This volume, billed as a “portrait” of Nelle Harper Lee, disappointed me a bit. Shields primarily writes young adult non-fiction, and although the jacket claims he was trying to write an adult book, I fear he has fallen a bit short.
The story is quite repetitive, and the tone definitely favors teen readers. In addition, I noticed a few grammatical and spelling errors. A couple of sentences really required me to pause and dissect them before proceeding.
Another problem with the book involves a chapter and another long section which focuses more on Truman Capote and the writing of In Cold Blood than on Lee and To Kill A Mockingbird. In fact, the best chapter deals with Lee’s experiences in New York surrounding the writing and publication of her novel. Unfortunately, the next chapter rather boringly surveys the critical reviews of TKAM.
All in all, I have to classify this as a mildly interesting, so-so read. 3 stars.
--Chiron, 2/26/09
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle
Roddy Doyle won the Mann Booker Prize for Paddy in 1993, and this wonderful novel is my latest attempt to read all forty Booker Prize winners. I already have completed 15, so the list is down to 25 right now.
Paddy Clarke, at ten years of age, sees the world through innocent eyes. The summer of this novel involves sleeping late, playing a variety of games with his friends, including his best friend, Kevin and two brothers named Aidan and Liam, and interacting with his parents, a younger brother Sinbad, and his infant sister, Catherine.
The snatches of adult conversation Paddy picks up come across as funny bits of gossip the young boy does not understand. However, Doyle accurately captured the wonder and innocence of a ten year old along with the humor that comes from the mouths of children. Try this quote: “We didn’t need bikes then. We walked; we ran. We ran away. That was the best running away. We shouted at watchmen, we threw stones at windows, we played knick-knack and ran away. We owned Barrytown, the whole lot of it. It went on forever. It was a country. Bayside was for bikes” (150). What ten-year old hasn’t had these thoughts! I know I have, dim as those memories are now.
The only problem I had with the book involves some slang terms. I could deduce a few from the context, a few I knew from my reading of James Joyce, but many bewildered me. I wonder if there is a dictionary of Irish slang to go along with my Webster’s Dictionary of American Slang. My favorite mystery word, “pruned,” seems to resemble some sort of “wedgie.” Quite a few Gaelic words have footnotes for translation.
Also, a couple of jokes evaded me. For example,
“---Where was Moses when the lights went out?
I answered.
---Under the bed looking for matches.
---Good man, he said.
I didn’t understand it but it made me laugh” (145).
Doyle uses Joyce’s convention of dashes to indicate dialogue. Makes me want to go back for another reading of Portrait!
Nevertheless, a delightful, pleasant, thoroughly enjoyable way to while away some hours with a cup of tea, a lap full of cat, and a handful of doggie ear. 4-1/2 stars
--Chiron, 2/20/09
Paddy Clarke, at ten years of age, sees the world through innocent eyes. The summer of this novel involves sleeping late, playing a variety of games with his friends, including his best friend, Kevin and two brothers named Aidan and Liam, and interacting with his parents, a younger brother Sinbad, and his infant sister, Catherine.
The snatches of adult conversation Paddy picks up come across as funny bits of gossip the young boy does not understand. However, Doyle accurately captured the wonder and innocence of a ten year old along with the humor that comes from the mouths of children. Try this quote: “We didn’t need bikes then. We walked; we ran. We ran away. That was the best running away. We shouted at watchmen, we threw stones at windows, we played knick-knack and ran away. We owned Barrytown, the whole lot of it. It went on forever. It was a country. Bayside was for bikes” (150). What ten-year old hasn’t had these thoughts! I know I have, dim as those memories are now.
The only problem I had with the book involves some slang terms. I could deduce a few from the context, a few I knew from my reading of James Joyce, but many bewildered me. I wonder if there is a dictionary of Irish slang to go along with my Webster’s Dictionary of American Slang. My favorite mystery word, “pruned,” seems to resemble some sort of “wedgie.” Quite a few Gaelic words have footnotes for translation.
Also, a couple of jokes evaded me. For example,
“---Where was Moses when the lights went out?
I answered.
---Under the bed looking for matches.
---Good man, he said.
I didn’t understand it but it made me laugh” (145).
Doyle uses Joyce’s convention of dashes to indicate dialogue. Makes me want to go back for another reading of Portrait!
Nevertheless, a delightful, pleasant, thoroughly enjoyable way to while away some hours with a cup of tea, a lap full of cat, and a handful of doggie ear. 4-1/2 stars
--Chiron, 2/20/09
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Trotula: An English Translation of the Medieval Compendium of Women's Medicine Edited and Translated by Monica H. Green
Since graduate school The Book of Trotula, as the professor referred to it, has fascinated me. A class text I used had only brief fragments and sparse explanation about the origin and author of the book.
This thorough and comprehensive study of an important medieval collection of writings on women’s health, diseases, and remedies might startle the modern reader. The cures for sexual problems, birth control, abortion, and other gynecological issues truly amazed me. Such an enlightened view of these topics, from about 900 years ago, contrasts with the sexist attitude today. Apparently, birth control and abortion did not pose any moral dilemmas, because of the writings of the early church fathers, who believed the soul was breathed into the body by God after birth, as the Bible relates following the creation of Eve.
As long as women deferred to their husbands on these matters, no moral issue arose for the medieval church. With the rise of the women’s movement in the 19th century, men, fearing loss of control over women and their reproductive rights, mounted a campaign to condemn and forbid these practices.
Quite scholarly, but highly interesting nonetheless. 5 stars.
--Chiron, 2/12/09
This thorough and comprehensive study of an important medieval collection of writings on women’s health, diseases, and remedies might startle the modern reader. The cures for sexual problems, birth control, abortion, and other gynecological issues truly amazed me. Such an enlightened view of these topics, from about 900 years ago, contrasts with the sexist attitude today. Apparently, birth control and abortion did not pose any moral dilemmas, because of the writings of the early church fathers, who believed the soul was breathed into the body by God after birth, as the Bible relates following the creation of Eve.
As long as women deferred to their husbands on these matters, no moral issue arose for the medieval church. With the rise of the women’s movement in the 19th century, men, fearing loss of control over women and their reproductive rights, mounted a campaign to condemn and forbid these practices.
Quite scholarly, but highly interesting nonetheless. 5 stars.
