Reads of the year for living in modernity

Among my chief interests as a historian has been the place of human beings—and especially religiously-convicted human beings—in “modernity.” Whatever that is. I’ll eschew the problem of definition, as well as the niceties of whether “multiple modernities” exist simultaneously; whether to distinguish “liquid” from “solid” modernity; whether we’re actually in “postmodernity” now; whether the “early modern” period is really modern and when the, uh, “just plain modern” period starts; and whether it might be useful to focus on how we’ve moved beyond “Old Regime” and “Mobilization” forms of modernity and are firmly seated in the age of “Expressive Individualism.”

Having named-dropped enough theories of modernity (oops, I forgot “disenchantment” and “hyperpluralism”!) to demonstrate my street cred, I’ll proceed with an eclectic account of some of my favorite reads this past year, all of which might help us to understand past people’s modern lives or to live out our own.

To Kidnap a Pope: Napoleon and Pius VII, by Ambrogio Caiani

I regularly teach a course on the French Revolution and Napoleon, and some of my students could eventually answer on cue “To Kidnap a Pope!” when I asked them “What book do you think I’ll recommend to learn more about that?” The striking title undersells the book’s scope, for, while it starts in medias res with the 1809 abduction of Pius VII on Napoleon’s orders, it covers the entire relationship of the emperor and the pontiff, and then some. Following a helpful one-chapter précis on Catholicism in France’s first revolutionary decade, Caiani proceeds with accounts both gripping and nuanced of such matters as the papal conclave in Venetian exile, the negotiation of the Concordat of 1801, Napoleon’s coronation and his secret convalidating Catholic wedding to Josephine just before it, French annexation of papal territory, Napoleon’s annulment with Josephine and wedding to Marie Louise, Napoleon’s attitude toward Catholicism as distinguished from that of true secularists of later periods, and so on.

Among the book’s most fascinating minor characters is Étienne-Alexandre Bernier, non-juring parish priest; “effectively the prime minister, or civilian governor, of all areas controlled by the rebel [Catholic] warlords” of the west of France for about a decade; and a key broker of rapprochement between the Church and the early Bonapartist consular regime. “Unjustly neglected by history,” Caiani notes, Bernier is part of a bigger neglected story of ongoing resistance to the Republic after the devastating defeat of the Vendée Rebellion during the winter of 1793-1794.

Other members of the book’s supporting cast include Josephine, the “Black Cardinals,” and Napoleon’s (often-not-subservient) uncle, Cardinal Fesch. More broadly: “With Pius a prisoner a clandestine network of ecclesiastical resistance bitterly fought against the French occupiers.”

My favorite nugget from the book—rooted in my obsession with the concept of vocation and my commitment as a Benedictine oblate—might be Caiani’s highlighting of Pius’s firmly monastic background and character, atypical of modern popes, as part of the secret sauce that enabled him long to endure (even to enjoy) enforced isolation and the deprivation of the papal court’s luxuries.

Bernier, Josephine, Pius, Fesch, Napoleon, Marie Louise, not to mention millions of ordinary Catholics in the French Empire and its client states—all these illustrate the fraught engagement of Catholics with modernity, as manifested in the dynamism of the revolutionary era.

The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self: Cultural Amnesia, Expressive Individualism, and the Road to Sexual Revolution, by Carl R. Trueman (or, really, 3 books by Carl Trueman)

I’m a bit late to the party in attending to Trueman, but, as a glutton for theories of modernity (see above), I was enchanted by his explication and integration of the diagnoses of such theorists as Philip Rieff, Charles Taylor, and Alasdair MacIntyre. While I’m interested in Trueman’s specific arguments about the sexualization of culture and politics, I value even more the book’s contextualization of those questions, through his attention to a variety of intellectual movers (e.g., Descartes, Nietzsche, and the Frankfurt School) and other cultural phenomena. Rise and Triumph is a great entry point into the last two and more centuries of cultural, intellectual, and political change. At present, I’m breezing through Trueman’s simplified account of the same basic material, Strange New World, deciding whether to assign it to my Modern Western Civ. students next semester. Again, my teaching interest is not primarily in his framing questions about present-day sexual politics, but in his analysis of broader shifts that have made the air we all breathe. I’m finding, however, that the smaller book lacks some of best aspects of Rise and Triumph, such as its succinct overview on the New Left.

