I've been a big Rachel Maddow fan for more than seven years, from back in the Air America “Unfiltered” days when she was partnered with Chuck D. and L...more I've been a big Rachel Maddow fan for more than seven years, from back in the Air America “Unfiltered” days when she was partnered with Chuck D. and Lizz Winstead. I began to listen to her faithfully as soon as she was given a 5 A.M. hour news show, and I have been listening and watching ever since, with a proprietary, almost fatherly, interest. Sure, she preaches to the choir, and sometimes she lectures like a schoolmarm, but her intelligence is so penetrating, and she delivers her pessimistic analysis with such positive energy and humor, that I invariably leave her show with more hope and more determination that I had when I arrived.
That being said, I must confess that I wasn't really expecting much out of her book. She has often said that she doesn't enjoy the act of writing—that “it makes her crazy”--and as a general rule the books of TV personalities—no matter how intelligent and perceptive they may be—are seldom weighty or memorable.
I was wrong. “Drift” is a fine book” pithy, economical, stylistically pleasing, and informed by an interesting thesis.
One of the reasons I have always liked Maddow is that she is too broad-minded for polemics and too level-headed for conspiracy theory, and the significance of her title is a clear indication of this. She shows all the ways in which our military establishment has “drifted” further from the moorings of democratic control until it has become bloated, inefficient and unmanageable. Many things have contributed to this trend: presidential usurpation of congressional power, an increase in small undeclared “police actions”, the privatization of support functions, the proliferation of “contractors” (read “mercenaries”), the growing use of the CIA for drone strikes and other covert military missions, the expansion of military functions to include activities formerly allocated to that State Department or the Peace Corps, an increasing reliance on the National Guard as if it were the regular army, and the growing burden of an unnecessarily large and decaying nuclear infrastructure. Maddow argues that none of this is part of some larger design, that no conspiracy is involved. It has happened--and is still happening--because particular presidents (of both parties) desired some international objective and choose the path of least resistance to accomplish it. She bolsters her thesis with scores of interesting anecdotes and arguments, expressed in forthright, often colloquial prose.
The hopeful part? If this is indeed a “drift” and not a conspiracy, it can be reversed by an attentive concerned public. The military may be drifting away from our comprehension and control, but with time—and hope and determination—we Americans can reverse the trend. (less)
What an odd fantasy! No swords, no sorcery, no elves, no thieves, no imaginary beasts, no multiple planes of existence . . . nothing but a cavernous c...more What an odd fantasy! No swords, no sorcery, no elves, no thieves, no imaginary beasts, no multiple planes of existence . . . nothing but a cavernous castle peopled by eccentrics with Dickensian names (Sepulchrave, Prunesquallor, Swelter, Flay) whose lives are determined by centuries--perhaps millenia--of complex rituals. Although the people themselves seem to be British, the enormous burden of tradition under which they labor seems Asiatic in its detailed intensity, and it is instructive to learn that Peake spent his formative years in China, not far from the Imperial City.
This is superior fantasy, but like "The Worm Ouroboros" it is not immediately accessible. Peak was a painter, and as a writer he exercises his painterly imagination by creating scenes--particularly his major ones, like the death-duel of Flay and Swelter--as if each moment were a tableau, part of a series of individual canvases. The reader is then faced with the duty of internalizing each of these stationary images, combining them into a progression, and then animating them--sort of like ruffling the pages of a cartoonist's flip book--in order to release the cinematic power of the scene. For someone like myself who possesses a third-rate visual imagination, this requires re-reading certain passages more than a couple of times.
I must admit, though, that Peake's approach has a certain cumulative power. It serves to preserve these odd, angular characters of his like flies in amber, trapped forever in their traditions like individual frames in an epic film, circumscribed by the labyrinthine spaces of the monstrous castle that is Gormenghast.(less)
“Uncle Silas” isn’t a great novel, but it does exactly what it sets out to do. It is an effective “novel of sensation” in the tradition of "The Woman...more “Uncle Silas” isn’t a great novel, but it does exactly what it sets out to do. It is an effective “novel of sensation” in the tradition of "The Woman in White,” presenting us with a likable heroine in increasingly perilous situations, leading to a hair-raising—and extremely well-executed—climax.
There are not many thrills in “Uncle Silas,” but the thrills themselves are indeed thrilling, and Le Fanu knows exactly how to administer them—sometimes by the dollop, occasionally with an eye-dropper—in order to make sure that the reader does not become jaded and is prepared to enjoy every thrill all the way till the end.
One of the reasons Le Fanu succeeds so well is the nature of his villain. Silas does not possess the heroic size—physically or spiritually—of Collins’ Count Fosco. As a matter of fact, he is almost his villainous opposite. (I suspect this might have been La Fanu's intention.) Silas is a small man of small ambitions, a hypocritical sociopath who hides behind the bible, an opium addict and an invalid, and yet in his own quiet way, he is just as dangerous as the Count. If the Count is like an aging lion, then Silas resembles more closely a poisonous spider. Even when his intentions seem benign, we know in our hearts that they are not, and consequently we continue to fear for Maude even in the midst of the comic interludes in the second third of the novel. Even if we cannot see the spider spinning, we know he--and his poisonous bite--is still there.
