Doubleplusungood. Facecrime. Ownlife.

I recently reread George Orwell’s 1984. My son, a high school freshman, was required to read it over the summer and I wanted to be able to discuss it with him. I first read the book in 1984. In 1984, I was in high school, the Cold War was in full swing, the Berlin Wall was guarded by men with guns, and I thought I knew what the book was about. I expected to find it a bit stale and out of date. Au contraire. I was blown away by Orwell’s prescience. Okay, George Orwell is not the most elegant writer, perhaps intentionally. But his vision–his ability to see to the core of political systems and politicians–is astonishing.

Great read for an election year when the level of doublethink and newspeak flowing from the radio and television grows intolerable.

It is true that our own world, with our designer babies and our many varieties of Soma, resembles Huxley’s Brave New World more than Orwell’s 1984. However, the willingness of those with power to crush those without “for their own good” thrives unabated.

I was reading the book the week Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn died. I was reading it while the Olympics took place in China. It was a slow read because I often had to stop and let my mind wander over the six decades between 1948 and 2008 and watch Orwell’s insights unfold across events he never knew, but clearly saw.

If you want to spend some time pondering newspeak, just try to explain to an intelligent child the meaning of the words “professional” and “amateur” while watching the Olympics. I’m trying to avoid politics here, but what the heck… Try to explain exactly what is “liberal” about the people espousing bureaucracy, regulation of everything, and paternalism. Or, for that matter, what the current batch of “conservatives” is trying to conserve.

Brief synopsis for those who avoided reading this in high school:

Protagonist: Winston Smith [Note the name. First name belongs to one of Britain’s most famous individuals. Surname—utterly generic. I suspect this book is given to high school students because the symbolism is laid on pretty thick. See above comment on Orwell’s inelegance].

Winston lives in a country formerly called Britain—now called Airstrip One—under an oppressive bureaucracy that will generously reeducate those who fail to accept its rule. Big Brother is the personification of the system. [Even if you never read the book you have heard of Big Brother or at least seen the famous Apple ad.]

Now class, please write a 500-word essay on why he is called Big Brother and not Big Daddy.

Winston struggles to keep some kernel of “self” free from the watchful gaze of Big Brother and the Thought Police. This is a crime called “ownlife.” Eventually, he is caught and re-educated. To make a long and painful story short, Winston learns to love Big Brother.

Damned depressing book. Orwell wanted to believe in the human spirit, but in the end Winston dies loving Big Brother. Orwell had no hope that those who believed in something could ever prevail against those who believe in nothing but their own power.

To cheer myself up after reading 1984, I had to dig my Berlin Wall earrings out of the back of a dresser. The sight of them made me misty-eyed. The sight of me weeping over really ugly earrings made my son painfully embarrassed.

What has this to do with 1984, he wants to know. Well, as the chunks of rock brush against my neck, I think, “cheesy consumer capitalism triumphs over totalitarian oppression”. And really, if my only choice is “Dancing with the Stars” or the Stazi, I say, “Bring on the sequins!”

And, yet… this might just be my way of loving Big Brother…

 

Shadow makes for good beach reading

One of the great American pleasures of summer is sitting on a beach somewhere, ripping through some light reading, being compelled to turn the pages as fast as you can read them by the pulse-pounding story therein.

To do just that, many turn to legal thrillers, which are a staple of best-seller lists and really exploded with the publication of John Grisham’s The Firm in 1991.

Steve Martini is a prolific author of just this type of book. He has written several centered on one character, Paul Madriani. Madriani practices with his partner Harry Hinds in San Diego. He is, of course, a criminal lawyer, and in Shadow of Power is persuaded to defend a white supremacist in the high profile killing of a provacative author.

Martini’s strength is writing characters that have a strong taste of authenticity. Madriani feels like a real guy, not some plastic boiler-plate hero. In addition to being believable, Madriani is eminently likeable. It’s hard not to pull for him, and the people he works with which include his investigator, a large African American named Herman and his aforementioned partner, Hinds.

In Shadow of Power, Martini has produced an engrossing thriller. The premise, which involves a wildly popular but muckraking author (think a liberal version of Ann Coulter) is at times tenuous, but since the author is the victim, thankfully not too much rests on that.