These books are marketed mainly to conservative-leaning readers, and therefore others might miss Trueman’s nuanced, politically nonpartisan arguments. In any event, he does a fine job helping such conservatives more sympathetically understand the views of those who, for example, believe that opposition to gay marriage or transgenderism could only stem from “animus” or “bigotry.”

Bonus recommendation: Trueman’s Histories and Fallacies, another favorite read of the year. His one-chapter account of Holocaust denial and distortion shows that they are indefensible on reasonable standards of historical argument—not merely because they are tasteless, or unethical, or associated with dangerous fringe movements, though all three of those things are also true. He uses this example to show that the debatability of many historical questions does not mean that all arguments are serious or remotely plausible. This chapter grounds his further exploration of our modes of reasoning about the past, why they matter, and how they easily go astray. His accounts of “anachronism” and “unfalsifiability” require greater attentiveness, but he patiently guides the reader through some extended examples. The last chapter on how to become a good historian (professional or otherwise) is full of sage practical advice. I’m not sure why this surprised me, but he convinced me that better historical thinking comes largely by accumulation. Reading a lot of good historical writing expands your vision of what human beings have done, of the complexity of human actions and motivations, and of the ways we can draw reasonable conclusions about the past from our imperfect evidence.

Exogenesis, by Peco Gaskovski

I could barely put down this novel and finished it in two evenings. A dystopian majority culture, the megalopolis of Lantua (running from New England and parts of the Mid-Atlantic into the Midwest), bathes in technology that differs from ours mostly in quantity and success rate: drones and self-driving cars are omnipresent, cameras are only barely more omnipresent, data collection and analysis is quicker and more sophisticated. But the core technologies around which the novel revolves are social and reproductive. “Soft totalitarianism” and “surveillance capitalism” are expressed in a tiered social credit system. Reproduction occurs in artificial wombs, with a semblance of family life intact, since the sperm-and-egg donating “guardians” are typically romantic couples who agree to stay together at least until the maturity of their one alloted child (chosen from among several dozen candidate embryos, the rest of whom are systematically killed). The main character and her partner start the novel in tension over their imminent “choosing.”

To the north of Lantua (in Canada and in some of the northmost reaches of the present United States) lies Benedite territory, in varying degrees of subordination to Lantua. The Benedites, modeled loosely on the Old Order Amish, are a spectrum of Christian groups who, in the face of societal collapse many generations before, embraced a caricature of the so-called Benedict Option. Although Benedites are portrayed sympathetically vis-à-vis Lantuan incomprehension and persecution, we also see the flaws in their patriarchal, tradition-bound, obediential society. For example, we find that a sympathetic same-sex attracted character, having faced violent bullying in his youth from fellow Benedites, had fled to the city, abandoned faith, and become a field officer in the mandatory sterilization program imposed by Lantuans on Benedites. While Benedite culture has staying power, many of their young rebel, either fleeing to the city or living as secret libertines (a lifestyle made easier by forced sterilization).

None of Gaskovski’s (fairly efficient) world-building would matter if this weren’t a great story. Despite its hefty philosophical underpinnings, the novel refrains from the worst kinds of heavy-handed commentary and deals well with the complexities of individual and cultural experience. It wrapped up its enthralling plot satisfactorily, while leaving me wanting the author to explore the same world in a future book.

Content note: I would pre-read if you’re thinking about recommending, as some have, to older teenagers. Expect some gritty material, including a few references to a culture of (robotic and human) prostitution and a description of a heinous sexual assault.

Try also the following sci-fi classics, of which Exogenesis reminded me in varying ways:

Clifford Simak’s Why Call Them Back from Heaven?, which critiques a technocratic society akin to Gaskovski’s Lantua, contrasting its urban majority culture with Wisconsin rural life. For more sci-fi in the rural Upper Midwest, check out Simak’s most celebrated works, Way Station and City (wherein good dogs inherit the earth, as they should).
Walter M. Miller Jr.’ s A Canticle for Leibowitz, an exploration of a full-fledged monastic Benedict Option (a Leibowitz Option?) in various centuries of a post-nuclear-apocalyptic world.

