John Walters's Blog

Thoughts on Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller

Another tried and proven book I brought upon the journey to Maine to reread is Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. To be honest, I found it somewhat disappointing, but in all fairness, Miller’s words have not changed, I have.

When I first read it as a young writer back in the early 1970s, it was just what I needed to break me out of the rut of bland tradition in which I was ensconced. It is exuberant, raunchy, joyful, and iconoclastic. It showed me that a writer could be defiant, bold, and wholly original. The occasional fits of surrealism dazzled me, and the plunges into vulgarity didn’t bother me in the slightest. It awakened in me the desire to find my own voice as a writer. After finishing Tropic of Cancer I sought out other works by Miller such as Tropic of Capricorn, Black Spring, The Rosy Crucifixion, The Colossus of Maroussi, and Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. I liked his mix of pseudo-autobiography and stream of consciousness.

When I say that I am disappointed after my recent rereading of Tropic of Cancer, I am not criticizing the value of Miller’s work. I still like the pseudo-autobiography, the surrealism, and the stream of consciousness. However, in this reading of the book, I find it harder to put aside the fact that Miller takes delight in presenting himself as somewhat of a selfish, freeloading, vain, woman-chasing asshole. I get it: exaggeration is the name of his game; it’s what makes the narrative work. And it is marketed as a novel, not as a straight autobiography. It’s just that, well, I’ve been as poor as Miller claims to have been in his book; I have lived in poverty in foreign lands, sometimes even begging to survive. But I have never seen the need to compromise my ethics or my feelings of empathy for the fellow humans with whom I became acquainted; it never occurred to me to describe them with the snide, cynical attitude that Miller assumes in Tropic of Cancer. Most often, they were my fellows in distress; when they assisted me in my need I was sincerely grateful.

To balance the appraisal, I have also read a few biographies of Henry Miller, and by all accounts he was not the self-centered, predatory scoundrel that he comes across as in print. In reality, he was kind, open-minded, and generous, although somewhat impractical in matters of money. He had loyal friends. And in 1964 no less an entity than the United States Supreme Court overruled obscenity rulings by multiple state courts and declared Tropic of Cancer to be a work of art.

I have no issue with the obscenity in the book. What I object to is not the protagonist’s sexual depravity, such as it is, but rather his extreme egocentricity and resultant callousness toward others. It is this trait that irritated me during this most recent reading. If you have never read it though, I would still recommend the book, if you can stomach the vulgarity and the narrator’s insulting attitude. He takes verbal aim at everyone, with no exceptions, and he does it with unparalleled eloquence. That’s what kept me reading this time despite everything: the eloquence. Miller is a literary master when it comes to esoteric vocabulary, unusual turns of phrase, originality of expression, and unexpected flights of surrealistic fantasy.

Reviews and Reflections on Books, Literature, and Writing: Volume Four Is Now Available!

My latest collection of book reviews, Reviews and Reflections on Books, Literature, and Writing: Volume Four, is now available in paperback and as an ebook at various online outlets. Links to these are below.

As I wrote recently in my essay “Book Reviews as Autobiography”:

To write about the thoughts and impressions brought about by a book is as valid as writing about a physical journey that I take to another location. The author of the book serves as my traveling companion. To undertake the reading of a book is a fascinating experience in that as a reader I have voluntarily stripped myself of my senses, except the vision that allows me to see the words on the page, and I have put myself at the mercy of someone, most often a stranger, who constructs a mental and emotional world out of words, places me in it, introduces me to its inhabitants, and then draws me into a story based on all the assembled parts. This is true for nonfiction as well as fiction.

Every writer approaches their subject matter differently, and every book review says as much about the reviewer as about the book.

And this is from the introduction of the new volume:

Picture a book as a gateway to a new land and a book review as a tantalizing glimpse of it, a brief travel memoir of someone who has been there and come back. A large part of what makes life so thrilling is our appreciation of the interpretations of experiences that we find in books. So sit back in your favorite chair or couch or lie down on your bed or chaise lounge and dive in. Allow these reviews to assist you in your own literary explorations by guiding you to new worlds of imagination and adventure.