The accused is the son of a an old friend of Madriani, and of course, all of the initial evidence points to him as the killer.

How Madriani explained away every piece of evidence is what kept me turning the pages. But it should be noted that this really isn’t a thriller. Whereas Grisham’s novels grabbed you by the throat and forced you to keep reading, Shadow of Power is more likely to engage your brain and make you try to figure out whodunnit.

Martini follows many of the genre’s conventions, right up to the confession at the end by the killer, putting a nice bow of closure on the story, so there is nothing particularly original about it’s plot or construction.

However, Shadow of Power is still well worth a read if you enjoy legal dramas. As I stated earlier, the characters are engaging, real and likeable. It is a solid, if not spectacular, novel.

 

Sci-fi Shorts

I loved Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend. The book, of course, not the Will Smith blockbuster film. So when I found the collection of Matheson short stories entitled Duel, I bought it with high hopes. Although I did not find any of the stories in Duel to be as thoughtful or gripping as I Am Legend, the book supplied a more or less satisfying experience.

The collection was published in 2003, but nearly all the stories in it were written early in Matheson’s career, in the first half of the 1950s. Most of them are sci-fi thrillers, some with more emphasis on sci-fi, others on the thrill. Unfortunately for today’s reader, some ideas that were innovative 50+ years ago are either old hat or just plain silly now. The result is that some of the stories – or certain aspects of otherwise more enduring stories – are more interesting historically, as snapshots of the era’s psyche, than as literature.

Probably the best of the book’s stories is that from which its name is drawn. Duel (1971) follows a business man on a car journey across the California desert as he is hunted by a psychotic trucker who took offense at having been passed by the man. Steven Spielberg turned the ingeniously simple plot into his first movie, starring Dennis Weaver. Although the impact of the story was muted for me because I’ve seen the film, those who have not will probably have sweaty hands for the duration.

Being (1954) is my favourite for the thrill; the desperation of the protagonists in their struggle for survival holds up well, even though the idea behind the source of their struggle is a bit dated. The Last Day (1953) is an interesting take on the now well-worn question of what it would be like if the Earth were going to be destroyed today by a cosmic impact, and everybody knew it. Return (1951) treats the possibility of time travel in a way that remains fresh today – I have not seen Matheson’s ideas repeated, and they are worth repeating. Born of Man and Woman (1950), Matheson’s first story, was strange and sad, and mercifully brief. F— (1952) has a time traveller arriving in an era when physical sustenance is no longer taken in through food, with the result that “food” is a new f-word. Although mildly interesting and somewhat believable in its characterisations, it falls short of profundity as a commentary on sexual mores.

Overall, Duel will appeal to a limited audience. Sci-fi aficionados are likely enjoy it thoroughly, both for its content and as a glimpse at an important stage in the development of the genre. Still, the reader should not expect the genius of, say, Ray Bradbury, who commends Matheson in a preface to Duel. And if you are not a sci-fi fan, this is not the book that will turn you into one.

 

The Fencing Master

Up at my family cottage we have a couple small bookcases filled with the detritus of four decades of books brought up and left there, it is one of the most varied and bizarre literary collections you will ever see. Searching for something to read, I pulled out a book I never heard of by an author I never heard of, and then found I could not put it down until I was finished. The book is The Fencing Master, written in Spanish by Arturo Perez-Reverte in 1988, and translated into English in 1998. Apparently it received rave reviews and was a bestseller when it was translated, but this had all escaped me, I came upon it entirely by accident.

The book follows the aging Fencing Master Don Jamie Astarloa in 1868 Madrid, Spain: one of the few remaining master practitioners of a dying art as the ancient studies of swordplay are replaced by firearms even in settling matters of honour. He bristles at those who call his life’s work a ‘sport’ or a pastime, and earns his money teaching the sons of rich Spanish nobles this ancient skill, as well as sparring weekly with a wealthy Spanish noble and bon-vivant of some repute.

