The Literate Man, a Book Blog for Men

Guest Post: Lucas Hunt on Poetry and The Literate Man

2012-02-23T16:50:00.000-05:00

[Editor's Note: TLM is honored to have decorated poet, Lucas Hunt, discuss the significance and importance of poetry to the literate man (and woman, for that matter) below. Any errors in formatting in Mr. Hunt's piece or the poem that follows are entirely the fault of TLM. For more about Lucas Hunt, and his most recent collection, Light on the Concrete, please see our previous post here.]

What is the grass?

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full

hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any
more than he.

--Walt Whitman
________________________________________

Today we will address the subject of what is poetry to the literate man. For poetry inhabits a span between that which appears indefinable and that which we know to be absolutely necessary. It is the link between hunger and food. It is the effort that finally leads our philosophical thoughts into the positive sphere of action. It is the microscopic distance from synapse to synapse in our brains. And it is the vast yet palpable darkness from star to star in the night sky.

Poetry might be understood to be the great connector of the universe. It is what essentially allows us to name things, and thus to begin to have an understanding of their unique presences. For while the exact substance of a material may be unknown to us, we can get an idea of what something is, once we have established at least a sense of what its individual nature comprises.

We come to know people like this as well, for it is certain that different persons embody different characteristics, which directly lead to our formation of opinions about them. Some of the most recognizable names of all time are those who strongly represent to us inner qualities that became associated with historical precedents. Achilles, Moses, Buddha, Michelangelo, Napoleon, Shakespeare; each has a specific poetry to it.

The literate man might ask himself, what does poetry mean to me today? As the process of human invention accelerates, our desire to connect with one another (and ourselves) is also at an all time high. We find ourselves in a landscape of separate entities, where expanding options threaten to rip the fabric of social consciousness apart. Now, more than ever, poetry can provide us with a coherent view of our shared existence.

The best way to show how poetry works is to compare it to something as elusive and necessary as love. For the best poetry leaves a very lasting impression. It has the resonance of a thousand moments that came before it, embodies the spirit of dreams, and happiness. Poetry, like love, cuts through the complexity of life to present a simple, undeniable truth. We care for one another in a way that ultimately transcends language, yet find vital approximations in words. Poetry is a man’s love in just a few words.

When perhaps the greatest American poet Walt Whitman repeated a line from a child’s voice in one of his poems that asked, "what is the grass?," he was getting at a question essential to the literate man and to humanity in general. For it is how we relate to the world around us that defines who we are, and by extension, how we come to view each other in this life.

--Lucas Hunt

What is the grass? (from Song of Myself)
by Walt Whitman

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any
more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of
the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken
soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

Author Interview Series: Larry Closs, Author of Beatitude, Discusses Men and Literature Among the Beats and Today

2012-01-24T18:18:00.000-05:00

In the first of TLM's author interviews series, the Editors sat down with Larry Closs, author of Beatitude, a novel of friendship, love, and idolatry of the Beat Generation, to discuss themes of masculinity and literature, then and now. A more detailed TLM review of Beatitude will appear in the coming weeks.

_______________________

TLM: The prominent players among the Beats were all men. Is this a coincidence or is there something inherently masculine about the philosophy of the Beats?

Larry: You have to begin by viewing the Beats in the context of their times. The Beats were a product of—and a reaction to—the conformity, conservatism and materialism of the 1950s. In the wake of the abject austerity of the Great Depression, the relative prosperity of the fifties inspired a focus on suddenly affordable housing, cars and appliances and the development of a suburban lifestyle reflected in TV shows like Ozzie & Harriet and Leave It to Beaver. The new nuclear family was the ideal and every family member had very narrowly defined roles: Fathers were breadwinners, mothers raised the kids and took care of the house and kids did their homework, stayed out of trouble and aspired to be just like their parents.

The Beats tapped into a burgeoning feeling that there was something wrong with that picture. The Beat philosophy expressed itself in the rejection of repressive social norms and the embrace of an experience-for-experience-sake approach to life embodied by an open-minded attitude toward sex, drugs, relationships, religion, travel and the fellaheen—the outsiders.