--Chiron, 2/12/09
Falcons of North America by Kate Davis
I met the publisher of this book at the Mid-Winter American Library Association Convention in Denver, Colorado. Since back-yard bird feeding and watching is a hobby of mine, I was curious about this book. I did not expect to see any falcons in my home town, but I recognized the bird on the cover – an American Kestral. The section devoted to Kestrals showed me a bird I had observed in my backyard but could not find in any of my bird books.
The illustrations are colorful and plentiful. The book contains a lot of technical information about these raptors, but the bulk of the book remains accessible to an amateur birder like myself. Wonderful! 5 stars.
--Chiron, 2/12/09
The illustrations are colorful and plentiful. The book contains a lot of technical information about these raptors, but the bulk of the book remains accessible to an amateur birder like myself. Wonderful! 5 stars.
--Chiron, 2/12/09
Cry of the Kalahari by Mark & Delia Owens
I first read this book nearly 25 years ago when first published in paperback. The story has not aged and still enthralls. Two young American graduate students sell everything they own to purchase a round-trip ticket to South Africa. They board the plane with about $6,000, and buy train tickets in Johannesburg for Gaberone, Botswana. Arriving there, they burn through quite a bit of their money waiting for permits to study the wildlife on a game preserve. A few months later, they buy what supplies they can, including a beat up Land Rover, and set off for the Kalahari Desert with the idea of finding some unstudied animal life. No experience in the desert and nothing more to guide them than their love and enthusiasm for wildlife speak of tremendous courage and dedication.
When their adventure began, in the middle 70s, they had great respect for the animals and the environment. They carefully observed lions, leopards, jackals, and brown hyenas, along with the myriad ungulates, birds, rodents, reptiles, and insects, while trying not to intrude or disturb them in the least.
The area of the desert they chose had never been visited by humans. They made friends with lions and much of the other wild life they encountered. At first, surrounded by a pride of curious lions, Mark and Delia, seem scared but calm. Gradually, the lions accepted them as part of the landscape. Numerous photos depict the close contact between the Owens and the big cats, as well as hyenas, which became one of the principle foci of their work.
The couple shared the writing of the book, and the chapters written by Delia display a somewhat more technical style, while those by Mark are more concerned with observing the landscape, the wildlife, and the climate.
Today the couple runs the Owens Foundation for Wildlife Conservation based in Stone Mountain, GA. Their website is http://www.owens-foundation.org/ . Donations are welcome. Their story tells of the struggle for preservation of the predators of the Kalahari, as well as a constant struggle for funding to continue their work.
If you love animals, adventure, courage, with funny moments mixed in, this book is a must-read. Five stars.
--Chiron, 2/10/09
When their adventure began, in the middle 70s, they had great respect for the animals and the environment. They carefully observed lions, leopards, jackals, and brown hyenas, along with the myriad ungulates, birds, rodents, reptiles, and insects, while trying not to intrude or disturb them in the least.
The area of the desert they chose had never been visited by humans. They made friends with lions and much of the other wild life they encountered. At first, surrounded by a pride of curious lions, Mark and Delia, seem scared but calm. Gradually, the lions accepted them as part of the landscape. Numerous photos depict the close contact between the Owens and the big cats, as well as hyenas, which became one of the principle foci of their work.
The couple shared the writing of the book, and the chapters written by Delia display a somewhat more technical style, while those by Mark are more concerned with observing the landscape, the wildlife, and the climate.
Today the couple runs the Owens Foundation for Wildlife Conservation based in Stone Mountain, GA. Their website is http://www.owens-foundation.org/ . Donations are welcome. Their story tells of the struggle for preservation of the predators of the Kalahari, as well as a constant struggle for funding to continue their work.
If you love animals, adventure, courage, with funny moments mixed in, this book is a must-read. Five stars.
--Chiron, 2/10/09
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
John Updike -- 1932-2007 -- In Memoriam
John Updike died yesterday at the age of 76.
In 1964, when I was an aspiring writer, a high school English teacher told me about a short story in that week’s issue of The New Yorker magazine. The story was by Updike, and that recommendation led to two passions I have carried with me over the following 45 years. I have nearly every issue of the magazine since about 1970 – when I could, at last, afford a subscription.
More importantly, it instilled in me a reverential admiration for John Updike.
The story, entitled “The Leaves,” gave me a glimpse of what great writing could do. Here is an example from that story:
"…it comes upon me as strange, after the long darkness of self-absorption and fear and shame in which I have been living, that things are beautiful, that independent of our catastrophes, they continue to maintain the casual precision, the effortless abundance of inventive 'effect,' which is the hallmark and specialty of Nature,…which exists without guilt. Our bodies are in Nature; our shoes, their laces, the little plastic tips of the laces – everything around us and about us , and yet something holds us away from it, like the upward push of water which keeps us from touching the sandy bottom, ribbed and glimmering with crescental fragments of oyster shell so clear to our eyes.
A blue jay lights on a twig outside my window." The New Yorker, 11/14/64, pp 52-53.
These days, as I struggle with a short story or a poem, I look out my window and I see a blue jay on my bird feeder, and I remember this passage. I see what is possible with language, and I see the impossibility of my emulating John Updike.
I had the good fortune to meet him on several occasions. Perhaps the most memorable was at The New England Writers Conference held at Simmons College in Boston in 1985. He delivered a lecture on writing, and I was able to ask about his influences. The answer to that question led me to Henry Green, the pen name of the British novelist, Henry Yorke. I have read all of Green's novels, and I understand the effect he had on Updike. I learned from John the importance of reading to a writer.
Updike’s prose remains the best written in the 20th century. He wrote over 800 short stories. He also authored 22 novels, 15 collections of short stories, a play, 7 books of poetry, 9 volumes of essays and criticism, a memoir, and 5 children’s books.
Yet in all that work, he never flagged, he never failed to deliver the best writing anywhere.
Updike was a regal figure – tall, handsome, and distinguished, and he spoke softly and as well as he wrote. With a gracious manner, he always agreed to inscribe a book. On one occasion, he even allowed me to mail him two of my favorites, which he returned with a warm and personal greeting.
My favorite novel by him remains The Centaur. I have a copy on my nightstand, and frequently, when I can’t sleep, I open to a random page and read for a few minutes. The words flow over me like a warm bath. The words relax me, and after a page or two, I can close the book, reflect on what I read, and close my eyes for a restful night.
He recently published his last book – The Widows of Eastwick – a sequel to the 1984 bestseller, The Witches of Eastwick. According to an interview I heard on NPR, he was writing up to his last hour.
Rest in Peace, John, you have given me and countless other millions around the world many hours of pleasure and numerous motes of inspiration. I can only hope that someday, someone may write, he reminds me – just a little – of John Updike.