The story takes place in turbulent times, as the monarchy of Isabella II is crumbling and nobody knows which way the government will fall. This is the source of much discussion amongst the lunchtime friends of Don Jamie, though he remains aloof and disinterested, his only passion being the furthering of his art and the discovery of the legendary ‘perfect strike’ in fencing, against which there can be no defence. The plot is somewhat convoluted, and presents an interesting take on an old, not terribly original story. I will reveal nothing more of it here, because what makes this book magnificent is not the plot, but the strong writing and most of all, the magnificent character of Don Jamie. This book is first and foremost a character study, and Don Jamie is one of the most fascinating and unique characters I have encountered in literature. He is a rare combination of an unusual person with a very atypical perception of the world, but who is entirely believable and reasonable. He is an anachronism in a modernizing age, and is well aware of this and even takes a certain amount of pride in the fact. His actions are always in line with his rather archaic views of honour, views that extend down to the cut of his clothing.

Here the second exceptional element of the book comes into play, and that is the exceptional writing. I always wonder, how much of the writing skill in a translated book comes from the author and how much from the translator? Spanish is after all such a florid language; the book cannot have been rewritten word for word. Regardless, the skill is remarkable, the author manages to set beautiful visual images with his words, describing the clothes on Don Jamie’s back to the point where I can see them, with abstract as well as concrete descriptors. The writing brings you in, addressing seemingly inconsequential facts such as sounds and irrelevant events just to set the scene, which is does exceptionally well. However, the skills of the writer include more than just simple description. As the main character is consumed by the art of fencing, so it the book: chapter titles and opening quotes always deal with fencing, and, when Don Jamie is trying to deal with a problem, you can see the mind of a fencer at work in trying to judge attack, counter, parry and riposte even in the world of politics. The writing becomes a perfect parable for the identity of the main character, absorbed to the sake of all else with the pursuit of his discipline.

The story end in a manner which at first might seem a bit cliché, but which is redeemed beautifully by the last two paragraphs, which manage on one hand to surprise, but upon reflection leave you realizing that the book could not have ended any other way.

I picked up this book by happenstance, but could not put it down until I had completed it, a luxury I was allowed due to my being at the cottage. I cannot recommend this book highly enough: it is not long (only 240 pages) but was one of the most satisfying reads I have had in some time.

 

A Night to Remember?

I picked up On Chesil Beach as I was rushing out of a bookstore, knowing nothing about it except that its author is Ian McEwan and that it is short. Later I noticed that the publisher chose to describe the book and attract the reader using three words from a review by the Independent on Sunday: ‘Wonderful … Exquisite … Devastating’. In spite of such an overblown, sickly romantic description, I read the book. And, I think, I was rewarded for it.

On Chesil Beach is the story of the wedding night of a young, naïve couple in the summer of 1962. Edward Mayhew, raised in squalor in a tiny village east of Oxford, and Florence Ponting, the polished product of a privileged childhood in North Oxford, were spending their first night together as husband and wife. The impending consummation of the marriage raised equally visceral, but extremely different, psychological responses in the two of them. He, a bit too anxious, and she, entirely repelled. Their struggle toward a night of sexual compatibility provides the grist of the story.

Although the book is ‘about’ the couple’s wedding night, a great portion of the story is told in flashbacks to Edward’s and Florence’s lives, from childhood to engagement. McEwan masterfully develops his characters in patches and fragments, the way one might stitch a quilt. While events in the bridal suite unfold slowly but inexorably, their power and meaning become clear as McEwan reveals the minds of the protagonists through these flashbacks.The reader senses that everything in Edward and Florence’s shared experience has led them, like it or not, to this moment.\The effect of the structure is as elegant as the prose itself.

There is one important difficulty with the book, which is that the action is centred on the marriage bed. The problem is not McEwan’s treatment of sexuality, which is serious and sensitive, somewhat graphic but by no means pornographic. The problem is that the story cannot be encountered without a significant element of voyeurism – an unfortunate human trait. This creates something of an intellectual paradox: the book engages the mind while instilling the feeling that one is a bit of a peeping tom. Highbrow voyeurism is still voyeurism.

On that account I would recommend On Chesil Beach only selectively.If sexual depictions in print make you uncomfortable, or if you think one ought not to be reading about someone else’s wedding night, even if fictional, you would be better off passing over this offering from McEwan. If your scruples are slightly less exacting or your tolerance higher, On Chesil Beach is a very worthwhile read – evocative, instructive, not quite dark but certainly melancholy.