I don’t think this novel is quite as successful as the best of Le Fanu’s ghost stories (which are masterpieces of the form), but it is nevertheless a superb piece of craftsmanship, an absorbing and enjoyable work.(less)
I read this book as a penance: I donated to the Edwards presidential campaign, and I wanted to know how vile the man was who persuaded me to send him...more I read this book as a penance: I donated to the Edwards presidential campaign, and I wanted to know how vile the man was who persuaded me to send him money. Pretty vile, it turns out. Viler than the fellow that wrote the book? I wouldn't be willing to bet on it.
I feel about this book similarly to how I felt about Peter Maas' "Underboss"--an "as told to" book by "Sammy the Bull" Gravano. I believed every horrible thing it says about John Gotti, but when Sammy swears he didn't whack his own brother-in-law . . . well, let's just say I have doubts. And when Andrew Young--the author of "The Politician"--says he only kept the Edwards/Hunter sex-tape for protection, not for "nefarious purposes," let's just say I reserve judgment.
Nobody gets out of this smelling like a rose. Young is obviously a gopher, git-er-done sort of guy who doesn't mind being humiliated, ignoring his family and cutting a few corners for the promise of an influential job in the White House. (And to his credit, he really doesn't try to keep this a secret.) Edwards is a cunning opportunist without any depth, his wife is consumed with ambition and--as her husband's affair and her cancer both metastisize--increasingly paranoid. And Rielle Hunter . . . well, Rielle Hunter is a trip.
My favorite Rielle story from the book is about the time she calls her spiritual guru Bob (at $200 per phone consultation) after she receives a Ruben she's ordered at the local greasy spoon and has serious doubts about the dressing.
I enjoyed the book. Would I recommend it? Not necessarily. But it does give a vivid picture of 1) a politician's bodyman/gopher and what may be required of him, and 2) the complete meltdown of a major presidential political campaign. (less)
In the course of teaching high school sophomores for thirty years, I have read Julius Caesar more than thirty times, and I never grow tired of its ric...more In the course of teaching high school sophomores for thirty years, I have read Julius Caesar more than thirty times, and I never grow tired of its richness of detail or the complexity of its characters. Almost every year, I end up asking myself the same simple question--"Whom do I like better? Cassius or Brutus?"--and almost every year my answer is different from what it was the year before. On one hand, we have Cassius--the selfish, manipulative conspirator who, after the assassination, shows himself to be an impulsive, loyal friend and an able politician, and on the other hand, Brutus--the conscientious intellectual and lover of the republic who becomes, under the weight of his guilt, an irritatingly scrupulous moralist and an inept general more concerned with reputation than success. And then of course there is Antony: brilliant, vicious, unscrupulous, and ultimately as unknowable as a tornado. This is a great play about politics and human character.(less)
Not an untypical story of a modern cult: a paranoid narcissist with a few interesting ideas starts a religion, abuses his followers, and nearly implod...more Not an untypical story of a modern cult: a paranoid narcissist with a few interesting ideas starts a religion, abuses his followers, and nearly implodes a couple of times before a sadomasochistic sociopath takes the reins, summoning dark order out of chaos. Narcissist recedes into background, sociopath assumes complete control, narcissist dies, and everything runs more smoothly and more evilly than before. Until all of a sudden it doesn't.
This is a dreary book, for both these two--the narcissist Hubbard and the sociopath Miscavidge--are sad, vicious, and vile. Sure, they are different--Hubbard is more sad and vile, Miscavidge more vicious and vile--but the reader inevitably wearies of this interminable chronicle of domestic abuse, serial adultery, forced abortion, pathological lying, delusions of grandeur (mostly Hubbard), irrational demands, punching and kicking,merciless retribution for renegades and journalists (mostly Miscavidge) and erratic behavior and abitrary punishments, including the imposition of penitential servitude (both of them, all the time).
Not even the Hollywood types seem interesting. Paul Haggis--one of the book's principal sources and director of "Crash," perhaps the worst of Oscar's "Best Pictures"--is drab, Travolta comes off as sweet but scared, and Tom Cruise as arrogant and shallow.