Trade Paperback

Amazon Kindle

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

Apple iBooks

Smashwords

Thoughts on Jack London: Sailor on Horseback by Irving Stone

As I write this I’m in Orono, a town near Bangor, dog-sitting for my son while he embarks on a scientific expedition in Alaska with some researchers from the University of Maine. My thoughts have turned to Jack London for a few reasons. First of all, I decided to bring along books that are tried and true in my personal past, and one of these is Sailor on Horseback. I discovered this book at just the right time, as a young writer wondering how I could bring out in words what was boiling inside. The story of Jack London inspired me not only to focus wholeheartedly on my writing, but also to get out into the world, see things I’ve never seen, meet people from other cultures, take risks to fulfill my goals, and move forward in spite of whatever obstacles are in my way. This fast-paced “autobiographical novel” by Stone lifted my spirits almost immediately as soon as I started it this time – even though, or perhaps because, I had read it several times before. Familiar passages uplifted me as if I were interacting with an old friend.

Another boost to my spirit occurred when I discovered amidst my son’s books a copy of a large-sized volume full of old photos called Jack London Ranch Album. He said he picked it up during a visit to Jack London State Historic Park at Glen Ellen in northern California a few years ago. I’ve been to the park several times and have been enthralled at the various museums and at the ruins of Wolf House, the mansion London constructed on his ranch that burned down just before he and his wife were about to move in. The first few times were when I was on the road, a fulltime traveler, and as I wandered around the grounds and in particular as I contemplated the masses of stone walls that were all that was left of Wolf House, I fell into a meditative state about my life and my writing. I returned with two of my sons decades later and we strolled through the grounds together; our conversations turned naturally to literary themes.

A recent experience that caused me to remember Jack London was my discovery of a museum downtown: the Seattle unit of the Klondike Gold Rush National Historic Park. Seattle was the jumping-off point for many gold seekers, and this museum celebrates the phenomenon of the gold rush that helped make the city what it is today. The park has additional museums and historical buildings in Skagway, Alaska. Jack London traveled from San Francisco to Dawson via Skagway in search of gold, but didn’t find any. However, Stone states: “He arrived home without a penny in his pocket, yet he who had never mined an ounce of gold in Alaska was to make more money out of the gold rush than any sourdough who staked a claim on Bonanza Creek.” That’s because London turned his experiences into literary treasure. In the midst of poverty he struggled for a long time for recognition as a writer. His first-sold efforts were beautiful though often heartrending short stories of the far north such as “The White Silence,” “In a Far Country,” “The Law of Life,” “To Build a Fire,” and “An Odyssey of the North,” but his breakthrough came with his novella The Call of the Wild, which catapulted him to instant fame. This was followed not long after by another classic dog story: White Fang. Perusing the exhibits at the Klondike Museum inspire me to think of Jack London, who set forth to live an adventurous life so that he might afterwards write about it.

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I’d written the above before I had finished the book, but a few more words need to be said. I mentioned that the story of young Jack London working hard to establish his literary reputation filled me with delight and inspiration, and that’s true. However, as I read on, I realized that his later life increasingly turns into tragedy, and his flaws seem to leap out of the pages. He considered women inferior to men; he thought of “the inevitable white man,” epitomized by himself, as superior to other races; he called himself a socialist and gave speeches on equality and solidarity but at the same time earned a fortune and purchased vast land holdings. To top it off, he was terrible at money management, constantly overspent whenever something he wanted caught his eye, and was always deeply in debt. He seemed to be incapable of making mature decisions, especially as he got older. To balance the equation, though, it is important to mention that Stone writes the story of London’s life with intense melodrama (hence the subtitle “an autobiographical novel”), and other biographies, several of which I have read, are more nuanced. And despite his faults, Jack London was an exceedingly talented writer. He even wrote a terrific science fiction story called “The Red One,” about which none other than Theodore Sturgeon said, “Lord, how that fellow could write!” We all have our flaws. To say that London was a product of his times is not an excuse for his errant views, but it might perhaps be a justification for reading his books, even if the man himself falls short from a modern moral standpoint.