--Chiron, 1/28/09
In 1964, when I was an aspiring writer, a high school English teacher told me about a short story in that week’s issue of The New Yorker magazine. The story was by Updike, and that recommendation led to two passions I have carried with me over the following 45 years. I have nearly every issue of the magazine since about 1970 – when I could, at last, afford a subscription.
More importantly, it instilled in me a reverential admiration for John Updike.
The story, entitled “The Leaves,” gave me a glimpse of what great writing could do. Here is an example from that story:
"…it comes upon me as strange, after the long darkness of self-absorption and fear and shame in which I have been living, that things are beautiful, that independent of our catastrophes, they continue to maintain the casual precision, the effortless abundance of inventive 'effect,' which is the hallmark and specialty of Nature,…which exists without guilt. Our bodies are in Nature; our shoes, their laces, the little plastic tips of the laces – everything around us and about us , and yet something holds us away from it, like the upward push of water which keeps us from touching the sandy bottom, ribbed and glimmering with crescental fragments of oyster shell so clear to our eyes.
A blue jay lights on a twig outside my window." The New Yorker, 11/14/64, pp 52-53.
These days, as I struggle with a short story or a poem, I look out my window and I see a blue jay on my bird feeder, and I remember this passage. I see what is possible with language, and I see the impossibility of my emulating John Updike.
I had the good fortune to meet him on several occasions. Perhaps the most memorable was at The New England Writers Conference held at Simmons College in Boston in 1985. He delivered a lecture on writing, and I was able to ask about his influences. The answer to that question led me to Henry Green, the pen name of the British novelist, Henry Yorke. I have read all of Green's novels, and I understand the effect he had on Updike. I learned from John the importance of reading to a writer.
Updike’s prose remains the best written in the 20th century. He wrote over 800 short stories. He also authored 22 novels, 15 collections of short stories, a play, 7 books of poetry, 9 volumes of essays and criticism, a memoir, and 5 children’s books.
Yet in all that work, he never flagged, he never failed to deliver the best writing anywhere.
Updike was a regal figure – tall, handsome, and distinguished, and he spoke softly and as well as he wrote. With a gracious manner, he always agreed to inscribe a book. On one occasion, he even allowed me to mail him two of my favorites, which he returned with a warm and personal greeting.
My favorite novel by him remains The Centaur. I have a copy on my nightstand, and frequently, when I can’t sleep, I open to a random page and read for a few minutes. The words flow over me like a warm bath. The words relax me, and after a page or two, I can close the book, reflect on what I read, and close my eyes for a restful night.
He recently published his last book – The Widows of Eastwick – a sequel to the 1984 bestseller, The Witches of Eastwick. According to an interview I heard on NPR, he was writing up to his last hour.
Rest in Peace, John, you have given me and countless other millions around the world many hours of pleasure and numerous motes of inspiration. I can only hope that someday, someone may write, he reminds me – just a little – of John Updike.
--Chiron, 1/28/09
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Cinnamon Peeler by Michael Ondaatje
I had no idea Michael Ondaatje, author of The English Patient, wrote poetry. I found this nice little paper back in a fabulous bookstore – The Tattered Cover in Denver, Colorado. Any visit to the mile-high city must include a trip to the end of the 16th Street pedestrian mall. A free shuttle runs up and down 16th Street until the wee hours. Tattered Cover opens at 6:30 AM
These poems are not easy to read. I am about finished my second run through them, and some are still a bit difficult to grasp. Another time or two, and all will be well. I will add that the effort is more than worthwhile.
Ondaatje has constructed poems that twist and turn and surprise in every stanza, if not most lines. The poems possess a lyrical beauty that most often reveals itself on reflection. The lines seem almost to consist of stream of consciousness observations. For example, from “Uswetakeitawa,”
“The women surface
bodies the colour of shadow
wet bright cloth
the skin of a mermaid” (64).
The title seems to be a compressed sentence, “Us we take it away.” That is, we take away the images in the poem, the texture of the gleaming bodies, and the surprising language.
The author also has some funny moments. In a related collection of images, “Pure Memory/Chris Dewdney,” he writes,
“5. When he was a kid and his parents had guests and he was eventually told to get to bed he liked to embarrass them by running under a table and screaming out Don’t hit me Don’t hit me.” (73)
Not for the casual poetry reader, but certainly for anyone who seeks a challenge in the world of poetry, and most certainly for the serious student of verse. 5 stars
--Chiron, 1/27/09
These poems are not easy to read. I am about finished my second run through them, and some are still a bit difficult to grasp. Another time or two, and all will be well. I will add that the effort is more than worthwhile.
Ondaatje has constructed poems that twist and turn and surprise in every stanza, if not most lines. The poems possess a lyrical beauty that most often reveals itself on reflection. The lines seem almost to consist of stream of consciousness observations. For example, from “Uswetakeitawa,”
“The women surface
bodies the colour of shadow
wet bright cloth
the skin of a mermaid” (64).
The title seems to be a compressed sentence, “Us we take it away.” That is, we take away the images in the poem, the texture of the gleaming bodies, and the surprising language.
The author also has some funny moments. In a related collection of images, “Pure Memory/Chris Dewdney,” he writes,
“5. When he was a kid and his parents had guests and he was eventually told to get to bed he liked to embarrass them by running under a table and screaming out Don’t hit me Don’t hit me.” (73)
Not for the casual poetry reader, but certainly for anyone who seeks a challenge in the world of poetry, and most certainly for the serious student of verse. 5 stars
--Chiron, 1/27/09
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Long Silence of Mario Salviati by Etienne Van Heerden
This book has a rating of three, four, or five stars. To say this reader is conflicted is a massive understatement. The story is interesting – five stars. The characters are mildly interesting – four stars. The story is confusing, along with unexplained and unconnected shifts in time – three stars. The structure of some sentences – three stars; others rate four, and a few, very few, rate at five.
A member of my book club selected Long Silence, so I had a certain obligation to continue reading. Something did keep me going – so many mysteries were buried in the rumors and gossip that constituted the life-blood of Yearsonend, I had to keep going to figure them out. A couple of quotes helped me do just that.
The story mixes past and present, reality and magical realism, and the “…tangled relationships, the married couples and families who shared so many branches it was difficult to separate one family from another, or the present from the past” (213). Fortunately, a helpful family tree showing all these tangled webs is at the beginning of the book. I would have liked a map, and some indication of when the main members of the family lived. I frequently referred to the tree, but it really only made complete sense after I finished the novel.