That's about it. I have to admit, though, that if this book were half its length, if it were organized according to theme,I might have given it three stars. But maybe not.(less)
In this unique love letter to the United States, Gaiman manages to celebrate its underground spiritual traditions, glory in the magnificence of its la...more In this unique love letter to the United States, Gaiman manages to celebrate its underground spiritual traditions, glory in the magnificence of its landmarks, landscapes, and bizarre tourist traps, and--most important--both mourn and venerate its pagan (often immigrant) gods in decline, battered and diminished as they are by the shallowness and speed of a technological world. The gods are indeed the best part of this very good book: they are degenerate and threadbare, and yet still gods, capable of inspiring allegiance and terror. Gaiman loves not only fantasy, but also mystery and horror, and here he has constructed a book which fulfills the genre requirements of all. The plot is complicated and crammed with marvels: the beginning promises pleasures and horrors, the middle disturbs the balance, and the ending surprises and yet satisfies. (less)
Charlie Pierce loves cranks, whom he views as distinctively American types who stay true to their convictions and, in the process, help keep us all in...more Charlie Pierce loves cranks, whom he views as distinctively American types who stay true to their convictions and, in the process, help keep us all intellectually honest. He doesn't even mind it when individual cranks sell out and become charlatans, as cranks will no doubt do upon occasion, but when our contemporary cranks--particularly anti-science right wing fundamentalist cranks--become commodified and exhibited by the 24 hour news cycle as if they were mainstream voices, and then are in turn exploited by organizations and corporations with a specific political agenda, the result is that the United States of America becomes stupider and stupider. Pierce is a very good writer and often a very funny one too. His individual vignettes--whether the subject be a Creationist Museum in Kentucky featuring dinosaurs with saddles or the global warming controversy from the perspectives of Eskimos living on a disappearing island of ice--are both informative and entertaining. (less)
This mammoth, prolix book--the first wildly popular gothic novel--is indifferently written, poorly planned,and inconsistent in purpose and tone. Rad...more This mammoth, prolix book--the first wildly popular gothic novel--is indifferently written, poorly planned,and inconsistent in purpose and tone. Radcliffe's style is irritating, filled with continual redundancies, superfluous commas and dialogue that is often stilted and improbable. The plot doesn't even get in gear until a third of the way through(two hundred pages!), and it loses its focus and dissipates its power in the last one hundred and fifty pages or so when Radcliffe introduces some pallid new characters and orchestrates a few second-rate thrills that--in their similarities to events of the earlier narrative--verge on self-parody.
Yet the novel has an undeniable power and charm. A lot of this is due to Emily, the virtuous and loving (but never stuffy) young lady protagonist who would certainly become a model for Austen (as well as a source of parody) not only because of her sensible moral nature and highly developed sensibility but also because of her willingness to modify her often mistaken judgments when confronted with more reliable information.
The villain Montoni is also memorable, the prototype of Heathcliffe, Rochester, de Winter and many more. He is not really evil so much as thoroughly selfish, completely arrogant, convinced of the absolute privilege of patriarchy and nobility. He is believable, and therefore infuriating, a worthy ancestor of a long line of gothic villains.
A great deal of the charm of this book, however, comes from the characters' appreciation of the beauty and power of landscapes: fathers educate daughters through landscapes,lovers gaze and comment upon landscapes to each other, evaluate the sincerity and subtlety of one another's character and consciousness based on their reaction to landscapes, and later, when circumstances have forced them apart, they will comfort themselves with the solitary contemplation of landscapes. The villains show no interest in landscapes whatsoever, and the good people, when oppressed and harried by evil, cease to be moved even by the beauties of nature, no matter how sublime they may be. Besides, I believe one of the reasons the book shifts from France to Italy--in addition to signaling a shift in narrative from pastoral simplicity to Machiavellian malice--is in order that the heroine may move from contemplating the tranquil landscapes of Claude Lorrain to surveying the craggier and threatening vistas of Salvator Rosa. "Landscape as character" is as important to "The Mysteries of Udolpho" as it is to "Wuthering Heights" or any Anthony Mann western. If you pay close attention to the landscapes of "Udolpho" (and Emily and Montoni as well) you just might enjoy--as I did--this unwieldy and often infuriating novel.(less)
A disappointment. I kept hearing about how this was a real honest-to-god, old-fashioned ghost story steeped in the tradition of James and James (Henry...more A disappointment. I kept hearing about how this was a real honest-to-god, old-fashioned ghost story steeped in the tradition of James and James (Henry and Montague Rhodes)that delivered a frisson of genuine terror and some very fine writing as well. Alas1 I didn't find any of this to be true.
For starters, I didn't believe the narrator. He is a man in his forties--self-described as "unimaginative"--who years before suffered a scarring supernatural experience, yet he sounds for all the world like a timid watered-down version of a young Bronte heroine (or should I just say "du Maurier heroine?), sensitive to nature and hell-bent on describing everything that comes "his" way, relevant or not. The book is a pastiche of 19th century stylistic cliches, starting with a half-hearted Pickwickian Christmas, moving quickly to a Bleak House inspired description of fog (dangerously close to plagiarism), and soon settling into page upon page of lengthy sentences resembling those of middle-period Henry James, yet which--unlike those of the master--contain no fine distinctions of intellect or sensibility to justify their continual qualifying clauses. The story itself, although not remarkable, could have been interesting. The first sight of the spectre in the graveyard is chilling, and the subsequent scenes where the hero wanders alone in the fog, hearing horrors rather than seeing them, are undoubtedly effective. But there is only enough material here for a 4,000-6,000 word short story, and this is a 40,000 word novella. It is short as horror books go, but far too long for what it has to say.(less)
I love cats, but don't like cat books: the funny parts aren't that funny, the sentimental parts are way too sentimental, and the illustrations are of...more I love cats, but don't like cat books: the funny parts aren't that funny, the sentimental parts are way too sentimental, and the illustrations are often too cutesy for even the worst kind of children's book. I made an exception in the case of "Lost Cat," however, because: 1) it was recommended by a good friend of mine who is not not given to sentimental excesses, and 2) although I'm an "inside cat" man myself, I've always wanted to know where those outside kitties go in the course of their wanderings. (Boy, I wish I could put GPS devices on "Jack" and "Nameless," our wayfaring neighborhood friends!)
