“Where does that voice come from?”
Far be it for me to speculate on the nature of inspiration. Fortunately, I have plenty of fodder to draw from in the final, disconnected vignettes of the Netflix series Sandman, season 1, episode 11, part 2 of which is titled “Calliope.” We begin in a university lecture hall as an English professor, Richard Madoc, concludes a lesson on writing, but the students are more concerned with the words of his lone successful novel than they are with their own schooling. When one student asks about the writing process, Madoc gives honest, albeit less-than-satisfying, feedback to just keep struggling. Both the questioner, and we the viewers, feel like he doesn’t believe in his own advice.
True inspiration, it turns out, must be free because it must be an act of love and not coercion… We must receive a visit from the muse, not kidnap her.
We follow Madoc on a dark and stormy night as he clandestinely arrives at the home of Erasmus Fry, a one-time successful author himself, who has literally trapped the mythological muse, Calliope, in his home for “inspiration-on-demand” in his writing. Madoc then trades a healing bezoar for possession of Calliope because Fry says he has no use for her anymore. He indicates that perhaps the ersatz inspiration he has forced out of her does not quite have the satisfying effect as it once did, and instructs Madoc on the ways by which he can coax inspiration from his new muse. You are right to feel uncomfortable at this prospect.
Madoc is told that he must force Calliope to surrender her gift. He initially attempts to woo her, but this only triggers her scorn and his frustration. She tells him she must be free for true inspiration to emerge, saying that it must be the product of prayer. Calliope begs Madoc to, “Ask me again when I am free!” There is a hint in this scene of the work of God’s grace: the inspiration of an artist must be a gift freely given, external to him but also working in cooperation with his innate abilities. Madoc promises he will free her—after just one book. None of us, including Calliope, who has gone through so much already with Fry, believes him.
Given the circumstances by which Madoc has captured Calliope, he is skeptical she will use her freedom for his benefit. He becomes more and more desperate as calls from his agent and threats of literary obscurity and failure hang over him. Finally, with the help of the author’s own chemical libationary inspiration he succumbs to temptation to draw from the well of his muse. There is a hint that the coercive ritual of Calliope’s inspiration has sexual undertones, giving another layer to the deeper theme in this episode as well. But Madoc has his inspiration and his new novel, which of course becomes a huge success.
Predictably, Madoc continues to detain his muse as we see her become a shell of herself. We even see Madoc start to recognize the fruitlessness of his efforts when being interviewed about his book. He is confronted with how similar his work is to Fry’s ill-spired work, showing us how forcefully wringing creativity out of an unwilling source will prove ultimately derivative, even if it is successful in a worldly sense. True inspiration, it turns out, must be free because it must be an act of love and not coercion. There must be love between the artist, the subject itself, as well as the style, in order for there to be authentic inspiration. We must receive a visit from the muse, not kidnap her.
Grace Is Invitation, Not Imposition
One can find a connection here to our attitude when it comes to faith and the gifts of God. Though it is tempting (archetypally tempting if the Gospels have shown us anything) to create a relationship with God in our image and on our terms, we end up undermining the very nature of the gift. Fry and Madoc, because they saw their art as simply a means to an end, were both willing to treat Calliope the muse as just another means to that end. Ultimately, they were both “successful” in that they both wrote best-selling novels. Despite this, both “authors” were nagged with the hidden recognition of its dishonesty, which undermines the very nature of the art itself. This shows the true nature of the guilt of sin, which comes more from within us than from without.
Fortunately, [Calliope] provides us with an example of how to move forward in a beautiful and instructive way from even the worst of tragedies.
Calliope, in her desperation, calls out to “The Kindly Ones,” prominent characters in the Sandman series, who are unable to help her directly, but who alert Morpheus, the King of Dreams, to intervene. When Madoc won’t release Calliope willingly, Morpheus, who cannot force him but can coerce him in other ways indirectly (he is the “King of Dreams” after all) says, “If it is ideas you want, you shall have them, in abundance.” This becomes its own curse, an example of (forgive me for being on-the-nose) poetic justice upon Madoc, with haunting conclusions. Madoc becomes inundated with story prompt after story prompt, each billion-dollar plotline better than the last, driving him to rave, rant, and write them in his own blood across the walls (“I didn’t have a pen!”). A classic case of playing with fire and getting burned—but it does sway Madoc to finally release his prisoner.
Although it’s suffused with many tragic elements, this is ultimately a story of hope, primarily because of the turn in Calliope herself. The most beautiful and powerful moment in the episode is, appropriately, given to Calliope, as Morpheus reflects upon the experience with her.
Calliope says, “I must forgive the man, not for him, for me,” showing us her profound courage and the power to take back her identity and freedom after having it stolen for so long. Admittedly, this scene is complicated by parallels to controversies surrounding allegations against The Sandman’s original author, Neil Gaiman. The level of veiled personal justification in the writing cannot be ignored. Any discussion on forgiveness when considering acts of sexual coercion and violence must distinguish between the feelings of forgiveness and the choice to forgive. Sensitivity to a survivor’s timetable must also be established.
This scene speaks to the common refrain many recognize in the act of forgiveness as a letting go of the one who wronged you. It should remind readers of the parable Jesus tells of the unforgiving servant in Matthew 18:21-35, where we find that the servant’s inability to forgive was the very thing that convicted him. More succinctly, there is one of the final lines of the “Our Father” prayer in Matthew 6:12, which tells us our forgiveness hinges on how “we forgive those who trespass against us.”
To be fair, Calliope is a goddess, so she’s got plenty of time and is supposed to have a more eternal sense of perspective (not that that would be indicative of the Greek gods/goddesses in general, who are certainly not known for their mercy). But it is still profound for us mortals experiencing the story. Considering that she would have that much longer to live, and her capacity to vividly remember the evil done to her would be that much higher, the level of resentment she’d be tempted toward would also be that much greater. Fortunately, she provides us with an example of how to move forward in a beautiful and instructive way from even the worst of tragedies. She lets go and lives on to continue to serve the realm of humans, hopefully inspiring us to do the same.