One of the most ironic lines occurs in Chapter Two of Part Three, “Mannequin’s Plume.” The narrator explains that Big Karl Berg, aka Karl Thin Air knew “While he was still in his mother’s womb,…that keeping your head afloat in this country depends on what you have in your hand” (258). Numerous references to hands – and what is in them – permeate the book.
I guess I will give The Long Silence of Mario Salviati four-and-one-half stars simply because of these minor flaws, including the numerous names and nicknames some of the characters had.
All in all, it was a good story and a good read. Like Big Karl’s rushing water, I raced to the end gathering speed and enthusiasm. Unlike his water, I could not “refuse” and give up the ghost. 4 & 1/2 stars
--Chiron, 1/20/09
A member of my book club selected Long Silence, so I had a certain obligation to continue reading. Something did keep me going – so many mysteries were buried in the rumors and gossip that constituted the life-blood of Yearsonend, I had to keep going to figure them out. A couple of quotes helped me do just that.
The story mixes past and present, reality and magical realism, and the “…tangled relationships, the married couples and families who shared so many branches it was difficult to separate one family from another, or the present from the past” (213). Fortunately, a helpful family tree showing all these tangled webs is at the beginning of the book. I would have liked a map, and some indication of when the main members of the family lived. I frequently referred to the tree, but it really only made complete sense after I finished the novel.
One of the most ironic lines occurs in Chapter Two of Part Three, “Mannequin’s Plume.” The narrator explains that Big Karl Berg, aka Karl Thin Air knew “While he was still in his mother’s womb,…that keeping your head afloat in this country depends on what you have in your hand” (258). Numerous references to hands – and what is in them – permeate the book.
I guess I will give The Long Silence of Mario Salviati four-and-one-half stars simply because of these minor flaws, including the numerous names and nicknames some of the characters had.
All in all, it was a good story and a good read. Like Big Karl’s rushing water, I raced to the end gathering speed and enthusiasm. Unlike his water, I could not “refuse” and give up the ghost. 4 & 1/2 stars
--Chiron, 1/20/09
Friday, January 09, 2009
The Defining Moment by Jonathan Alter
This story of the election of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his first hundred days in office beginning in March 1933 seems more than appropriate as an historic inauguration occurs in about ten days.
Many pundits have compared Obama to Lincoln, but Alter draws many more parallels to FDR. First of all, he succeeded an unpopular president as the country was on the edge of a serious downturn, which would come to be known as “The Great Depression.” FDR was unlike any previous president in many ways. Some called him a traitor to his class because of all the social programs he started.
Hoover raised taxes and cut spending, which helped propel the nation deeper into the economic morass. FDR brought a message of hope and change to desperately poor and hungry people. He was also the first to address the nation in a casual, conversational manner in his “Fireside Chats” beginning almost immediately after his inauguration. The text of that chat, as well as his first inaugural address, are in appendices. The often quoted line, “the only thing we have nothing to fear, is fear itself – nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyses needed efforts to convert retreat into advance” (339). Considering the fear we have lived under for the last eight years, I can only hope the Obama administration will have the same attitude.
Also like Obama, FDR was “always willing to listen to someone smarter than he was tell him why his ideas were no good” (249). A president that does not hide his opinions and policies decisions will be a breath of fresh air after the smog of Bush 43. FDR also said, “It is common sense to take a method and try it: if it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But above all, try something” (92-93). Refreshing when compared to a president unable to think of any mistakes, and who counts his greatest achievement as a failed attempt to privatize Social Security!
Alter’s style is smooth and eminently readable. His extensive quotes really bring FDR to life. One of my favorites is “Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement” (219).
FDR was the first to travel extensively by plane. Maybe Obama’s Blackberry is a close analogy.
Anyone who thinks the current economic crises is bad, should read this book and get a glimpse of what life was like in the US during the Depression. Today’s crisis doesn’t seem quite so bad, and not quite so hard to fix. Five stars.
--Chiron, 1/19/08
Many pundits have compared Obama to Lincoln, but Alter draws many more parallels to FDR. First of all, he succeeded an unpopular president as the country was on the edge of a serious downturn, which would come to be known as “The Great Depression.” FDR was unlike any previous president in many ways. Some called him a traitor to his class because of all the social programs he started.
Hoover raised taxes and cut spending, which helped propel the nation deeper into the economic morass. FDR brought a message of hope and change to desperately poor and hungry people. He was also the first to address the nation in a casual, conversational manner in his “Fireside Chats” beginning almost immediately after his inauguration. The text of that chat, as well as his first inaugural address, are in appendices. The often quoted line, “the only thing we have nothing to fear, is fear itself – nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyses needed efforts to convert retreat into advance” (339). Considering the fear we have lived under for the last eight years, I can only hope the Obama administration will have the same attitude.
Also like Obama, FDR was “always willing to listen to someone smarter than he was tell him why his ideas were no good” (249). A president that does not hide his opinions and policies decisions will be a breath of fresh air after the smog of Bush 43. FDR also said, “It is common sense to take a method and try it: if it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But above all, try something” (92-93). Refreshing when compared to a president unable to think of any mistakes, and who counts his greatest achievement as a failed attempt to privatize Social Security!
Alter’s style is smooth and eminently readable. His extensive quotes really bring FDR to life. One of my favorites is “Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement” (219).
FDR was the first to travel extensively by plane. Maybe Obama’s Blackberry is a close analogy.
Anyone who thinks the current economic crises is bad, should read this book and get a glimpse of what life was like in the US during the Depression. Today’s crisis doesn’t seem quite so bad, and not quite so hard to fix. Five stars.
--Chiron, 1/19/08
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
My Ten Best Reads of 2008
This started out as a list of five, but I could not decide. The stars indicate the best three, but these were all truly outstanding books.
The Sea by John Banville
America America by Ethan Canin
***Iris: The Life of Iris Murdoch by Peter J. Conradi
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
*The Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo
The Elected Member by Bernice Rubens
The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie
Kusamakura by Natsume Sōseki
Terrorist by John Updike
**The Twyborn Affair by Patrick White
Happy New Year and great reading to all of my faithful readers.
--Chiron, 12/31/08 -- 2hours, 40 minutes to 2009 (it has GOT to be a better year!)