I am glad I made an exception this time. Caroline Paul has a tart, laconic style and a gift for irony. She never overdoes it, and, consequently, "Lost Cat" is funny and genuinely moving without ever being sappy. In addition, the illustrations are inventive and whimsical without being cutesy in a Disney-gooey way.
Besides, you get to find out where the cat goes. Isn't that the important thing? (less)
If you remember the old toga movies from the '50's--the ones where all the Romans are played by Brits and all the Jews and Christians by Americans--th...more If you remember the old toga movies from the '50's--the ones where all the Romans are played by Brits and all the Jews and Christians by Americans--then I am sure you also remember those orgiastic banquet sequences crammed with sweaty wrestlers, kinky dancers, amphora after amphora overflowing with wine, and culinary surprises like roast oxen stuffed with pheasants (the pheasants in turn stuffed with oysters), and golden salvers heaped high with hummingbird tongues.
"The Golden Ass" is a lot like that. It has everything: comic misunderstandings and cruel mistreatment, amorous slave girls and lustful matrons, witches and ghosts, robbers and murderers, people transformed into animals, an account of religious conversion--plus a visit from the Queen of Heaven and a little bestiality thrown in for good measure. This picaresque work of late second century Roman Africa revels in its own excess and ornamentation, scattering its tales within tales with a spendthrift abandon, and yet preserving a sense of unity through its theme. It shows us how the individual's journey through pleasure and suffering, servility and beastliness, may eventually lead to humility and spiritual regeneration. (less)
A strange, uneven book of fiction, but one that is oddly compelling. It is somewhat like magic realism, but more primeval and mythic than the dark fai...more A strange, uneven book of fiction, but one that is oddly compelling. It is somewhat like magic realism, but more primeval and mythic than the dark fairy tales of Marquez. It is a little like Kafka too, but much more energetic, teeming with life. If Egon Schiele wrote fiction, it might be something like this. (less)
This is a good book, but I did not enjoy it as much as I anticipated, probably because Goldsworthy emphasizes areas of the Roman experience that are...more This is a good book, but I did not enjoy it as much as I anticipated, probably because Goldsworthy emphasizes areas of the Roman experience that are less interesting to me than others: I'm interested in religion, philosophy, literature, daily life and popular culture, and Goldsworthy concentrates on bureaucratic organizational structures (particularly in the army) and obscure military campaigns. He writes well, with remarkable lucidity, and tells a good story, but the stories themselves held little interest for me.
I did however find his thesis compelling and would recommend his two final chapters to anyone interested in understanding the late Roman Empire. Goldsworthy argues that scholars in recent years have overemphasized the effects of external pressure on the late empire: the Persians were never that mighty, and the Franks and Goths lacked the unity to ever be much more than a continual irritation. He says it was not threats from without, but erosion from within, that lead to decline, and that this decay began--as it often does--from the top. ("The fish rots from the head," as the Russian proverb says.)
The early emperors may have divested the senate of any real governing power, but they still treasured it as a noble institution--the source of a governing class of aristocratic amateurs who took pride in the empire and its traditions--and they carefully guarded its privileges and dignity. Every important Roman leader came from the senatorial class, and from the city of Rome the emperors had ample opportunity to observe each of these men in a public role and to assess his abilities as an administrator and his danger as a rival. As the senate decreased in influence throughout the succeeding autocratic years, the administrators of empire--no longing believers in their obligation to the public trust--became more venal and less competent, and the emperors became increasingly fearful of rival claimants, who could now arise from the equestrian commanders of any of the provincial legions, not just from the ranks of the senatorial class. In order to make the support of a rival less likely, the emperors lessened the size of the provinces, increased the central bureaucracy, privatized many services, and become less willing to delegate any authority. All this led to the erosion of individual initiative and a weakening of the basic efficiency of the institutions of empire, resulting in a failure to deal with challenges to order and good government, whether social, economic or military.
Although the parallels are not exact, Goldsworthy sees the same erosion of individual initiative and autonomy at the heart of many British and American institutions, and he ends this survey of the late Roman Empire on a moral, cautionary note. (less)
The thing I like about Krugman--besides the fact that he was right about Bush's mendacity and right about the economy's weaknesses before almost anybo...more The thing I like about Krugman--besides the fact that he was right about Bush's mendacity and right about the economy's weaknesses before almost anybody else suspected either--is that he presents complex economic arguments in clear and simple prose, clear enough that a right-brained, liberal arts type like myself can understand them. Unfortunately--and this is not Krugman's fault--that doesn't mean I can remember his explanations adequately after a few days have passed, let alone comment upon them with any degree of insight. So I'll merely offer this crude summary: the economy is still in deep doo-doo, and likely to remain so for awhile--particularly because most of what everybody is doing is making it worse--and the things that will help us to get out of this mess are a little discrete Fed-engineered inflation plus STIMULUS, STUMLUS, STIMULUS!, starting with the re-hiring of all the public sector workers (teachers, nurses, firefighters) that the states have been laying off lately. (Plus of course the other stuff that I no longer remember or adequately understand.)
