A Book review of: Saint Francis of Assisi by G.K.Chesterton

Introduction

Good stories never suffer from repetition, particularly when the storyteller is a skilled one and the story itself still pushes the edges of understanding.

From the moment of his death and canonization two years later, the saga of Francis of Assisi (1181-1226) has been retold and reshaped. Artists, writers, architects, poets, musicians, all have vied for their turn, from Giotto and Bonaventure to Kazantzakis and Messiaen. Each new storyteller has discovered in the poor man of Assisi some facet yet to be explored, a quantum calling for their artistry.

G.K. Chesterton's Saint Francis, first published in 1923 and happily reissued again by Image, is a classic in miniature. Superbly written, it tells us as much about Chesterton as it does about Francis Bernardone. Chesterton, a master of paradox, meets Francis, the master paradox: the one who is poorest is richest; the one who suffers Christ's Passion returns rejoicing. Chesterton's essay is quick but satisfying. It both bends one's mind and challenges one's conventions. In a few short sentences, for example, Chesterton conveys the sense of a century--its air, its texture, its fissures. Dexterously criticizing what he sees as the fateful aspects of the Franciscan project--its anarchism, for example--Chesterton nonetheless reaffirms its achievements. The Franciscan revolution, he concludes, was a necessary "spiritual earthquake."

Valerie Martin's "scenes from the life of Saint Francis" is a bright, engaging pasticcio, based on a conceit. For some years a resident of Italy, the American novelist (a non-Catholic, she makes clear at the start) found herself intrigued by the episodes of Francis's life depicted in the murals she discovered in fabled Italian churches. This introduction eventually led to a deeper interest in the saint's life and to a desire to animate what she had discovered. (Stein 96)

The Author's Thesis

Martin's writing strategy has something in common with the Ignatian method of meditation. She stares intensely at a scene, immersing herself in it fully, and suddenly she and the whole thing take flight. With the tools and confidence of a novelist, she follows willingly where her characters lead--and Francis is surrounded by memorable characters. More often than not, Martin manages to land sure-footedly but still sprinting.

Her technique might also be compared to an artist's flip-through animation book. With a twist of the thumb, fingers, and wrist, the initial static frame launches into motion. For an all-too-brief moment, the whole sketch pad is flung into a dance, its characters gesturing individually and communally. Then, just as abruptly, the scene stops. We are left with a somewhat melancholy feeling that for an instant we had been privileged to witness a different moment and type of time, to see the inanimate and two-dimensional come alive, and to enjoy the exquisitely cast period costumes and actors' perfectly drawn motions. Martin also has a facility for conveying color. She has heard the insects of Umbria and breathed its dust.

There are three difficulties with Martin's writing tack, which she nevertheless surmounts. First, Francis is too large a figure to ...