The Sea by John Banville
America America by Ethan Canin
***Iris: The Life of Iris Murdoch by Peter J. Conradi
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
*The Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo
The Elected Member by Bernice Rubens
The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie
Kusamakura by Natsume Sōseki
Terrorist by John Updike
**The Twyborn Affair by Patrick White
Happy New Year and great reading to all of my faithful readers.
--Chiron, 12/31/08 -- 2hours, 40 minutes to 2009 (it has GOT to be a better year!)
Fine Just the Way It Is: Wyoming Stories 3 by Annie Proulx
This Christmas present was an immediate choice for my last book of the year. Annie Proulx’s prose is clear, sharp, and witty. An example of her vivid prose can be found on every page, but one line that stands out was in a humorous story about a traveling salesman, “Family Man.” In describing the wandering philanderer’s wife, Proulx wrote, “She seemed soft and sagging, somehow like a candle standing in the sun” (17). Dozens of lines like this are underlined in my copy.
This collection of “Wyoming Stories” differed from earlier collections in several respects. Most were about tough, hard-working men and women desperately attempting to scrape together a life out of the hard scrabble soil and sagebrush of the Wyoming wilderness. However a couple with new wrinkles appeared. Two stories featured the Devil planning renovations in Hell and playing mischief with an ornithologist. These were pretty funny in Proulx’s understated sort of way.
Another featured a tough, outdoorsy woman who breaks up with her adventurous, boyfriend who can stay in any one place to long. She decides to take a hike over the mountains on a closed trail. Gradually, Caitlin comes to terms with her decision to break up with Marc.
The stories with the most power involved homesteaders fighting weather, wolves, coyotes, and falling crop and cattle prices. Seemingly minor accidents had permanent, disastrous effects.
An excellent addition to Proulx’s oeuvre, this third in her series “Wyoming Stories” will not disappoint. Five stars
--Chiron, 12/31/08
This collection of “Wyoming Stories” differed from earlier collections in several respects. Most were about tough, hard-working men and women desperately attempting to scrape together a life out of the hard scrabble soil and sagebrush of the Wyoming wilderness. However a couple with new wrinkles appeared. Two stories featured the Devil planning renovations in Hell and playing mischief with an ornithologist. These were pretty funny in Proulx’s understated sort of way.
Another featured a tough, outdoorsy woman who breaks up with her adventurous, boyfriend who can stay in any one place to long. She decides to take a hike over the mountains on a closed trail. Gradually, Caitlin comes to terms with her decision to break up with Marc.
The stories with the most power involved homesteaders fighting weather, wolves, coyotes, and falling crop and cattle prices. Seemingly minor accidents had permanent, disastrous effects.
An excellent addition to Proulx’s oeuvre, this third in her series “Wyoming Stories” will not disappoint. Five stars
--Chiron, 12/31/08
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Rumi: The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing Translation and Commentraies by Coleman Barks
I have been dipping into this volume of Rumi’s more obscure love poetry at night in the quiet moments before I turned out the light. This volume was an anniversary present from my wife back in April. I decided to finish it tonight.
These poems are exquisite, profound, simple, lovely, enchanting, mysterious, warm, and full of surprises. I could probably list another dozen adjectives if I thought long and hard enough!
Barks has written 22 short essays or meditations on different aspects of love and then provided anywhere from 6 to 14 poems to illustrate the points. My favorite was Chapter Five, “Escaping into Silence.” He challenges the reader to “try a day of silence with someone. Just one day!” (32). One of the poems he uses here, “The Waterwheel,” is also one of my favorites.
“Stay together friends.
Don’t scatter and sleep.
Our friendship is made
of being awake.
The waterwheel accepts water
and turns and gives it away,
weeping
That way it stays in the garden,
whereas another roundness rolls
through a dry riverbed looking
for what it thinks it wants.
Stay here, quivering with each moment
like a drop of mercury.
This marriage be wine with halvah,
honey dissolving in milk.
This marriage be the leaves and fruit
of a date tree. This marriage
be women laughing together for days
on end. This marriage a sign
for us to study. This marriage
beauty. This marriage, a moon
in a light blue sky. This marriage,
this silence, fully mixed with spirit.”
On Saturday, January 3rd, we are going to try and go as long as we can without making any sounds. We will turn off all our phones, no TV or radio, no micro wave, no timers or drawers opening – just pure and complete silence as long as we can.
If you think you are in love, Rumi will confirm it. If you are not in love, Rumi will confirm it. If you want to know and understand love, Rumi is the vehicle, the candle, the gentle breeze that will lead you to understanding.
Here is one more poem from Chapter Four, “Sudden Wholeness” (30).
“A thousand half loves
must be forsaken to take
one whole heart home.”
--Chiron, 12/30/08
These poems are exquisite, profound, simple, lovely, enchanting, mysterious, warm, and full of surprises. I could probably list another dozen adjectives if I thought long and hard enough!
Barks has written 22 short essays or meditations on different aspects of love and then provided anywhere from 6 to 14 poems to illustrate the points. My favorite was Chapter Five, “Escaping into Silence.” He challenges the reader to “try a day of silence with someone. Just one day!” (32). One of the poems he uses here, “The Waterwheel,” is also one of my favorites.
“Stay together friends.
Don’t scatter and sleep.
Our friendship is made
of being awake.
The waterwheel accepts water
and turns and gives it away,
weeping
That way it stays in the garden,
whereas another roundness rolls
through a dry riverbed looking
for what it thinks it wants.
Stay here, quivering with each moment
like a drop of mercury.
This marriage be wine with halvah,
honey dissolving in milk.
This marriage be the leaves and fruit
of a date tree. This marriage
be women laughing together for days
on end. This marriage a sign
for us to study. This marriage
beauty. This marriage, a moon
in a light blue sky. This marriage,
this silence, fully mixed with spirit.”
On Saturday, January 3rd, we are going to try and go as long as we can without making any sounds. We will turn off all our phones, no TV or radio, no micro wave, no timers or drawers opening – just pure and complete silence as long as we can.
If you think you are in love, Rumi will confirm it. If you are not in love, Rumi will confirm it. If you want to know and understand love, Rumi is the vehicle, the candle, the gentle breeze that will lead you to understanding.
Here is one more poem from Chapter Four, “Sudden Wholeness” (30).
“A thousand half loves
must be forsaken to take
one whole heart home.”
--Chiron, 12/30/08
Goodbye, Columbus by Philip Roth
Roth’s first novel is another book I read years ago and did not like. I also remember seeing the film with Ali McGraw (which was released ten years after the book), and I didn’t really like it that much either. But I was a vastly different person 40 years ago than I am now.