I liked this book a lot. I suspect that, if your left-brain is more developed than mine is, you'll probably like it even more than I do.(less)
This is a fine detective story, extraordinarily good for a first novel. Not many first mysteries, even by excellent writers, are this good--Robert B....more This is a fine detective story, extraordinarily good for a first novel. Not many first mysteries, even by excellent writers, are this good--Robert B. Parker's "The Godwulf Manuscript," for example, isn't quite up to its level--particularly when it comes to readability, lack of pretentiousness, and efficient plot construction. It is a little on the soft side of the hard-boiled genre, featuring a city (New York) and a P.I. with an attitude (former NYPD cop Starrett). Any fan of Hammett, Chandler and Parker will find much here to admire.
Although Valentine has a distinctive voice, her debt to Robert B. Parker is clear, and "Gone Cold"--this is high praise--is as readable as anything he has written. The prose is clean, witty, and illuminated by memorable metaphors, and yet it never calls attention to itself, never interferes with the development of the plot or the intensity of the action. The dialogue is simple and elegant: breezy and funny when it wants to be, tough as nails when it has to be. The plot is the kind I like best: it lets me guess a few things right before the detective does (thus allowing me to feel smart) and yet it still reserves something surprising--and credible--for the conclusion.
I like the characteristic method through which Valentine reveals her clues. Starrett will engage a character in dialogue, and then (usually during the second or third interview) that character will reveal not only important facts about the case, but also embarrassing secrets about himself. Each revelation deepens and enriches our sense of who that character is, increasing our compassion both for him and for ourselves, while--perhaps the most important part--further widening Valentine's world. No, you will find no amiable fellow here, the kind who drops his mask in the final paragraphs, uncovering a raging psychopath beneath. (And there's no serial killer with a literary bent here either, thank God!)
I also like the love relationship that grows between detective Starrett and the psychologist Kate. Valentine has some way to go before she equals her mentor Parker in memorable characters or urban atmosphere, but I believe that, in this one small important area, she surpasses him. Kate--unlike Spenser's Susan--is a former cop, and she instinctively understands Starrett. She does not require painful page upon page of analytic dialogue a la Ms. Silverman in order to understand his code or his motivations. These two remind me more of Hammett's Nick and Norah Charles than they do Spenser and Susan. And that's a very good thing.
I highly recommend "Gone Cold." It is a brisk entertaining read with an interesting plot, and it never insults your intelligence. I hope we will see more of Starrett and Kate in the future. (less)
I had remembered this play as nothing more than a superb melodrama organized around a charismatic, one-dimensional villain, but I now realize it is mu...more I had remembered this play as nothing more than a superb melodrama organized around a charismatic, one-dimensional villain, but I now realize it is much more complex than this.
Richard's deformity is not merely a physical sign of spiritual evil, but also a metaphor for the twisted era of internecine and intra-generational violence of which he himself is the inevitable conclusion. Richard claims that his disability disqualifies him for a peaceful age's love-making, but his effective wooing of Lady Anne--literally over her husband's dead body--belies this claim. No, Richard, who from infancy has known nothing but civil war and betrayal, can only be effective when he is either murdering his Plantagenet relatives or plotting to do so. (Thus, when he finally becomes king, he can neither enjoy the honor nor rise to the challenge, and therefore is soon plagued with nightmares and consigned to destruction.)
Richard fancies himself as the medieval Vice, commenting sardonically to the audience on the action of this play he has devised, heedless of the fact that he is also part of a universal moral design. Richard, who embodies in concentrated form the worst deeds of his time, must be purged so that a new age can be established.
It is here that the women of the play become important, transforming it into Senecan if not Sophoclean tragedy. In periodic choruses, the queens Margaret, Elizabeth and Anne (plus the Duchess of York) mourn their children and others who have been snatched from them by civil war, and call down vengeance on Richard and other murderers. The interesting thing about this chorus, however, is that it is not composed of unified expressions of grief and vengeance, for the woman continually curse and blame each other, each proclaiming her own sorrow as somehow superior to that of the others. Ironically, the age's long history of crimes against mothers deprives even maternal grief of its unity.
I believe this is Shakespeare's first attempt to create tragedy out of the popular drama. The conception of the women's chorus--both a traditional tragic chorus and at the same time something more personal, more ironic--is particularly impressive in this regard. Unfortunately, however, Shakespeare overreached himself here. In execution, the chorus of queens is often whiny and wearying, and slows down the action without sufficiently illuminating it. Nevertheless, it is a great step toward the tragic resonances of the major plays. (less)
Bob Collins' "Naming the Dead" is a superb collection by a veteran poet and editor. It could properly be considered a "selected poems" as well as a "f...more Bob Collins' "Naming the Dead" is a superb collection by a veteran poet and editor. It could properly be considered a "selected poems" as well as a "first book," for it distills the essence of a poet's life and experience. An accomplished--and widely published--poet like Collins must have rejected scores of chapbook pieces in order to pare this collection down to forty poems this good, this focused, this resonant in theme.
