A Good Read -- If You Can Stomach It

This is not a good book for those with "orthodox" tastes in their LDS literature. You will find all sorts of seedy, reprehensible behavior, virtually every cuss word imaginable, (except I don't remember seeing f--- anywhere), and a depiction of Christ which is, shall we say, very unusual. If you like your LDS literature Weyland-squeaky clean, avoid this book.

For all the rest of you, you're in for a ride. Frank Windham is an LDS member by heritage, but is still trying to figure out if he is by conviction. He doesn't know he's trying to figure that out -- he never actually questions the truthfulness of the Gospel. But his notions of what the Gospel teach are so cockeyed that, as he alternately struggles to live what he believes and reject living it as a defiant act toward God, he is deep down trying to learn what the Gospel really teaches and whether he has a testimony that living it brings happiness. His struggle is an edgy journey for the reader, a bizarre hybrid of slow-going rural life in 1950's Utah and a dizzying romp from one strange character and event to another.

This book is the LDS answer to Catch-22, where every character is just a little bit crazy, and no matter what the protagonist does he can never win. Frank tries to reject God while striving to please him, tries to live righteously while following some of the most evil and destructive interpretations of Gospel principles around. He's not helped by family, church members, or friends that surround him, who neither comprehend Frank's struggle nor offer saner interpretations themselves.

In fact, Peterson's depiction of LDS members makes one uneasy. The world he paints is vivid and lifelike, filled with marvelous detail and mood. But is he really trying to say that LDS members are like that? Is this supposed to be a true portrait of rural members, or Utah members, or 1950's members, or some combination? Having grown up in California and Minnesota, I can't judge. But one hopes dearly it is not.

Yet in spite of the edginess, the uneasiness, you feels as you reads, the pages engross you. Peterson's style is an odd mixture of graphic reality and surprising coyness. You are drawn into this world and captured, and when you turn the last page, you feel a sense of loss knowing your journey there is done. There is a strange glow of truth shining between the mucky, common words, and you feel that something profound has occurred.

Frank becomes married to a Lutheran girl, Marianne. Neither of them love one another. He has done a cruel, selfish thing to her and she hates him. Their struggles in marriage parallel Frank's struggles in righteous living, and are as haunted by his tragic misunderstandings. The reader both hates Frank and hopes for him, both cringes at his behavior and craves his redemption. If only you could could grab him by the collar and explain life to him for just ten minutes! The real tragedy is that no one ever does.

Frank's warped understanding of God comes through forcefully in this excerpt:

     He carried the Scriptures in the glove compartment, and every day at lunchtime he read from the Book of Mormon, sitting in the bright sun with his back to a truck wheel for protection against the cold north wind. He could see he had a bad spirit because he didn't like Nephi, who was the humblest man on earth. Nephi certainly didn't mind telling off his brothers Laman and Lemuel what low class skunks they were. He had considerable trouble keeping those fellows under control, though once in a while God gave him a hand by sending an angel to shake them up. That didn't seem to change them any. They went on helling around and scoffing at Father Lehi and thinking up dirty tricks to play on Nephi.
     Frank was lower than a snake. He didn't know whether he wanted to go on living. It gave him the sweats thinking how God harvested people when and where he pleased. People thought they should earn some credit by being good, by keeping the commandments. They thought they could buy a little more joy and a little more time to live. When it suited him, God dumped them, good or bad, into his mill and ground them into chaff. He hadn't sent an angel to warn Frank, as he had to Laman and Lemuel. He had wasted Jeremy.

Frank's chance for redemption comes in a scene that makes the hair on your neck prickle, as if you need to look behind you to make sure the Bishop isn't seeing you read this. But it comes in a form that is so right for Frank. You sense that no other form could speak to the poor fellow, and you wait with breath held to see if Frank will hear the message. You long for him to hear and to understand:

     Prickly pear and bunch grass grew in the sandy soil; blue-green junipers crowded close. He heard the soft plod of a horse's feet. Beneath the juniper boughs he saw a horse's legs. The animal emerged, a shiny roan mounted by a rider. The cowboy had a beard and he wore boots, ancient chaps, a denim shirt, a creased, sweat-stained Stetson. Touching spurs lightly to his mount, he reined toward Frank. Coming close, he halted and lifted a hand. It was Jesus, his face as kind as an August dawn.
     "You're lost," he said.
     Ashamed, Frank cast his eyes downward, "I expect I am."
     "You are feeling awful bad."
     "It's not much of anything."
     "It isn't any bother. Hearing your griefs is my business. Go ahead and tell me."
     The rider pushed back his Stetson and cocked a leg over the saddlehorn. The roan blinked sleepy eyes and swished his tail.
     "My grandmother lost four babies and went crazy in the sanhills," Frank said.
     "I'm sorry about that."
     "My little sister Elizabeth died and my mother can't get over it."
     "I know," Jesus said. "Your family is a sad one."
     "My dad died when I was ten."
     "That's tough," Jesus agreed . . .
     "I hate to say this. The worst thing is, I hate God."
     The rider raised his eyebrows but he didn't speak.

In his Irreantum interview, Peterson says that inactive members have approached him with tears in their eyes because reading The Backslider brought about their own redemption. It's the most powerful witness one could have for the need of such literature, which may not quite qualify even for Benson Parkinson's middle category, let alone Deseret Book goodness, because of its edgy nature. But not everyone is smack in the middle of the Gospel, living wholesome, happy lives. There are those struggling in the dark who need books such as Backslider to speak to them, like Frank, in a form they can hear. Like Frank, they need someone to grab them by the collar and expain life to them in their own language. And the rest of us are welcome to eavesdrop, because we have a lot to learn ourselves.

--
D. Michael Martindale
dmichael@wwno.com
Worlds Without Number
http://www.wwno.com