Still, I am only lukewarm about this dated tale of a poor boy from the city who falls for the rich girl from the suburbs. The affair ends disastrously when her mother finds her diaphragm. Brenda left it in her drawer at home when she returned to Boston for college. I think she wanted her mother to find it as a convenient way to end the relationship with Neil. Been there, had that done to me! Maybe that is why I did not like it.
I am sorry I waited so long to rediscover Roth. His recent books have been spectacular. His newest novel, Indignation, found its way under a Christmas tree, so I am looking forward to that.
This volume also some early short stories by Roth, but I am saving those for another day. Three stars
--Chiron, 12/30/08
Still, I am only lukewarm about this dated tale of a poor boy from the city who falls for the rich girl from the suburbs. The affair ends disastrously when her mother finds her diaphragm. Brenda left it in her drawer at home when she returned to Boston for college. I think she wanted her mother to find it as a convenient way to end the relationship with Neil. Been there, had that done to me! Maybe that is why I did not like it.
I am sorry I waited so long to rediscover Roth. His recent books have been spectacular. His newest novel, Indignation, found its way under a Christmas tree, so I am looking forward to that.
This volume also some early short stories by Roth, but I am saving those for another day. Three stars
--Chiron, 12/30/08
Monday, December 29, 2008
The Stranger by Albert Camus
I read this book years ago, when I first began to explore rationalism, and I liked most of it, except for Camus’ idea that nothing matters and nothing makes any difference. The idea of an afterlife is irrational in my view, but I believe we each create our own meaning and purpose to life. Our lives can be as rich and meaningful as we choose to make them.
For me, the crucial sentence is in the last paragraph on page 122: "For the first time in a long time I thought about Maman. I felt as if I understood why at the end of her life she had taken a “fiance,” why she had played at beginning again. Even there, in that home where lives were fading out, evening was a kind of wistful respite. So close to death, Maman must have felt free then and ready to live it all again. Nobody, nobody had the right to cry over her. And I felt ready to live it all again too."
Powerful stuff. Mersault's mother lived her life. Her last years were happy and comfortable. Why should anyone regret that life with tears? As Camus wrote in his posthumously published note books, A Happy Death, “Your duty is to live and be happy.” Profound and deceptively simple.
This is a new translation by Matthew Ward. What I did not know, was that Camus intended to write this novel in “the American style” -- mostly adjective free and a simple subject-verb-object structure. I enjoyed, and had a much better understanding, this time around, and I am glad I read it again as we come to the end of 2008. Five stars
--Chiron, 12/29/08
For me, the crucial sentence is in the last paragraph on page 122: "For the first time in a long time I thought about Maman. I felt as if I understood why at the end of her life she had taken a “fiance,” why she had played at beginning again. Even there, in that home where lives were fading out, evening was a kind of wistful respite. So close to death, Maman must have felt free then and ready to live it all again. Nobody, nobody had the right to cry over her. And I felt ready to live it all again too."
Powerful stuff. Mersault's mother lived her life. Her last years were happy and comfortable. Why should anyone regret that life with tears? As Camus wrote in his posthumously published note books, A Happy Death, “Your duty is to live and be happy.” Profound and deceptively simple.
This is a new translation by Matthew Ward. What I did not know, was that Camus intended to write this novel in “the American style” -- mostly adjective free and a simple subject-verb-object structure. I enjoyed, and had a much better understanding, this time around, and I am glad I read it again as we come to the end of 2008. Five stars
--Chiron, 12/29/08
Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
A friend from grad school, Charlie, loved Italo Calvino. He talked about him all the time and dropped references in the oddest places. So, Calvino has been on my reading list for quite a while. I decided to start with Invisible Cities, because that was the title I remember Charlie mentioning the most.
Calvino has been described as a fabulist, or writer of fables, which by definition, impart some moral lesson to the reader. The word fabulous has the same root and implies a wildly imaginative story. Both these ideas are present in this novel.
The story has Marco Polo, the well-known world traveler of the 13th century, visiting Kubla Khan (which he did). Khan had sent emissaries all over the known world to collect stories, objects, and descriptions of the cities he sent them to visit. Khan kept a map of these places, so that, according to Calvino, he could “possess his empire.” Marco knows he must do something different to set himself apart from these common, ordinary travelers.
He begins relating a list of cities he has visited with all their peculiarities. Each has a different name – many with women’s names – and each has some important defining feature. MINOR SPOLIER ALERT! Polo admits, about two-thirds of the way through his tale, that all the cities he describes are Venice.
Curiously, his tales are full of anachronisms – airplanes, trains, tobacco, telescopes, electricity, and so forth. Another curiosity is the organization. Calvino has divided the novel into nine unnamed parts. Each part contains five named and numbered chapters. In parts one through eight, the chapter numbers descend from five to one. In part 9, the pattern is this: 5, 4, 3, 2, 5, 4, 3, 5, 4, 5, ***. Interspersed among the city stories are fragments of conversations between Polo and Khan.
The moral? The story most definitely has one, but I won’t spoil that. This novel has peaked my interest in Calvino, and I have going to do some research and find some more titles to explore his fascinating world. Four stars
--Chiron, 12/29/08
Calvino has been described as a fabulist, or writer of fables, which by definition, impart some moral lesson to the reader. The word fabulous has the same root and implies a wildly imaginative story. Both these ideas are present in this novel.
The story has Marco Polo, the well-known world traveler of the 13th century, visiting Kubla Khan (which he did). Khan had sent emissaries all over the known world to collect stories, objects, and descriptions of the cities he sent them to visit. Khan kept a map of these places, so that, according to Calvino, he could “possess his empire.” Marco knows he must do something different to set himself apart from these common, ordinary travelers.
He begins relating a list of cities he has visited with all their peculiarities. Each has a different name – many with women’s names – and each has some important defining feature. MINOR SPOLIER ALERT! Polo admits, about two-thirds of the way through his tale, that all the cities he describes are Venice.
Curiously, his tales are full of anachronisms – airplanes, trains, tobacco, telescopes, electricity, and so forth. Another curiosity is the organization. Calvino has divided the novel into nine unnamed parts. Each part contains five named and numbered chapters. In parts one through eight, the chapter numbers descend from five to one. In part 9, the pattern is this: 5, 4, 3, 2, 5, 4, 3, 5, 4, 5, ***. Interspersed among the city stories are fragments of conversations between Polo and Khan.