The book consists of seven sections--a one poem prelude, a one poem coda, and five movements of six-ten poems.
The first movement concerns Collins' New Jersey childhood. The music of the verse is casual and accomplished, belying the grim vision of the poems. Although the tone is elegiaic, it is elegy as sharp and clear-eyed as "The Seafarer." Whatever the object of youth's memory may be--a polio epidemic, vacant lot baseball, the dreaded "rich kid" little league rivals--the memory itself is always at the mercy of the brushfires of time, fires that blot out the self and leave nothing but the terror of nonexistence that waits in the primeval waters below. My favorites here are the first and last: "Enuresis," a poem about bed-wetting which lulls the mind with anapestic latinate terms until the word "night terrors" brings it to a chilling conclusion, and "Catch," a poem that captures both the anger and the love of a ritual father-son game.
The second movement consists primarily of older poems, more rough-hewn in style, but powerful. The two sections complement one another, for each poem here serves as a myth or metaphor for the plight articulated in the first movement, and they too are filled with images of fire and water, each poem heavy with the burdens of death, memory and time. My favorite is the one about a new "Magician's Assistant," who expects a trap door to open during the saw-in-half trick, but instead finds herself literally disembodied, transformed into a sea of floating molecules with a terrifying emptiness between.
The third movement is the best, central both in position and theme. It consists primarily of elegies for deceased friends and acquaintances. Collins assessment of these people is clear-eyed but generous, and he is hard on no one but himself. It ends with my two favorite poems in this section, each offering the possibility of love and hope: "New Year's Day: Red River Gorge (1973)" in which the typically frightening image of conflagration is transformed into a friend's welcoming bonfire, and "Via Sacra," in which the poet makes a difficult river journey near Adena burial mounds with two living friends by his side.
Movements four and five are less concentrated and more varied in theme, and both are more open to love, light and humor than the movements that have gone before. Four is full of the mundane experiences of life (cleaning out the garage, teaching a daughter to swim, finding out you have only one reader on amazon.com), and movement five functions as a recapitulation of the themes--the impossibility of return, the necessity of the journey, the importance of love and hope--and also brings something new, a touch of hard-won optimism. My favorite poems here are "Going Home," a somewhat bleak, although humorous, view of an American's "return" to Ireland, and "Listening to the Dead (Birmingham, 1995)," which begins in irony and Grateful Dead nostalgia and ends in a hope and--almost--a belief in the transforming power love.
I highly recommend "Naming the Dead." This is a book by a man of solitude who understands friendship and love, a man ready to take us on a rich, fulfilling journey of everything he--and we--have lost.(less)
Sure, the title is deliberately outrageous, something abrasive to catch the book-buyer's attention, but I hope the strategy works because this history...more Sure, the title is deliberately outrageous, something abrasive to catch the book-buyer's attention, but I hope the strategy works because this history of popular music in the United States deserves a wide readership. Wald begins with the self-evident assumption that such a history should consist of what is popular, not just what music buffs decide is artistically worthy and representative. He argues that it is women who drive popular taste in music because women fill clubs in order to dance, while music historians (almost exclusively men) prefer to listen to records and argue about the merits of particular guitar or horn solos. Wald attempts to correct this imbalance by paying serious attention to many influential figures neglected in the typical history: John Philip Sousa, the dancers Vernon and Irene Castle, Paul Whiteman, Mitch Miller, Harry Belafonte, Ricky Nelson--to name just a few. He also pays attention to important events in the music business and the effects of technology--the the movement from sheet music to recording, the ASCAP ban and AFM boycott, the different audiences for LP's and 45's--and comes to many interesting and surprising conclusions. In addition, he is not at all concerned with artificial "music wars"--white music versus black music, jazz vs. rock, etc.--and this enables him to establish many unusual and illuminating connections. This is a wonderful book. I learned something new on almost every page, and I would heartily recommend it.
Now--for those who have read this far--I will summarize the argument behind this book's provocative title. The Beatles transformed rock and roll from a business of hit singles designed for dancing to a business of artistically planned albums designed primarily for listening. In the process, they increased the gap between white music and its poor cousin black music (which, being less prosperous, was by necessity still yoked to the demands of dance) and the decrease of interaction between the two forms of music that inevitably resulted deprived both rock and roll and r & b of the racial cross-pollination that had been the hallmark of American popular music for the 50 plus years preceding "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band."(less)
Ligotti is usually classified as a "horror" writer, but this label is much too limiting. Ligotti combines the eccentricity and loneliness of Poe (minu...more Ligotti is usually classified as a "horror" writer, but this label is much too limiting. Ligotti combines the eccentricity and loneliness of Poe (minus the romantic sentimentality), the bleak existential inner landscape of Kafka, the lunatic small-town atmosphere of Bruno Schulz and the mordant epigrammatic nihilism of Cioran. Ligotti is a profoundly disturbing writer, an unclassifiable talent right up there with such unique voices as Borges, Calvino and Lem. A must read.(less)
This book is justly famous for its disillusioned account of how the Communist Party—in its eagerness to defeat Franco's fascism--betrayed the successf...more This book is justly famous for its disillusioned account of how the Communist Party—in its eagerness to defeat Franco's fascism--betrayed the successful anarchist experiment in Catalonia for the sake of expedience, how it executed and imprisoned its anarchist and socialist comrades for the sake of a temporary alliance with the bourgeois.