Women were just as likely as men to feel stifled by the middle-class conventions of the 1950s. They were less likely to act on that impulse, however, because they risked far more severe repercussions. Also, despite the progressive attitude the Beats advocated across the board, they generally viewed the women in their world in much the same way as the world at large, confining them to girlfriends, housewives and mothers.

One could argue that Beat philosophy was inherently—even unabashedly—masculine, as evidenced by the fact that the great works of literature and poetry the movement produced were all produced by men. One could also argue that the Beat philosophy was inherently sexist, like the society itself, because the movement’s tenets were near impossible for women of the times to embrace.

There were Beat women (Brenda Knight’s Women of the Beat Generation profiles 40 of them) who injected a feminine element, but, with few exceptions—poets Diane di Prima, Hettie Jones, Ann Waldman—they are unknown even to Beat fans and best known for their relationships with Beat men rather than their creative contributions to the Beat canon. One of the best and most prolific, Joyce Johnson, wrote five novels that are no longer in print. However, her two memoirs—Minor Characters (winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award) and Door Wide Open—both of which hinge on her brief romance with Kerouac, remain popular long after their release in paperback.

TLM: Kerouac's fiction and his life revolved around traditionally manly pursuits—football and railroading, the time spent as a lookout at Desolation Peak and even the freewheeling travels described in On the Road. Was this a part of his personality or part of a carefully crafted image?

Larry: The most famous photograph of Jack Kerouac is a broody black and white of him at 31, ruggedly handsome and pensively smoking a cigarette on a New York City fire escape in 1953. Jutting from Kerouac’s jacket pocket is the Brakeman’s Manual for the Southern Pacific Railroad, where Kerouac was working at the time. Allen Ginsberg snapped the shot, which he later aptly titled “Heroic Portrait”—aptly, because that photo more than any other evokes the image of Kerouac embedded in the collective consciousness. The “Heroic Portrait,” however, was taken before Kerouac ever had an image.

In 1953, Kerouac had only written two of the dozen or so books that would be his literary legacy and only one had been published—The Town and the City, in 1950, an indifferently reviewed homage to his hero, Thomas Wolfe. Kerouac had also completed what would become his most famous and revolutionary work, On the Road, in 1951, but it wouldn’t be published until 1957.

Until then, Kerouac went about his life like anyone else, unselfconsciously indulging in pursuits that interested and supported him. He wanted to be a writer since he was a kid. He was also naturally athletic. He played football in high school and went to Columbia in 1940 on a football scholarship, but when he broke his leg in the first season he refocused on his real passion, literature. He met Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, served in both the Merchant Marines and the Navy, married and divorced twice, crisscrossed the country with Neal Cassady, worked as a brakeman for the Southern Pacific Railroad and spent two months as a U.S. Forest Service fire lookout on Desolation Peak in Washington.

By the time On the Road was finally published—to instant acclaim—in 1957 and the Beat Generation emerged from the underground, Kerouac had already done everything that would contribute to his image, with no thought of doing so. The media would craft his image for him. While Kerouac called himself "a strange solitary crazy Catholic mystic,” the media called him King of the Beats, a reductive title he would reject and despise for the rest of his life.

TLM: What, in your opinion, was the nature of the relationship among Kerouac, Cassady and Ginsberg. How did they balance friendship and (unrequited?) love among them?

Larry: First and foremost, Kerouac, Cassady and Ginsberg were close friends—that was the basis of their relationship—friends who loved one another, who connected instantly on a subliminal level and admired and respected each other’s outlook, talents and heart. Beyond that, it was complicated, as recorded in their literary efforts and voluminous letters to one another, and as suggested by biographers reading between the lines of their lives.