The moral? The story most definitely has one, but I won’t spoil that. This novel has peaked my interest in Calvino, and I have going to do some research and find some more titles to explore his fascinating world. Four stars
--Chiron, 12/29/08
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Flying at Night and Sure Signs by Ted Kooser
These two collections are interesting. Someone described them to me as a reminder of Billy Collins, my favorite poem, and I am afraid I have to disagree. The poems do capture simple moments, and “snap photographs” of images, as Collins does, but there is a little less humor, and a bit less easily flowing language. Furthermore, many of the poems while not depressing, are sad. “Abandoned Farmhouse,” for example, recounts the shades of lives lived in an old house. Several recall moments of remembering at a funeral or a cemetery.
I liked these poems, though; the simplicity of language and ideas was pleasing. One good example is “Daddy Longlegs” from Flying by Night:
Here, on fine long legs springy as steel
a life rides, sealed in a small brown pill
that skims along over the basement floor
wrapped up in a simple obsession.
Eight legs reach out like the master ribs
of a web in which some thought is caught
dead center in its own small world,
a thought so far from the touch of things
that we can only guess at it. If mine,
it would be the secret dream
of walking alone across the floor of my life
with an easy grace, and with love enough
to live on at the center of myself. (108)
Another short poem from the same volume, and which is probably my favorite, is “At the Center”
In Kansas, on top
of an old piano,
a starfish, dry
as a fancy pastry
left sitting there
during a wedding,
spreads its brown arms
over the foam
of a white lace doily,
reaching for water
in five directions. (122)
Most of the poems in Sure Signs can also be found in Flying, so start with that, because it also contains about 40 poems from One World at a Time, including the two I mentioned here. Four stars
--Chiron, 12/28/08
I liked these poems, though; the simplicity of language and ideas was pleasing. One good example is “Daddy Longlegs” from Flying by Night:
Here, on fine long legs springy as steel
a life rides, sealed in a small brown pill
that skims along over the basement floor
wrapped up in a simple obsession.
Eight legs reach out like the master ribs
of a web in which some thought is caught
dead center in its own small world,
a thought so far from the touch of things
that we can only guess at it. If mine,
it would be the secret dream
of walking alone across the floor of my life
with an easy grace, and with love enough
to live on at the center of myself. (108)
Another short poem from the same volume, and which is probably my favorite, is “At the Center”
In Kansas, on top
of an old piano,
a starfish, dry
as a fancy pastry
left sitting there
during a wedding,
spreads its brown arms
over the foam
of a white lace doily,
reaching for water
in five directions. (122)
Most of the poems in Sure Signs can also be found in Flying, so start with that, because it also contains about 40 poems from One World at a Time, including the two I mentioned here. Four stars
--Chiron, 12/28/08
Saturday, December 27, 2008
The Forgetting Room by Nick Bantock
Years ago, I read Bantock’s Griffin and Sabine tetralogy and was thoroughly enchanted by their long-distance courtship. The drawings and postcards and letters provided an air of mystery and a sense of peeking into the private lives of Griffin and Sabine. I lost touch with Bantock, until I came across this volume at a used book sale.
I read it in one sitting – interrupted only by a steaming bowl of Southwestern Stew my wife made last weekend. The Spanish connection was mildly eerie.
This book tells the story of Armin Hurt who travels to Rondo, Spain to dispose of his grandfather’s house, which he inherited on the old man’s death. He was close to his grandfather, but when Armin’s family moved to Chicago, they lost touch. Grandfather put a game inside the house with clues, so Armin could, in the words of Rafael’s will, “find his belonging.”
Enchanting, absorbing, full of surprises and neat tricks of the mind, spirit, and body. Bantock has at least two other books, and I must find them. Five stars
--Chiron, 12/27/08
I read it in one sitting – interrupted only by a steaming bowl of Southwestern Stew my wife made last weekend. The Spanish connection was mildly eerie.
This book tells the story of Armin Hurt who travels to Rondo, Spain to dispose of his grandfather’s house, which he inherited on the old man’s death. He was close to his grandfather, but when Armin’s family moved to Chicago, they lost touch. Grandfather put a game inside the house with clues, so Armin could, in the words of Rafael’s will, “find his belonging.”
Enchanting, absorbing, full of surprises and neat tricks of the mind, spirit, and body. Bantock has at least two other books, and I must find them. Five stars
--Chiron, 12/27/08
Birchwood by John Banville
John Banville writes exquisite, lyrical prose, while telling an enthralling story. This novel, set in Ireland in the days of the potato famines, is divided into two parts. Gabriel Godkin returns to his ancestral home after the death of his father, and while cleaning up the broken glass and repairing windows, he begins to recall his childhood. As part two begins, the young Gabriel has run away and joined a circus in an attempt to find what he believes to be his lost twin sister. Eventually, the story comes full circle and he returns to Birchwood.
At first glance the two parts of the story seem disjointed, but Banville ties things up neatly at the end. The reality I envisioned in part one, clashed with the reality in part two, but the brief part three resolved all these threads into a neat package.
This is my second Banville (after the Booker prize winning, The Sea). I have four more of his books, so I will be working my way through them in 2009. He has written 13 titles in all, so I will have to track down those others.
If you have never read Banville, start with The Sea. You will be hooked. Five stars
-Chiron, 12/27/08
At first glance the two parts of the story seem disjointed, but Banville ties things up neatly at the end. The reality I envisioned in part one, clashed with the reality in part two, but the brief part three resolved all these threads into a neat package.
This is my second Banville (after the Booker prize winning, The Sea). I have four more of his books, so I will be working my way through them in 2009. He has written 13 titles in all, so I will have to track down those others.
If you have never read Banville, start with The Sea. You will be hooked. Five stars
-Chiron, 12/27/08
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Onitsha by J.M.G. LeClézio
The 2008 Nobel Prize winner for literature was a complete surprise. I had never heard the name or any of his novels. I checked with a colleague from France, and she had heard of him but had read only one of his novels. Onitsha appears to be the only work translated into English.
The story tells of Maou and her son Fintan who travel to Nigeria to meet up with Geoffrey, Maou’s husband and Fintan’s father. They arrive as the British colonial system is collapsing – Nigeria is about to be plunged into civil war.
This marvelous novel has a couple of peculiar features which make it unique and absorbing. First, it is almost entirely told through description. The author limits dialogue to only a few lines at a time, and only on rare occasions. The description, on the other hand, is so rich it defies its own description.