 

Killer Book

I have never been an American Civil War buff. I’ve never been able to keep Vicksburg and Fredericksburg and Gettysburg straight in my mind, and I’ve only had a passing interest in rectifying the situation. I knew that the Union won, the Confederacy lost, the war both was and wasn’t fought over the issue of slavery, and Sherman burned Atlanta. Seemed like enough.

But then a family member recommended Michael Shaara’s Pulitzer Prize winning historical novel, The Killer Angels, and it presented a good opportunity for me to begin to satisfy that passing interest. I will be forever grateful for that recommendation. The Killer Angels is one of the most rewarding reads I’ve had in a long time.

The story takes place from June 29^th to July 3^rd, 1863, in and around Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Those days witnessed the leadup to and execution of the decisive battle of the Civil War, the battle of Gettysburg. Primarily through the eyes of Confederate General Longstreet and Union Colonel Chamberlain, but also from the perspectives of Robert E Lee and a few others, the reader witnesses this monumental battle. Witnesses it with stunning clarity and an uncanny sense of presence both on the scene and in the thoughts and emotions of the commanders who made it all happen. I felt as though transported to that fateful place and time, sharing the frustrations and doubts in the planning, the fear and exhilaration of the fight, the abysmal sadness or triumphant joy of the finish.

And the death. Although Shaara doesn’t dwell on it or glorify it, neither does he ignore that the story of Gettysburg is a story of death. Often death anticipated, sometimes death avoided, but mostly just death in obscene numbers and horrific ways.

Perhaps even more striking, though, is that death was faced so nobly, so honourably. One of the noteworthy achievements of this book is that it conveys effectively the martial honour of those soldiers, where it came from and how it shaped the individuals and the groups. In one scene a general who was leading his brigade’s advance came upon a soldier from another brigade who was crouched in fear, unable to face the enemy’s onslaught. The general appealed to honour: ‘Come on boy. What will you think of yourself tomorrow?’ While the pragmatist would rather think himself a coward than lose the ability to think, the man of honour would rather die than think himself a coward. Shaara brings this aspect of the Civil War mind to life with great authenticity. If you are put off by the notion of martial honour, thinking of it as eye-rolling machismo or romantic nonsense, The Killer Angels will make you think again. You’ll be put face to face with simple, beautiful, tragic honour. Without it the Civil War itself is almost unimaginable.

Related to honour is the depth of love and admiration the colonels and generals had for their men. A regiment was like a family and its leader was like a father. Together they faced extreme physical hardship, the killing of good soldiers on the other side (perhaps even a friend or a brother), and death itself. At the end of a particular day’s battle one regiment was moved to another part of the battlefield, but the colonel ensured that his C.O. knew they would have to return to the place, for they would bury their own dead. War was indeed a very personal, very intimate, thing.

The book also succeeds in bringing the reader into the intellectual aspects of the battle. The planning, the roles and expectations placed on different groups, the ways in which mental lapses led to setbacks, and desperation tactics led to decisive victories. The Battle of Gettysburg was won on the field, but lost in the mind. The other intellectual aspect that is of great interest is how different participants expressed for what it was they were fighting. Both sides thought of themselves as fighting for freedom, but each had a very different notion of freedom. Shaara reveals the Civil War mind, in all its variety, sympathetically, but not defensively or apologetically.

At times I had to remind myself that The Killer Angels is a novel. Everything about it rings true, as it should given Shaara’s extensive research into the battle and the minds of those who fought it. Of course, the book conveys Shaara’s own interpretation of the evidence for what went on and why, and there are other interpretations out there. But Shaara’s version is likely to hold sway in the minds of most of his readers, for his story is at once believable and highly engaging.

