Conference speakers will include Gregory Wolfe, publisher and editor of Image Journal.

For more information and to register, click here.

Check it out.

Eric describes himself as “a writer and editor with a special interest in the unconventional aspects of religion and philosophy’s relationship to popular culture.” Along with a number of his articles, Eric has also posted his writing resume online.

Last but not least, Eric is the blogger behind the highly regarded Catholic blog The Daily Eudemon.

WHERE FACT MEETS FICTION
A National Symposium on the Intersection of Forensic Science and Pop Culture
Presented by the Cyril H. Wecht Institute of Forensic Science and Law and Duquesne University School of Law

April 3-5, 2008
Power Center Ballroom
Duquesne University
Pittsburgh, PA
http://www.duq.edu/factmeetsfiction

Come meet the minds behind some of America’s most popular books and TV shows, along with many of the real-life forensic experts, investigators and attorneys on whose work theirs is based…

Linda Fairstein… author of the Alex Cooper Crime Novel series and a former sex crimes prosecutor
Robert Tanenbaum… mystery author, trial attorney and former New York City homicide prosecutor
Jan Burke… Edgar Award-winning mystery writer and founder of The Crime Lab Project
Jon Jefferson… co-author of the Body Farm novel series
David Berman and Jon Wellner… writers and actors on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Karen T. Taylor… forensic artist and consultant to CSI and Discovery
Dr. Henry Lee… internationally renowned crime scene investigator
James Clemente… FBI criminal profiler and writer for Criminal Minds
James Starrs… evidence expert and historical exhumation consultant
E. Michael McCann… legal scholar and former Jeffrey Dahmer prosecutor
Lee Goldberg, D. P. Lyle, MD, Dr. Katherine Ramsland, Dr. Cyril Wecht,
and many, many more!

Learn more about the program and register at:
http://www.duq.edu/factmeetsfiction

We’ve recently added several names to our Festival 2008 roster. Among them are preacher and writer Rob Bell, young-adult author (and two-time Newbery Honor recipient) Gary Schmidt, short-story writer Uwem Akpan, and poets Thom Satterlee and Linda Nemec Foster. More information about all of these writers will be posted on our website soon.

We hope you’re already planning on joining us for the Festival (April 17-19). It’s shaping up to be a great weekend. In case you haven’t registered yet, we’ve extended our early-registration rate of $165 through the end of February. (After that, the rate will be $180. The student registration rate, however, will remain at $80.) To register, please visit http://www.calvin.edu/academic/engl/festival/register/index.php.

A second concert has just been added to the Festival weekend. Iron and Wine will perform on Saturday, April 19, at 9:00 p.m. in Calvin’s Fine Arts Center Auditorium. Tickets for the general public ($25) go on sale at 9:00 a.m. on Friday, February 8, and may be purchased through the Calvin Box Office by calling 616.526.6282 or by visiting http://www.calvin.edu/boxoffice/. This concert will most likely sell out, so if you are interested in attending, we encourage you to buy your tickets soon.

Questions about any of these news items can be directed to the Festival office: 616.526.6770 or ffw@calvin.edu. As always, we’re happy to help.

Festival of Faith & Writing
Calvin College
1795 Knollcrest Circle SE
Grand Rapids, MI 49546
616.526.6770
www.calvin.edu/festival
ffw@calvin.edu

The webring is hosted by Ringsurf. To join the Catholic fiction readers and writers webring, click here.

Regular deadline March 5 • FINAL deadline April 15

Entry fee is only $5.

You can see the list of 85 prizes (first prize is $300, second is $250 and third is $200 - plus 82 other prizes!).

Sign up here.

A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line. And art itself may be defined as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect. It is an attempt to find in its forms, in its colours, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter and in the facts of life what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and essential—their one illuminating and convincing quality–the very truth of their existence. The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal. Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts—whence, presently, emerging they make their appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise of living. They speak authoritatively to our common-sense, to our intelligence, to our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism–but always to our credulity. And their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies, with the attainment of our ambitions,
with the perfection of the means and the glorification of our precious aims.

It is otherwise with the artist.

Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the artist descends within himself, and in that lonely region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and fortunate, he finds the terms of his appeal. His appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to that part of our nature which,because of the warlike conditions of existence, is necessarily kept out of sight within the more resisting and hard qualities–like the vulnerable body within a steel armour. His appeal is less loud, more profound, less distinct, more stirring–and sooner forgotten. Yet its effect endures forever. The changing wisdom of successive generations discards ideas, questions facts, demolishes theories. But the artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom; to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition—and, therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with allcreation—and to the subtle but invincible conviction of solidarity that knits together the loneliness of innumerable hearts, to the solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each other, which binds together all humanity—the dead to the living and the living to the unborn.