Flight Path

This week in my newsletter The Perennial Nomad: For Those Who Wander with Intent I explore the amazing Museum of Flight in Seattle.

According to Wikipedia, the Museum of Flight is “the largest private air and space museum in the world.” It is magnificent. It is composed of numerous exhibition pavilions the size of warehouses; these structures are brimming with full-sized aircraft from the past and present along with a mind-boggling array of wall murals and other displays. These wonders ignite the imagination. They cause memories to stir of films, TV, books, and possibly personal experience. They feed your soul. A place like the Museum of Flight offers an opportunity to time travel and even to look forward into the future. Sometimes, as in the war exhibits, we experience the nightmares of the past, but other times, when we explore the possibilities of space flight, our imaginations soar to worlds beyond.

Click on this link to read the rest.

Book Reviews as Autobiography

A recent comment on one of my past book reviews points out, somewhat critically, that in the review I talk about myself as much as I do the book. By way of explanation, I offer this essay, which appeared in one of my book-length collections of reviews; until now, though, I don’t think I’ve posted it on my blog. To clarify: I make no apologies, now or ever, for the autobiographical tone of my reviews. It is inevitable that my personality and background will affect whatever I write. My words, on whatever topic, erupt from the core of who I am.

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Preparing this volume of Reviews and Reflections on Books, Literature, and Writing has caused me to think about the role not only of reading books but also of writing book reviews in my life. Long ago, when I was raising my young family in Greece, I started my author website/blog: johnwalterswriter.com. Around that time I decided to write reviews of almost every book I read. That decision was not made solely to have material to put into the blog. I had already started to make a list of all the books I read, and it seemed a natural progression to then write something about how those books influenced me. I realized that in reading a book I was not only interacting with a person, the author of the book, but also choosing to spend some of the finite time I have on this planet undergoing an experience brought on by the words presented to me on the page.

To write about the thoughts and impressions brought about by a book is as valid as writing about a physical journey that I take to another location. The author of the book serves as my traveling companion. To undertake the reading of a book is a fascinating experience in that as a reader I have voluntarily stripped myself of my senses, except the vision that allows me to see the words on the page, and I have put myself at the mercy of someone, most often a stranger, who constructs a mental and emotional world out of words, places me in it, introduces me to its inhabitants, and then draws me into a story based on all the assembled parts. This is true for nonfiction as well as fiction.

How can someone not be changed by such an experience?

Because of the inevitably profound effect that books have on me, I have to be careful about what books I read. If you are what you eat, physically, then you are what you read, mentally. I try to select books that entertain me and also nourish and strengthen me mentally and emotionally. After all, as I mentioned above, we have a limited amount of time; it is important that we use well the years, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds at our disposal. For this reason, I have become more liberal about tossing aside books I begin that I soon realize are not good, or at least not good for me at that specific time. Life is short; I want every moment I spend reading to be a quality experience. I also have an aversion to writing negative book reviews. I’m a writer; I know how I would feel if someone wrote and published negative comments about something I had written. Rather than subject a fellow author to such a discouraging experience, I’ll stop reading the book, or, if I’ve already finished it, I won’t write a review. My purpose in writing reviews is not to skewer my peers; it is to provide helpful insight.

My reaction to books is not the same as yours. How can it be? We are two different human persons with unique backgrounds, educations, environments, and methods of processing the input we receive. The thoughts I have and the conclusions I come to concerning the books I read say as much about me as they do about the books. Two travelers may enter the same country, go to the same places, and even meet some of the same people, and yet the memoirs they would write would be completely different. Each would be comprised of the individual personalities, proclivities, and decisions of its author; each would be profoundly diverse from the other. If we consider a book as a place that we explore and a book review as a travel memoir, the same principle applies. Every writer approaches their subject matter differently, and every book review says as much about the reviewer as about the book.

In my opinion, any reviewer who pontificates as if speaking en cathedra is laughingly pretentious. Reviewers are just people; they have their opinions and you have yours. Their opinions count little when you portion out the moments of your own life. These are your decisions, not theirs.

