'm reviewing a different edition of this book than the ISBN on this page would indicate. This is a 1920s or 1930s volume from the "Illustrated Editions Company" with no attribution for the translator. It's a beautiful object, though, with rough-cut and un-cut pages, archaic illustration, and paper so thick and soft that it makes me think of flannel sheets. If I find a product listing for this specific edition, I'll move my review there.

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