For example, when Fintan first sets foot in the village of Onitsha, he surveys the scene from the veranda of the family home. “At sunset the sky darkened to the west, towards Asaba, above Brokkedon Island. From the height of the terrace Fintan could survey the entire breadth of the river, could see places where the tributaries – Anambara, Omerun – joined the river, and the large flat island of Jersey, covered with reeds and trees. Downstream the river inscribed a slow curving line to the south, as vast as an arm of the sea, with the hesitant traces of small islands, like rafts adrift. The storm swirled. There were bloodied streaks in the sky, gaps in the clouds. Then very rapidly, the black cloud went back up the river, chasing before it the flying ibises still lit by the sun” (47).
Page after page the reader rides along the river in a pirogue, or walks through a grassy field, or struggles through jungle growth.
The other peculiarity involves Geoffrey’s obsession with a legend of a young queen of Meroë, who led her people to the interior of the continent to find a new land to begin their civilization anew. This portion of the story has been set into a slightly different font, and the legend becomes entangled with Geoffrey’s dreams.
The impassioned Maou causes trouble among the colonial community, and Geoffrey is forced to take his family back to Europe. They try and erase the memory of Onitsha, its people, myths, and the legend of Meroë, the last descendent of the Pharaohs. But too much of Africa and its legends has penetrated the family. It will remain with them forever.
LeClézio’s novel intertwines, colonialism, legends, and the destructive force of white invaders. I surely hope more of his work will find its way into English translations. I only hope a more professional publisher will pick up the task. This was a poorly printed, poorly bound book by The University of Nebraska Press. Five stars
--Chiron, 12/24/08
The story tells of Maou and her son Fintan who travel to Nigeria to meet up with Geoffrey, Maou’s husband and Fintan’s father. They arrive as the British colonial system is collapsing – Nigeria is about to be plunged into civil war.
This marvelous novel has a couple of peculiar features which make it unique and absorbing. First, it is almost entirely told through description. The author limits dialogue to only a few lines at a time, and only on rare occasions. The description, on the other hand, is so rich it defies its own description.
For example, when Fintan first sets foot in the village of Onitsha, he surveys the scene from the veranda of the family home. “At sunset the sky darkened to the west, towards Asaba, above Brokkedon Island. From the height of the terrace Fintan could survey the entire breadth of the river, could see places where the tributaries – Anambara, Omerun – joined the river, and the large flat island of Jersey, covered with reeds and trees. Downstream the river inscribed a slow curving line to the south, as vast as an arm of the sea, with the hesitant traces of small islands, like rafts adrift. The storm swirled. There were bloodied streaks in the sky, gaps in the clouds. Then very rapidly, the black cloud went back up the river, chasing before it the flying ibises still lit by the sun” (47).
Page after page the reader rides along the river in a pirogue, or walks through a grassy field, or struggles through jungle growth.
The other peculiarity involves Geoffrey’s obsession with a legend of a young queen of Meroë, who led her people to the interior of the continent to find a new land to begin their civilization anew. This portion of the story has been set into a slightly different font, and the legend becomes entangled with Geoffrey’s dreams.
The impassioned Maou causes trouble among the colonial community, and Geoffrey is forced to take his family back to Europe. They try and erase the memory of Onitsha, its people, myths, and the legend of Meroë, the last descendent of the Pharaohs. But too much of Africa and its legends has penetrated the family. It will remain with them forever.
LeClézio’s novel intertwines, colonialism, legends, and the destructive force of white invaders. I surely hope more of his work will find its way into English translations. I only hope a more professional publisher will pick up the task. This was a poorly printed, poorly bound book by The University of Nebraska Press. Five stars
--Chiron, 12/24/08
Saturday, December 20, 2008
All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy
When this novel came out in paperback in 1993, amid a lot of hype, a copy quickly found its way onto my TBR shelf. However, a bookmark in page 20 evidenced the early invocation of the “rule of fifty.” When it showed up on a reading list for a graduate English class, dismay overcame me, but I figured a lot of time had passed, and maybe a different attitude would prevail.
Unfortunately, this was not the case. These characters are boring. They have boring conversations about horses, which I neither care about nor understand. To make matters worse, the characters conduct conversations in Spanish, which sometimes go on for pages. Maybe one in five lines could be resolved through context clues or actions. A simple Spanish dictionary was not much help. The “rule” was not an option this time, so page after page I suffered and slogged.
Then I arrived at page 227 (of 302), and a fascinating conversation between John Grady Cole and the duenna of the hacienda “La Purisima” began. The entire thing, to page 241, had only an occasional word in Spanish. The woman provided a great deal of background of the Mexican characters, and answered quite a few puzzles of the plot. Towards the end of this conversation, several lines of Spanish appeared, but this time several context clues permitted an understanding.
The question of why Cole and Rawlins went to Mexico is still a mystery. Why the duenna bailed these cowboys out of prison, and gave them money and horses to get home, is likewise unresolved.
Clues as to the time of these events were also confusing. Sometimes, it appeared to be the 1990s, and other times the 40s or 50s or 60s.
Recently, I read McCarthy’s novel The Road, and I thought it was a great read, so I intended to try his Horses again. But the rule of fifty is an excellent guide. More often than not, my instincts prove to be accurate. 2 stars (only for pages 227 to 241)
--Chiron, 12/20/08
Unfortunately, this was not the case. These characters are boring. They have boring conversations about horses, which I neither care about nor understand. To make matters worse, the characters conduct conversations in Spanish, which sometimes go on for pages. Maybe one in five lines could be resolved through context clues or actions. A simple Spanish dictionary was not much help. The “rule” was not an option this time, so page after page I suffered and slogged.
Then I arrived at page 227 (of 302), and a fascinating conversation between John Grady Cole and the duenna of the hacienda “La Purisima” began. The entire thing, to page 241, had only an occasional word in Spanish. The woman provided a great deal of background of the Mexican characters, and answered quite a few puzzles of the plot. Towards the end of this conversation, several lines of Spanish appeared, but this time several context clues permitted an understanding.
The question of why Cole and Rawlins went to Mexico is still a mystery. Why the duenna bailed these cowboys out of prison, and gave them money and horses to get home, is likewise unresolved.
Clues as to the time of these events were also confusing. Sometimes, it appeared to be the 1990s, and other times the 40s or 50s or 60s.
Recently, I read McCarthy’s novel The Road, and I thought it was a great read, so I intended to try his Horses again. But the rule of fifty is an excellent guide. More often than not, my instincts prove to be accurate. 2 stars (only for pages 227 to 241)
--Chiron, 12/20/08
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