I found all this very interesting, but have to admit that the real reason I liked the book so much was for its gritty account of war on the cheap, where guns are poor, marksmanship is worse, and the lack of food, matches and candles are more important than any threat by the enemy. In spite of the generally poor marksmanship, however, Orwell did manage to get himself shot in the neck, and his first-hand account of what it is like to be wounded is vivid and completely absorbing.
The only thing that keeps this book from being superb is its detailed discussion of each of the various left-wing parties and their responsibility—or lack of responsibility--for the internecine battles on the streets of Barcelona that contributed to the subsequent purges, arrests, and imprisonments. Orwell clearly realizes that this account may be a problem for his narrative, for he apologizes for its length, arguing that previous accounts in the international press have been so deceptive that it has become necessary to set the record straight. Now, however, more than seventy-five years later, such a precise accounting is indeed unnecessary--at least for the general reader--and Orwell's book suffers as a result. (less)
"The Three Imposters" is a strange little book, a narrative about a secret society's efforts to retrieve a Roman coin ("The Gold Tiberius"), but this...more "The Three Imposters" is a strange little book, a narrative about a secret society's efforts to retrieve a Roman coin ("The Gold Tiberius"), but this "novel" appears to be little more than a convenient device for telling a series of marvelous, horrific tales. Two of these tales--"The Novel of the Black Seal" and "The Novel of the White Powder"--are first-class works of imaginative fiction, and the entire book itself is entrancing, reminiscent of Stevenson's "New Arabian Nights": its descriptions of London--conveyed in musical, Swinburnian prose--make of this nineteenth century metropolis something as exotic and fantastic as the Baghdad of Haroun al-Rashid.
In addition, this collection contains not only two short stories but also the novella "The Great God Pan," one of the acknowledged classics of the weird tale. Its Chinese box structure--the horror revealed in fragments, in various voices, with lacunae which must be supplied by the reader--makes the narrative all the more compelling and terrifying in its obliqueness. (Lovecraft used this structure as his model for "The Call of Cthulhu.") "The Great God Pan" has an interesting plot as well, in that it is an inversion of the Ripper murders which occurred only a few years before. Instead of lower-class women murdered in the slums by an unknown male slasher, we have wealthy young men committing suicide in the most fashionable sections of London--and this time a mysterious woman seems to be involved. (less)
Although Topor falls a little short of the existential horror of Kafka and Bruno Schulz, he surpasses them both in misanthrope and menace without ever...more Although Topor falls a little short of the existential horror of Kafka and Bruno Schulz, he surpasses them both in misanthrope and menace without ever departing-except for what are probably Trelkovsky's hallucinations--from realistic fiction. It is as good as the movie, and in my opinion that is high praise indeed. (Note: the book concludes with a bonus of four short pieces. "A Fairy Story" is particularly nasty, and not to be missed.) (less)
A masterful collection by a writer of genius. I believe "The Aleph" is just as good as "Fictions," and "Fictions" is as good as any book of short piec...more A masterful collection by a writer of genius. I believe "The Aleph" is just as good as "Fictions," and "Fictions" is as good as any book of short pieces produced in the 20th Century. If you like paradoxes, puzzles, doppelgangers and labyrinths used as metaphors for the relation of microcosm to macrocosm and the fluid nature of personal identity, then this is the book for you. These stories are profound, but they are written in such an entertaining traditional narrative style that they might often be mistaken for pulp fiction if they weren't so astonishingly elegant.(less)
This cult classic--a bigger hit in Poland than in the author's native USA--is a strange novel, and a very interesting one. At the beginning, it seems...more This cult classic--a bigger hit in Poland than in the author's native USA--is a strange novel, and a very interesting one. At the beginning, it seems to be a piece of realistic fiction, narrating the efforts of a high school English instructor in his 30's and his researcher-girlfriend to write the biography of a deceased children's book author they idolize. But when they get to the author's hometown, things get weirder and weirder--and the book itself gets stranger and stranger. Unlike many books that develop this way, however, the ending does not disappoint. This is a good novel, well worth your time.(less)
This slim book consists of three essays on spirituality, each exploring a different type of prayer: petition ("Help!"), thanksgiving ("Thanks!") and (...more This slim book consists of three essays on spirituality, each exploring a different type of prayer: petition ("Help!"), thanksgiving ("Thanks!") and ("Wow!), which I feel can best be described as prayer in praise of the sublime. I have read two previous book on spirituality by Lamott, both longer and better than this one, but they all have the same qualities. Lamott is so frank about sharing her brokenness, all the small fragments of her crazy hippie life, that we hope we too--if we had half her courage--could reap the rewards of prayer at least as bountifully as she. And yet . . . the prose with which she describes her life is so elegant--so sleek in its zen concentration, so studded with remarkable phrases--that we fear she has moved far beyond us, and feel humbled when faced with her clarity and wisdom.