In conclusion, let me emphasize that I write book reviews because I enjoy writing them, and I hope you enjoy reading them as well. If they guide you to books you want to explore, fine. If you only read the reviews and yet never read the books they describe, that’s fine too. Decide for yourself. One of the glories of human existence is freedom to choose. I’m glad, at least, that you have chosen to be my companion as we take this journey together through some of the books in my life.

I’m a professional writer; I make my living by my words.  I’m happy to share these essays with you, but at the same time, financial support makes the words possible.  If you’d like to become a patron of the arts and support my work, buy a few of my available books or available stories. To send a one-time or recurring donation, click here. You can also donate via my Patreon account. Thanks!

Book Review: The Maine Woods by Henry David Thoreau

Apart from selected essays, I have never had a strong desire to read any of Thoreau’s books other than Walden, which is a true masterpiece, self-contained, effervescent, powerful, luminous, wholly original, and life-changing. However, recently circumstances have caused me to make two trips to Maine, and while searching for background literature about my destination, I supposed that I should give The Maine Woods a try. It wasn’t easy to obtain the book. The Seattle Public Library, usually well-stocked with a wide range of books of all kinds, didn’t have it; a knowledgeable used book dealer I frequent (who didn’t have it in stock) told me that he sells forty copies of Walden for every one of all the rest of Thoreau’s books. Fortunately I found a used copy of The Maine Woods that I could order online.

While essentially Walden is a philosophical treatise, The Maine Woods is more of a straightforward travelogue and nature study. It is divided into three sections, each corresponding to journeys that Thoreau made with companions into the Maine wilderness in 1846, 1853, and 1857. In the first, called “Ktaadn” (Thoreau’s spelling of Mount Katahdin) he travels with several others up rivers and across lakes to the titular mountain with the intention of climbing it. According to Thoreau, he was the only one to make it to the cloud-wrapped summit. In the second section, called “Chesuncook,” named after a lake in the wilderness, he travels with an Indian (Thoreau’s term for a Native American) and another companion. The Indian is intent on hunting moose, but Thoreau simply wants to observe the local fauna and flora. He writes that “every creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine trees, and he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than destroy it.” And: “it is the poet; he it is who makes the truest use” of the wilderness. In the third section, Thoreau describes another journey up rivers and over lakes in the company of an indigenous guide and a friend. He spends a lot of time cataloging the local wildlife and vegetation, and he seems to relish the hardships they encounter in their travels. Of a storm while they are crossing a lake by canoe he says that “it was a pleasant excitement.” He observes that “invariably the best nights were those when it rained, for then we were not troubled with mosquitoes.” And he considers the “solitary pioneer” in the wilderness as being more respectable than “the helpless multitudes in the towns who depend on gratifying the extremely artificial wants of society and are thrown out of employment by hard times.”

I have to admit that The Maine Woods does not rise to the level of the brilliant and insightful Walden. Some of the descriptions, especially in the third part, are somewhat lengthy and repetitive. However, Thoreau is an excellent writer, and his accounts of his journeys allowed me to vicariously travel into the Maine woods of old, immersing myself in the primeval wilderness that is rapidly disappearing but even now exists in a few secluded parts of the North American continent. I might not recommend this book for everyone, but for those who enjoy well-told true tales of explorations of remote regions, you might like to give The Maine Woods a try.

Tools for the Road

This week in my newsletter The Perennial Nomad: For Those Who Wander with Intent I discuss what you’ll need to set out on a road adventure. It’s probably less than you think!

We’re assuming that you have the mind and heart of a perennial nomad and you’re waiting like a runner at the starting line for the right moment to take off. What do you need in the way of material items to assist you in your journey? It varies from person to person, of course, but we’ll assume you need a few things at least to make life not just bearable but enjoyable. Not many people would be willing to imitate Jack Reacher in the TV series and the Lee Child novels, who travels from place to place with nothing more than the clothes on his back – not even a change of underwear, or Saint Francis in the movie Brother Sun, Sister Moon, who wants none of his former attachments and so strips down in the town square and leaves his parents’ home and the town of Assisi buck naked. The nomadic lifestyle is often simple, and sometimes even stark, but in my experience it is also usually comfortable and occasionally even luxurious.