There are, as always, some quibbles. The editing of the book seems distinctly weak considering the calibre of both author and publisher. At one point a soldier squints into the western sun, but a few paragraphs later we discover it isn’t yet noon. At another point an individual slept either well or poorly the night before, depending on which page one is reading. And there are several typographical problems, one of which was the particularly distracting omission of the word ‘not’ from a key point in a pontification by Robert E Lee. The flow was interrupted and the impact lost. A second quibble is that the author admits he altered some of the language used because the original was too ‘windy’ and because ‘it was a naïve and sentimental time’ and the reader might think the religiosity too quaint. Undoubtedly it was Shaara who found it quaint, and for an author who so obviously valued conveying the minds of the characters, it is a remarkable choice to downplay the religious aspects of those minds.

Quibbles, though, only quibbles. Do not hesitate to read The Killer Angels. An experience awaits you.

 

Murder in Oxford

One doesn’t often think of the beach and the city of Oxford in the same sentence, unless it goes something like this: “I have got to get out of Oxford and go to a beach somewhere!” But those two things are brought together nicely in Guillermo Martínez’s book, The Oxford Murders. The book is short, tight, engagingly written, and fun to read. It is perfect for a day at the beach, in other words.

The setting is richly evocative, especially for one familiar with Oxford. Martínez keeps it mostly very accurate, and those who know the city will find themselves picturing the exact locations in which the action is taking place. The main character lives on Cunliffe Close, a mere two blocks from where I used to live, and the description of the area is faithful. One well acquainted with the city will note a few discrepancies, but nothing to get oneself in a dither about.

The main character is a graduate student from Argentina, in Oxford for a year course in mathematics (or in Oxfordspeak: maths). As the title implies, he is inadvertently involved in a murder, and begins a quest to find the murderer. He is aided in this task by a man who becomes something of a mentor to him, someone in the same field, a famous Oxford don. The two of them share a passion for the academic pursuit of logic through maths, and they form a fast friendship.

The book moves quickly, as the main character moves through Oxford’s various landmarks and sites in pursuit of his quest. He goes to several of the important pubs, and even travels out to Blenheim Palace (an Oxford must-see) for a musical concert. Martínez sometimes treats us to literary lectures on mathematics, but these are short enough to avoid becoming cumbersome. The book has a nice pace and is written in an engaging style that demands little of the reader while providing a significant amount of reward. And the final plot twist is quite nice, though not totally unexpected. It is handled quite well.

The Oxford Murders differs from many crime novels in that it is not really a noir, nor is it a pulse-pounder. It is really just a quiet, pleasant read that would be especially enjoyed by those familiar with the city of Oxford. It is, in fact, exactly the kind of read that one would wish for on a sunny spring day while strolling down leafy Cunliffe Close.

 

Tortilla Doesn’t Fall Flat

In 1935 Tortilla Flat started it all for John Steinbeck. It wasn’t his first work, but it was his first commercially successful book. At about 200 pages, it’s a light read in the literal, physical sense. It’s also a light read in the figurative sense, with a simple prose style telling simple stories about simple people. Tortilla Flat is more like Cannery Row than it is like The Grapes of Wrath. It is more charming than profound. But simplicity and charm were Steinbeck’s hooks, and within them he hid great story-telling and character development. Steinbeck’s ironic wit and his sense of the beauty to be found in nature and in human relationships permeate the work.

The book is set in the Tortilla Flat area near Monterey, California. It follows a group of friends, paisanos, through a few years of their lives after World War I. All are impoverished and unemployed, most are petty criminals. But their greatest desires are not steady work or financial security or staying out of jail, but rather camaraderie with each other and a gallon of red wine. Or several gallons. Scrounging for food and for items they can barter for wine, the paisanos drink, fight, connive, find love (short-term, of course), and give of themselves to anyone who has less than the nothing they have.

I will admit that, having read four of Steinbeck’s other novels before this one, at times the ‘poor in Monterey’ theme felt a bit tired. If you have read Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row you probably don’t need to read Tortilla Flat. Unless, of course, those books left you wanting more, in which case by all means pick it up. If you’ve not read Cannery Row or Of Mice and Men, read Tortilla Flat first because Steinbeck wrote it first. It’s an enjoyable read and a welcome break from the ordinary.

 

Empressive Literature

I found this book at the airport, and chose it for the sole reason that the New York Times Book Review voted it the best book of the year (presumably 2006, as that is the copyright date). Naturally, being a conservative from the the Western part of the country, I wanted to hate it. What do those pretentious snobs at the NYTBR know, anyway?