That said, though elegant and wise, this book is still a trifle: "Help" is better than "Thanks," "Thanks" is better than "Wow," and the brief concluding essay is inferior to the other three. Still, I recommend it. Clarity and wisdom, humility and hope--all from one little book. (less)
Joshi treats the weird tale--as all critics should treat it--as a distinct and worthwhile genre, and consequently seeks to establish a canon of works...moreJoshi treats the weird tale--as all critics should treat it--as a distinct and worthwhile genre, and consequently seeks to establish a canon of works by using the criteria of 1) literary merit, 2) the presence of the weird and uncanny (as opposed to mere horror or suspense) and 3) the consistent logic of the author's world. Using these criteria, he judges Shirley Jackson, Robert Aickman, Ramsey Campbell, T.E.D. Klein and Thomas Ligotti as masters of the form, Stephen King, Clive Barker, Peter Straub and Anne Rice as flawed, inconsistent secondary figures, and Dean Koontz as unworthy of mention. Although I find some of his in-depth analysis of the individual works repetitive and superfluous, I agree completely with his evaluation of the authors. Those who enjoy good literature, and think they might perhaps enjoy scary stories if such works weren't so poor in style and extravagant in conception, should heed Joshi's well-considered recommendations.
Joshi's criticism is somewhat marred by his antipathy to theism. I'm not a fan of William Peter Blatty myself, but Joshi spends too much time and energy ripping into him merely because he holds traditional Catholic views. Although I can see how one could make the case that any rigid form of belief in an all-powerful, all-good God precludes the profound metaphysical disorientation which is a precondition for supernatural terror, that is not an argument that Joshi makes here. Instead, he merely attacks Blatty with obvious hostility, and by so doing puts the objectivity of his criticism in question. (less)
Sir Richard Burton has said "there is no 'Nights' without the nights," and I agree with him. Without the frame story of the "Thousand Nights and a Nig...more Sir Richard Burton has said "there is no 'Nights' without the nights," and I agree with him. Without the frame story of the "Thousand Nights and a Night," the stories themselves--while still a fascinating collection of Oriental folklore filled with fine examples of the extemporaneous storyteller's art--lack resonance and depth. As told by Scheherazade, however, each individual story is not only a stratagem enabling her literally to keep her head on her shoulders for one more night, but--taken together--they also function as a three-year course in civility and tolerance for her murderous spouse, a man made vicious and half-mad by a former wife's adultery. The corpus of the tales--by exhibiting examples of a variety of women (the virtuous and resourceful as well as the manipulative and and adulterous), by showing the consequences of revenge and the beauties of forgiveness--help Scheherazade heal the psychically wounded shah who in time becomes not only a good man but also a good king, one who appreciates not only the mystery of woman, but also the importance of mercy and compassion--praise be to Allah, the source of both!--in the pageant of human existence.
Like all great books--as opposed to the perfect merely good ones--"The Arabian Nights" can often be infuriating. Many of the tales are little more than examples of what Henry James termed the easiest form of fictional invention, the improvisation, and others are too coarse for the modern sensibility, with their humor or horror derived from dwarfs, paralytics and the maimed. At the best, however, the tales are mesmerizing, creating a world of marvels that is nevertheless so gritty and real that you can almost smell the scents of the bazaar and see the variety of people parading down the palace avenues, crowding into the alleys and streets. And then, of course, there are the maidens, each as beautiful as a moon.
The very best tales are the ones you already know--The Fisherman and the Djinn, Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad the Sailor--but there are others here almost as good: "The Tale of Three Apples" tells a story of rift and reconciliation across the generations that-in its bittersweet, twilight wisdom--reminds me of the tragi-comedies of Shakespeare, and "The Tale of Judar and his Brothers"--a darker, more marvelous version of the biblical story of Joseph--unites magic and tragedy in a surprising and memorable way.
I don't really have any important insights to share from this last of god-knows-how-many readings, but this time through I was really struck by: 1) wh...more I don't really have any important insights to share from this last of god-knows-how-many readings, but this time through I was really struck by: 1) what a damn fine piece of stagecraft this is, from the suspenseful, moody opening on the castle battlements to the solemn dead march carrying the prince offstage, and 2) how Shakespeare seems to want Hamlet's personality--particularly the wellsprings of his actions (and lack of action)--to remain an enigma, and that he achieves this by infusing the character with so much of himself--so much wit and poetry, so much despondency and savagery--that the result is that the audience simply bows before the great mystery of human personality, and that this reverence for the unknown lurking in the heart of an extraordinary man intensifies the sense of pity, horror and waste that fills us at the end of the play. (less)
Simple yet profound, "The Tempest" is a heartbreakingly sincere piece of elaborate theatrical artifice. Shakespeare is a magician at the height of his...more Simple yet profound, "The Tempest" is a heartbreakingly sincere piece of elaborate theatrical artifice. Shakespeare is a magician at the height of his powers, so accomplished at his craft that he can reveal the mechanisms of his most marvelous tricks and still astonish us.
This time through, I was struck by how closely references to language, freedom, power and transformation are bound up together, and how they all seem to point to some metaphysical resolution, even if they don't finally achieve it. Put perhaps--by the power of Prospero's staff-- they do?(less)
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