Click on this link to read the rest.

Book Review: The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by the Dalai Lama, Desmond Tutu, and Douglas Abrams

I had a difficult time deciding whether to review this book or not. There is no question that it is significant and worthwhile, but I usually focus on more secular titles. What tipped the scales is the historical importance of some of the authors. The Dalai Lama fled his homeland of Tibet in the late 1950s and established a haven for Tibetan language, culture, and customs in exile in Dharamsala, India. Since then he has been an unceasing advocate for world peace. For his efforts, he has received the Nobel Peace Prize and the U.S. Congressional Gold Medal. For decades Desmond Tutu battled apartheid in South Africa. When apartheid was abolished, he led the nation’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, a groundbreaking effort that highlighted a new more compassionate way to move forward after the overthrow of oppressive regimes. He also was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize; in addition, he has received the U.S. Presidential Medal of Freedom.

The occasion for the interviews that culminated in The Book of Joy was the eightieth birthday of the Dalai Lama. Although Tutu was suffering from cancer, he agreed to travel to Dharamsala to collaborate on the volume, which they hoped would be able to instruct many in the ways of peace. The main writer is Abrams, who conducted the interviews and added extra material corroborating the Dalai Lama and Tutu’s observations with current research by scientists and psychologists. It is important to emphasize that the authors address all the peoples of the world, not only Christians and Buddhists; they are inclusive of all of humankind regardless of their beliefs or lack of beliefs. In a way their message of hope and the possibility of potential joy for everyone has a bittersweet tang when we read about so much hate and intolerance in the news these days, but it is precisely because the world is so full of greed, hatred, frustration, pain, rage, and sorrow that they took the time and made the effort to share their thoughts. As Abrams reminds us: “Our empathy does not seem to extend to those who are outside our ‘group,’ which is perhaps why the Archbishop and the Dalai Lama are constantly reminding us that we are, in fact, one group – humanity.”

The book is broken into various sections corresponding to the questions Abrams put to the two leaders on each interview day. On the first day, they discussed the nature of true joy. On the second and third days, they spoke of the obstacles to joy, which include fear, stress, anxiety, frustration, anger, sadness, grief, despair, loneliness, envy, suffering, illness, and fear of death. On the fourth and fifth days, they shared the eight pillars of joy: perspective, humility, humor, acceptance, forgiveness, gratitude, compassion, and generosity.

The birthday celebration itself took place at the nearby Tibetan school. Among the most touching passages in the book are accounts by students of how they had to be smuggled out of Tibet by relatives to come and study at the school at Dharamsala; they had to leave their families and their way of life behind, and they had no idea when they might be able to see their loved ones again. But it was the only way they could study the Tibetan culture in the Tibetan language, which was forbidden in their homeland, at least as of 2015 when this book was written.

The Book of Joy may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but to those who venture into its pages it offers solace, reassurance, and, well, joy.

Book Review: The Edge of Maine by Geoffrey Wolff

I recently took a trip to Orono, a small town near Bangor where the University of Maine is located, to visit one of my sons, and soon I’ll be returning for a couple of weeks to dog-sit while my son joins a team to study permafrost in Alaska. Whenever I travel to a new place that is for me unexplored territory, I like to learn as much as I can about it, so as prelude to my journey, I searched for books on Maine at the Seattle Public Library. There were surprisingly few; there was not even a copy of The Maine Woods by Henry David Thoreau. I searched a few used bookstores downtown and came up empty as well. One of the owners told me that he got at least forty requests for Walden for every request for anything else by Thoreau. I suppose the same imbalance might occur if someone went into a library or bookstore in Maine and looked for volumes on the Pacific Northwest; a local venue will always place more emphasis on what’s close. At the library I did, though, come across The Edge of Maine, published in 2005 as part of the National Geographic Directions Literary Travel Series.