In 1944, Ginsberg fell in love with Kerouac almost at first sight when Lucien Carr introduced them. Ginsberg was 18, Kerouac, 22. Both were attending Columbia and sleeping in the same dorm room one night when Ginsberg confessed his feelings, saying, “Jack, you know, I love you, and I want to sleep with you, and I really like men.” To which Kerouac said, “Oooooh, no.” Kerouac’s response was not a rejection of Ginsberg, but a comment on the complications he envisioned as a result of a one-sided love.

Two years later, when classmate Hal Chase introduced Ginsberg and Kerouac to Neal Cassady and his then-wife, LuAnne Henderson, just arrived from Denver, Colorado, Ginsberg fell head over heals with Cassady, who also promptly took to Ginsberg, “attacking him with a great amorous soul such as only a con-man can have,” as Kerouac writes in On the Road. “I didn’t see them for about two weeks, during which time they cemented their relationship to fiendish allday-allnight-talk proportions.”

In the end, their feelings weren’t mutual or equal. Ginsberg was infatuated with Cassady, and although they had a sexual relationship for many years, it was never a truly romantic one. Cassady was ultimately more interested in women, as indicated by his three wives (two of whom he married simultaneously). Still, Ginsberg was crushed by his unrequited love for Cassady, following him to Denver at one point and writing a collection of poems titled Denver Doldrums when he was once again rejected.

Kerouac was also infatuated with Cassady, but in another way: Kerouac viewed Cassady as a romantic, free-spirited masculine ideal who was everything Kerouac wished he could be. Likewise, Cassady loved Kerouac for his empathy, curiosity and discipline as a writer. They did what best friends do—they balanced each other, brought out the best in one another. What they shared was an enthusiasm for experience. As Dean yells out the window of a speeding car in On the Road, “Ah, God! Life!" Ultimately, they were brothers.

Whole books have been written about the complexities of Beat relationships—Ellis Amburn’s Subterranean Kerouac posits that Kerouac was torn between his attractions to men as well as women while Ginsberg claimed that he and Kerouac were intimate on several occasions. But no one can ever really know the nuances of Kerouac, Cassady and Ginsberg’s feelings. Who but them possibly could? What we do know is that they were an integral part of each other’s lives for much of their lives—despite the additional complications of other overlapping relationships—and that speaks volumes. They were each willing to sacrifice something of themselves for the sake of their love for one another and that’s about as pure as love gets.

Ginsberg wrote one of the most touching elegies in an Afterward to Kerouac’s Visions of Cody titled The Visions of the Great Rememberer: “Couldn’t ever hold on to that early Love, all bodies change & die, fall from life to life, but the sad heart now comes still expecting there was something more Neal & Jack could fulfill, or there was more love I wanted to give them than they would let me, and imagined delights in their presence they felt toward me, love & kisses they never laid on my timid body—except the sweet care they both offered me their little melancholy tender Allen….”

TLM: How are themes of masculinity and the relationships between men treated in Beatitude?

Larry: While I didn’t give any conscious thought to conveying ideas about masculinity in Beatitude, I did make a very deliberate decision about how I wanted characters to emerge—on their own, with no assistance from the author. I wanted readers to meet and come to know the characters by virtue of what they say and do, not by any editorializing. Several reviewers have described Beatitude as a dialogue-driven novel, and to some extent that’s true. I’ve always found that I learn more about someone in a few minutes of talking with them and just seeing how they move than any amount of description by a friend beforehand could ever convey.

Tied to that was a desire to explore how our experience and outlook can affect our interpretation of what we hear and see. In the same way that Harry doesn’t always perceive things as they are—doesn’t always want to perceive things as they are—I wanted readers to question their own assumptions. I wanted to smash stereotypes and reductive ideas, who’s likely to feel this way versus who’s likely to feel that way. The ultimate goal was to underline the importance of viewing the world through another’s eyes and heart. All three of the main characters ultimately come to that realization: Harry puts himself in Jay’s place, Jay puts himself in Harry’s place and Zahra puts herself in both Harry and Jay’s place. Each takes a step forward by doing so.