It is only some such train of thought, or rather of feeling, that can in a measure explain the aim of the attempt, made in the tale which follows, to present an unrestful episode in the obscure lives of a few individuals out of all the disregarded multitude of the bewildered, the simple and the voiceless. For, if any part of truth dwells in the belief confessed above, it becomes evident that there is not a place of splendour or a dark corner of the earth that does not deserve, if onlya passing glance of wonder and pity. The motive then, may be held to justify the matter of the work; but this preface, which is simply an avowal of endeavour, cannot end here—for the avowal is not yet complete. Fiction—if it at all aspires to be art—appeals to temperament. And in truth it must be, like painting, like music, like all art, the appeal of one temperament to all the other innumerable temperaments whose subtle and resistless power endows passing events with their true meaning, and creates the moral, the emotional atmosphere of the place and time. Such an appeal to be effective must be an impression conveyed through the senses; and, in fact, it cannot be made in any other way, because temperament, whether individual or collective, is not amenable to persuasion. All art,’ therefore, appeals primarily to the senses, and the artistic aim when expressing itself in written words must also make its appeal through the senses, if its highest desire is to reach the secret spring of responsive emotions. It must strenuously aspire to the plasticity of sculpture, to the colour of painting, and to the magic suggestiveness of music–which is the art of arts. And it is only through complete, unswerving devotion to the perfect blending of form and substance; it is only through an unremitting never-discouraged care for the shape and ring of sentences that an approach can be made toplasticity, to colour , and that the light of magic suggestiveness may be brought to play for an evanescent instant over the commonplace surface of words: of the old, old words, worn thin, defaced by ages of careless usage.

The sincere endeavour to accomplish that creative task, to go as far on that road as his strength will carry him, to go undeterred by faltering, weariness or reproach, is the only valid justification for the worker in prose. And if his conscience is clear, his answer to those who in the fulness of a wisdom which looks for immediate profit, demand specifically to be edified, consoled, amused; who demand to be promptly improved, or encouraged, or frightened, or shocked, or charmed, must run thus:—My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel–it is, before all, to make you see. That–and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm—all you demand—and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask. To snatch in a moment of courage, from the remorseless rush of time, a passing phase of life, is only the beginning of the task. The task approached in tenderness and faith is to hold up unquestioningly, without choice and without fear, the rescued fragment before all eyes in the light of a sincere mood. It is to show its vibration, its colour, its form; and through its movement, its form, and its colour, reveal the substance of its truth–disclose its inspiring secret: the stress and passion within the core of each convincing moment. In a single-minded attempt of that kind, if one be deserving and fortunate, one may perchance attain to such clearness of sincerity that at last the presented vision of regret or pity, of terror or mirth, shall awaken in the hearts of the beholders that feeling of unavoidable solidarity; of the solidarity in mysterious origin, in toil, in joy, in hope, in uncertain fate, which binds men to each other and all mankind to the visible world. It is evident that he who, rightly or wrongly, holds by the convictions expressed above cannot be faithful to any one of the temporary formulas of his craft. The enduring part of them—the truth which each only imperfectly veils—should abide with him as the most precious of his possessions, but they all: Realism, Romanticism, Naturalism, even the unofficial senti-mentalism (which like the poor, is exceedingly difficult to get rid of,) all these gods must, after a short period of fellowship, abandon him–even on the very threshold of the temple—to the stammerings of his conscience and to the outspoken consciousness of the difficulties of his work. In that uneasy solitude the supreme cry of Art for Art itself, loses the exciting ring of its apparent immorality. It sounds far off. It has ceased’ to be a cry, and is heard only as a whisper, often incomprehensible, but at times and faintly encouraging.

Sometimes, stretched at ease in the shade of a roadside tree, we watch the motions of a labourer in a distant field, and after a time, begin to wonder languidly as to what the fellow may be at. We watch the movements of his body, the waving of his arms, we see him bend down, stand up, hesitate, begin again. It may add to the charm of an idle hour to be told the purpose of his exertions. If we know he is trying to lift a stone, to dig a ditch, to uproot a stump, we look with a more real interest at his efforts; we are disposed to condone the jar of his agitation upon the restfulness of the landscape; and even, if in a brotherly frame of mind, we may bring ourselves to forgive his failure. We understood his object, and, after all, the fellow has tried, andperhaps he had not the strength–and perhaps he had not the knowledge. We forgive, go on our way–and forget.

And so it is with the workman of art. Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off. And thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far, we talk a little about the aim—the aim of art, which, like life itself, is inspiring, difficult—obscured by mists—It is not in the clear logic of a triumphant conclusion; it is not in the unveiling of one of those heartless secrets which are called the Laws of Nature. It is not less great, but only more difficult.

To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of the earth, and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and colour, of sunshine and shadows; to make them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a smile—such is the aim, difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for a very few to achieve. But sometimes, by the deserving and the fortunate, even that task is accomplished. And when it is accomplished–behold!—all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile–and the return to an eternal rest.