The Edge of Maine does not purport to be a comprehensive travelogue or history. Instead, it meanders from place to place along the Maine coastline at the author’s whim; it is more like a collection of disparate essays than a single sustained piece. Still, it tells some interesting stories. For instance, the author describes his visits to a few of the thousands of islands off the Maine coast and tells tales of the lobstermen who live there and the tremendous Atlantic tempests that pound them in winter, turning these idyllic havens into storm-swept alien environments. He tells of the once-thriving shipbuilding industry, which took advantage of the incomparable timber in the area, using white pine for masts, oak for keels, and “cedar, spruce, maple, and elm” for “ribs and stems and decks.” He also offers a fascinating history of the ice industry; when the Kennebec River froze in winter, the ice would be cut out in blocks, stored in warehouses, and shipped to cities along the east coast of America, to the Caribbean, and even to faraway India, a journey of six months. The booming ice business came to an abrupt end, of course, with the invention of electric refrigeration.

Another section of the book deals with long-time Maine residents attempting to preserve the environment from those who would exploit it by building dams on the rivers, nuclear power plants, and other potentially devastating industries. He also delves into the often strained relationships between permanent residents and summer-dwelling wealthy outsiders who cause property taxes to skyrocket with their elaborate mansions and vast tracts of manicured landscapes.

As I said, the book is not thorough, but in the subjects it touches on it offers a glimpse into the unique character of Maine and its inhabitants. Wolff writes with irony, satire, and tongue-in-cheek humor, but sometimes his prose is a bit dense and convoluted. Still, his insights into some of the more esoteric aspects of the history and society of Maine make this a worthwhile read for those who want to learn more about the state located in the far northeast corner of the United States.

Book Review: The Bookshop: A History of the American Bookstore by Evan Friss

I have been an avid reader for as long as I can remember, and bookstores have always been a source of wonder and excitement for me. When I was wandering the world with nary a possession but what could fit in my duffle bag, I could only carry one book at a time; however, when my wife and I settled in Greece to raise our family, we began to accumulate books. In Greece it was difficult to find enough high-quality English-language books to slake my appetite. We had access to a high school/college library, but it was small. A bookstore in town at a large shopping center had a fairly decent selection of English language titles, but these books were expensive. So whenever I’d make a trip to the States for whatever reason, I’d seek out used bookstores and browse for titles to bring back to Greece.

Times have changed. New and used books are so easy to find online these days that the number of physical bookstores has greatly diminished. I remember on one trip to Seattle more than a decade ago I walked a circuit of at least half a dozen used bookstores in the University District alone; now, though, only one of those bookstores remains. I’ve visited the iconic Strand bookstore on a visit to New York and the no-less-iconic Powell’s, which proclaims itself the world’s largest independent bookstore, in Portland. Bookstores are magical places from which you can extract portals that can carry you away to lands unknown.

Friss’s book is an ode to bookstores. He starts with Benjamin Franklin and his printing press, and then moves on to booksellers in the last few centuries. There are chapters on the Gotham Book Mart, the Strand, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon Books. There are also sections on Black-owned bookstores, sidewalk booksellers in New York, and independent bookstores. Throughout the text, Friss’s appreciation of the value of bookstores is obvious.

It would have been impossible, of course, to include more than a small sample of the bookstores that have helped shape American thought, and yet some of Friss’s choices puzzle me. In a stark contrast with the positive, vibrant tone of the rest of the book, he includes a chapter on the hate-filled Aryan Book Store, which appeared in Los Angeles before World War II to distribute Nazi propaganda. It injects a pall of darkness into what is otherwise an upbeat, hope-filled book. Also, it is the only west coast bookstore Friss focuses on. I had been looking forward to at least reading about the history of the City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco and Powell’s Books in Portland. Instead, Friss concentrates on bookshops in Chicago and on the east coast. Maybe he’s planning a sequel. I hope so, because incomplete as it is, what he has shared about the history of U.S. bookstores is fascinating. I’ll take a bookstore or a library over an amusement park anytime, and I know a lot of other people feel the same way. After all, that’s where you have access to the true multiverse of the mind.