There’s a scene in Beatitude where I describe a television interview that Kerouac did with Steve Allen in 1959, after On the Road had catapulted Kerouac to fame and introduced the Beat Generation to America. Allen asks Kerouac how he would define beat. Kerouac pauses and says, “Sympathetic.” I think that single word expresses the essence of Beatitude.

Larry Closs is the author of Beatitude, a novel, and a New Yorker who often wanders far from home. Follow him on his website, Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and Instagram (larrycloss).

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Follow Larry Closs as his blog tour continues tomorrow, January 26, 2012, at The Picky Girl.

Ransom: A Man On A Japanese Mission

2012-01-17T14:37:00.004-05:00

Just like the Dyanetics, Ransom is a book ahead of its time. Actually, this little referenced 1985 gem -the second novel from a young Jay McInerney released- is nothing like L. Ron Hubbard's opus. But it's nontheless a remarkable book as it set the stage for a new style of writing and is in many ways the forerunner for the flood of contemporary travel/expat/adventure books on store shelves today.

It’s a book of disillusionment and exile at the dawn of our most recent wave of globalization. And while some the specifics may have changed over the past three decades the overarching and universal themes of this work are more relevant today than ever.

Recent college graduate Christopher Ransom, or just plain “Ransom” as he’s known, is escaping the excesses of post Viet Nam War America and an overbearing father. But instead of hitching across America like Kerouac or wandering the streets in an introspective funk a la Catcher in the Rye, Ransom finds himself exiled in the ancient city of Kyoto Japan after a failed adventure through the Indian sub-continent.

His time is spent practicing karate, teaching business English, working on his motorcycle, drinking at a ridiculous expat Cowboy/Blues bar and fighting the demons from his Afghan experience. It’s a strange recipe to be sure but within the context of the time period and the budding era of backpacker exploration into ever more exotic locales it seems to make sense.

Ransom ultimately comes up short in his attempts to sort out his hang-ups and fails to make sense of the tragedy his suffered at the Khyber Pass. McInerney offers us a poignant, layered and at times quite humorous look into the process. And while he never quite sorts through all the emotional debris he does achieve an odd sort of redemption and his soul-searching is balanced brilliantly against the backdrop of his fish-out-of-water experience living among the Japanese.

The writing is smart, clear, economical and the storyline and pace or spot on. At times the solemnity and severity of his angst can seem a bit contrived. But those moments are counter-balanced by his wry observations of the Americana obsessed Japanese and the samurai wannabes he encounters at his ex-pat watering hole.

Some of the most memorable parts of this book are the simple day to day exchanges with the neighbors, students and dojo comrades. These seemingly mundane transactions reveal truth and humor as Ransom tries to make sense of the world and his place in it. Throughout this journey the reader it treated to an artful portrait of Japan painted through snapshots of countryside excursions, noodle shops, temples, karaoke bars and Tokyo boardrooms.

McInerney is a brilliant writer and his creative powers are quite possible at their highest in this novel. We highly recommend Ransom, or just about any of his books or essays for that matter. He is such a polished and insightful writer that you simply can’t go wrong with his work, no matter what the subject matter.

The Aubrey/Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian, or Inaugural TLM Reading Challenge Completed

2012-01-09T09:09:00.000-05:00

First, come the apologies. There are at least two reasons that my contributions to TLM have fallen off over the last year: (1) the final editing and publication of my novel, The Last Will and Testament of Lemuel Higgins, and (2) the ill-conceived reading challenge, made way back in February 2011, of the 21 novels that comprise the Aubrey/Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian. I call the reading challenge "ill-advised" not because it was unenjoyable or not wholly worthwhile, but because it so completely overtook my reading time and consciousness that it excluded nearly all else. And yet, here we are, almost one year later, at the beginning of 2012, and I feel truly enriched by both experiences. Now it's time to share.