Well, in this case at least, they know good writing. Or great writing, rather. Messud’s prose is a feast for the mind: elegant, evocative, in turns elaborate and succinct (well, mostly elaborate). Perhaps at times she is too wordy, perhaps a bit too confident in her ability to guide the reader through labyrinthine sentences. But in the main she uses her mastery of the language to paint pictures, give life to interactions and events, and reveal the characters’ souls, with power and precision.

A quote on the book’s cover calls it a “comedy of manners”, and it is that, but it is much more. The characters are not merely the objects of satire. Messud displays the thoughts, emotions, motivations, and regrets of the characters splendidly, eliciting both sympathy and judgment. The characters are real, three-dimensional. The reader is not told that a particular person is shallow or deep, but the author patiently discloses the depth of each character through that character’s interactions and thoughts. Some characters emerge as more shallow than others, but none is treated dismissively and by the end of the book I felt I knew each one.

Knowing the characters was not, by and large, a pleasant experience. None of them would be a likely friend of mine, nor me of theirs. For the most part they are selfish, even narcissistic, and nearly all of them at some point accuse another of just that trait. They are liberal, atheistic, opinionated. Simply put, they’re distasteful and pretentious New York elites or wannabes. There were points early on at which I wondered whether I could finish the book because it didn’t seem to be written for someone like me. But my persistence paid off, for Messud’s genius is that she made me want to know these people in spite of myself, in spite of them. She gave me just enough sympathy for them to keep me turning pages, even eagerly.

The storylines are not complicated: members and wannabes of the New York intelligentsia struggle with their professions and relationships over the course of a few months in 2001. Frederick Tubbs has dropped out of college for reasons that would have made Holden Caulfield proud (were that possible). He then seeks to make it as a New York intellectual by hitching himself to the wagon of his uncle Murray Thwaite, an aging 60’s radical and leading liberal commentator. Along the way we come also to know Murray’s daughter, her friends, and her love interest. What fills the nearly 500 pages is the interior lives of individuals. Messud’s human insight is profound, and her ability to convey it is no less. Her commentary on the human condition as it exists in this miniscule subset of the populace is subtle yet distinct, sad and rarely hopeful, yet not wholly dark.

The Emperor’s Children is not a light read and it is far from being my favourite novel (Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath is still king of that mountain). For all of Messud’s insight and literary prowess, I cannot yet say precisely what I’ve taken away from the book. It’s too good to be merely entertaining, yet it needs something (I know not what) to push it into the next echelon. Perhaps if you pick up a copy you can tell me what it lacks, or that I’m the one lacking. If you can stomach the characters, you won’t regret the purchase or the investment of your leisure time.

 

Sequined Love Nuns

As we enter the spring, thoughts turn to beaches, sun, sand, warm sun and cannibalism. Ok, perhaps most of us do not think of that last one. But for one member of the Shark People, thoughts have definitely turned to the consumption of human flesh. And his prime roasting candidate is one Tucker Case, a disgraced former private jet pilot with a severely injured penis. Add to the mix a cargo cult, a talking bat, and a transvestite navigator and you have the irreverent, wacky, and combustible mix that is Christopher Moore’s Island of the Sequined Love Nun.

The book follows Case, a private jet pilot for a cosmetics mogul who is felled by his two weaknesses: women and drink in a hilarious, though painful, scene. Cut off by his strict boss, he is rescued by a mysterious job offer flying for a missionary couple who live on a tiny island in the South Pacific. With no other options, he is forced to accept. His journey to the island and what he finds there defy description in this review. Suffice it to say it is not what he was expecting.  It’s an island paradise, inhabited by a eccentric doctor, Japanese henchmen, and betel-chewing natives.

Many adjectives are applied to humorous novels: comic or darkly comic, comedic, and so on. I don’t know which of those applies to this book. But it is funny. It is hard not to wonder at the mind that created this insanity. Regardless of Moore’s mental state, I am thankful that he provided me with a few hours of levity. I certainly recommend this as a light read that won’t make you think, but will make you chuckle.