So Good They Can’t Ignore You: Why Skills Trump Passion in the Quest for Work You Love, by Cal Newport

The main drive of this short book: if you want to be happy in work and life, “follow your passion” is terrible advice. I’ve been a Newport fan for a couple of years, having read Deep Work and Digital Minimalism and having imbibed bits from his podcasts and shorter essays. I’ve adapted his time-block planning, with some tweaks of my own (hint: buy one of his planners to figure out the method, then use something like this for future iterations), and I’m much looking forward to his upcoming Slow Productivity. So Good They Can’t Ignore You is a new favorite in three ways:

It helps me reflect on just how I might focus my next 25-30 years of energy.
It helps me give better advice to my students and my children as they take steps toward happiness.
It provides fodder for my future work on how the concept of “vocation” might be lived out in the present day, especially as it interacts with questions of “desire,” “aptitude,” and “satisfaction.”

Write Now: The Getty-Dubay Program for Handwriting Success, by Barbara Getty and Inga Dubay

Not exactly a “read,” but this changed a major aspect of my life with about 5 weeks of 10-minute daily practice sessions. You see, I was one of the many adults who abandoned the looped cursive learned in 3^rd grade, in favor of inefficient, scratchy, sometimes-ligatured print. Getty-Dubay italic, both in its print and cursive forms, is easy to learn, less tiring to write, and beautiful. I actually enjoy writing by hand once again, from to-do lists to friendly notes, to the classroom whiteboard, to labels on binders. The cursive section includes suggested variations to suit your preferences. Part of living well in modernity, in my view, is resisting the ubiquity of the screen. Having a means to write nicely by hand facilitates this. Some hints:

The book doesn’t lay flat. I carefully removed the pages from the glued binding and then made a photocopy to work from (not to share!).
Once you’re a few pages in, look on page 51 at the options on “slope,” and subsequently practice whichever degree (literally) is most aesthetically pleasing to you. (I prefer 10-15 degrees over their standard 5.)
Though I was satisfied stopping with cursive, there’s an “Edged Pen” basic calligraphy section, which just expands on what you’ve already practiced.
I gave up on their cursive capitals and followed their alternative suggestion of just using the print capitals in cursive writing. Less trouble, and more pleasing to my eye.
I’m sure the app version is somewhat useful, but without the physical feel of pen on paper, you’ll learn far less well. Plus, aren’t we writing by hand for a reason, ‘cuz modernity?
They also offer well-regarded workbook series for school-aged kids.

Lights in a Dark Town, by Meriol Trevor

Since I’m pretty sure I count as a HIP, I get to recommend a piece of children’s literature. I’m cheating here, because we’re only halfway through this historical fiction read-aloud with the kids. I’m enjoying it much, and I’ve just confirmed that the kids are, too! The young protagonists of the story exist in two worlds of mid-nineteenth-century industrializing Birmhingham, England: on the one hand, the “respectable” middling part of town with boarding schools and governesses; on the other, the ever-expanding workers’ sector of canal boatmen, petty thieves, struggling working families, and the ministry of St. John Henry Newman’s early Oratorians. The latter have set up their house and church in a former gin distillery. Central character Emmeline—newly arrived from a childhood abroad after her father’s death—and her mother are indeed respectable folk but of limited means, and they first encounter Newman and the Oratorians early in the story. Trevor published this in 1964, two years after her award-winning two-volume biography of Newman. Looking forward to the upcoming chapters, with titles including “the Cholera,” “Midcentury Winter,” “No Popery!,” and “Bonfires and Candles.” On my list, too, is another youth-friendly Newman-connected historical fiction book by Trevor, Shadows and Images.

Hope you’ve found something here to enjoy or share!

Christopher J. Lane is Associate Professor of History at Christendom College (Front Royal, VA) and the author of Callings and Consequences: The Making of Catholic Vocational Cultural in Early Modern France.