So, let's get to the good stuff. After making my way through the entire series, I agree wholeheartedly with Richard Snow of the New York Times, who called the Aubrey/Maturin Series "the best historical novels ever written." I feel like I lived for a time during the Napoleonic Wars, aboard the HMS Surprise, sharing hard tack and grog with midshipmen and members of the lower deck alike, taking prizes from France, Spain, and, occasionally, the United States, and shepherding British intelligence agent, Stephen Maturin, around the world to work against Napoleon's interests and, on more than one occasion, to foment revolution.

If you think that the Aubrey/Maturin Series is simply a follow-on to the eleven novels of the earlier successful Horatio Hornblower series by C.S. Forester, I am here to set you straight. Though they share a particular period in world history and both revolve around officers in the British Navy, they are worlds apart as works of entertainment and literature. For all the virtues of the earlier series in terms of historical context and the complexity of Hornblower's character, the earlier books pale in comparison to the characterization of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin, which is masterfully accomplished by O'Brian.

The reader becomes so familiar with the quirks of each character's personality that he or she truly feels among lifelong friends by the end of the series. I found myself laughing--not chuckling, but laughing long and out loud--at Jack Aubrey's stupid jokes and silly wordplay ("the lesser of two weevils") and genuinely concerned at Stephen Maturin's tendency toward opium addiction. O'Brian develops the characters so completely that the reader feels part of a group among which there are inside jokes and the mood among them is felt rather than understood through the spoken word. And, perhaps there is no greater compliment to a series of novels than to say that I fell into a period of blue depression when the final words in the last unfinished novel, 21, were read. This has happened to me before (Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited comes to mind), but it is a rare occurrence, and I take is as an indicator of enduring quality. Does this happen to you?

In any case, I hold it as one of the greatest novel to film tragedies of the modern era that the producers of Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World chose to focus on the adventurous aspects of O'Brian's work rather than the more human aspects that are so clearly the focus of the novels. I'm sure that I'm not the only one.

Overall, the Aubrey/Maturin Series is a fantastic collection, and I am genuinely sorry that there will be no more as O'Brian died in the very act of composing his twenty-first novel, in January 2000. If you've read one or more of the Aubrey/Maturin Series, please share your thoughts. And if you haven't, the complete set is listed below. Start with Desolation Island. It, like the rest, has TLM's very highest recommendation.

Master and Commander (1970)

Post Captain (1972)

HMS Surprise (1973)

The Mauritius Command (1977)

Desolation Island (1978)

The Fortune of War (1979)

The Surgeon's Mate (1980)

The Ionian Mission (1981)

Treason's Harbour (1983)

The Far Side of the World (1984)

The Reverse of the Medal (1986)

The Letter of Marque (1988)

The Thirteen Gun Salute (1989)

The Nutmeg of Consolation (1991)

Clarissa Oakes/The Truelove (1992)

The Wine-Dark Sea (1993)

The Commodore (1995)

The Yellow Admiral (1996)

The Hundred Days (1998)

Blue at the Mizzen (1999)

The Final Unfinished Voyage of Jack Aubrey/21 (2004)

The Last Will and Testament of Lemuel Higgins, or My Shameless Self-Promotion

2011-12-06T11:25:00.001-05:00

That's right, kids. My novel, The Last Will and Testament of Lemuel Higgins, is officially available in paperback. Ebook and hardcover editions will follow shortly. Thanks very much to everyone who supported me along the way.

I once spent a summer working in Washington, DC, for iconic New York Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who liked to quip that his new releases "were sure to sell in the dozens of copies." He always got a laugh, but when I say it, it's with the conviction of truth!

Light on the Concrete (a collection of poems) by Lucas Hunt

2011-11-03T14:56:00.000-04:00

Admittedly, poetry does not get its fair share of the spotlight here at TLM, which we attribute almost exclusively to our shameful, collective ignorance on the subject. It’s true that we did express an enduring admiration for Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself a few months back—seriously, though, who doesn’t love Uncle Walt? And we even picked up a collection or two from the comments to that post (thanks again for pointing me to I Wish I Had a Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman—it was excellent). But that is quite literally the only poetry-related post that you will find in the archives of TLM. Until now. Hopefully, this post will even the score a bit.

Light on the Concrete is the second volume of poetry from Lucas Hunt. His first, Lives, was released in 2006 to critical acclaim. Light on the Concrete has also received accolades for its treatment of every day subjects, which Hunt’s precise and beautiful language infuses with feeling that we all recognize and share, though only when it is pointed out to us. What do we mean? Well, look here …

The Mississippi Steams

When massive steel blades
thunder to break
solid sheets of ice
that turned pavement
into frozen rivers,
birds search the wreckage
of scoop shovel and tire track
to find small grains
of nourishment.
This is it—
a time to arrest
action on the earth,
a freeze on disking,
planting and harvesting,
enforced idleness
in the womblike place
that nurtures
seeds into food.
Winter ground
gets back what is taken
by crops galore,
by hungry thieves
of the treasure
under road, snow and foot.

For anyone that has spent any time in the rural Northeast or Midwest, it is the snowplow that marks the true changing of the seasons, when all of summer’s pleasures and fall’s anxieties are put away as life enters survival mode and a low-level collective dreaming. And the image of a small flock of chickadees pecking over the upturned mix of earth and ice and snow makes me, for one, feel like I am a ten-year old boy standing at the end of a dirt drive in rural Western New York, waiting for the school bus as the sun rises behind a wall of cloud cover that will last until spring.

Light on the Concrete is full of such moments, commonplace and too often overlooked, but beautiful when frozen in time. Despite my ignorance of the intricacies or even the mechanics of poetry, I found it to be a thoroughly enjoyable collection.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Lucas Hunt has graciously agreed to put together TLM’s first-ever guest post, addressing, among other issues, the importance of an appreciation of poetry to a literate man. Stay tuned ...

The Evolution of Copyright: Golan v. Holder, or How Congress Took Your Share of the Public Domain and Gave It (Back) to Dead Foreigners

2011-10-05T16:31:00.003-04:00

That’s right—it’s not enough that Uncle Sam grabs you by the ankles every April and shakes loose every last penny, button, and piece of lint that he can find—now he’s taken part of your share of the Public Domain. Have I dramatized this enough to keep you awake through the legal questions? Hm … we’ll see about that.

In brief, prior to the passage of the Uruguay Round Agreements Act in 1994, certain works, including symphonies by Sergei Prokofiev, Igor Stravinksy, and Dmitri Shostakovich; books by C.S. Lewis, Virginia Woolf, and H.G. Wells; films by Federico Fellini, Alfred Hitchcock, and Jean Renoir; and artwork by M.C. Escher and Pablo Picasso, were all part of the “Public Domain,” meaning that they did not enjoy copyright protection in the U.S. and were freely available for reproduction or other use to the general public. So who owns works in the Public Domain? I do. And you do. Ok, we all do.

In most cases, the absence of copyright protection for foreign works was because the U.S. did not have copyright treaties with the countries in which original copyright protection for the work was obtained. The problem was that, because we treated these foreign works as belonging to the Public Domain in the U.S., other countries treated U.S.-originated works as Public Domain in their own countries. As such, U.S. authors had no copyright protection in a small but significant portion of the world.

In 1994, Congress changed all that. The Uruguay Round Agreements Act granted copyright protection to those foreign works that were previously considered Public Domain on the theory that such would cause foreign countries to reciprocate and grant copyright protection to U.S. authors. And so, with one swift move, Congress took those foreign works previously owned by you and me and gave them back to their original (mostly dead) copyright owners. This too caused a problem: hundreds, if not thousands, of people had relied on these works as being in the Public Domain when they reproduced them, performed them, or used them to create what are known as derivative works.

Who would stand up to the might of Congress and the foreign interests? Who would represent the nameless masses from whom the works had been stolen? Why, those who stood to lose money, of course—the very parties that had come to rely on the Public Domain status of foreign works in performing or producing the same for money. The reliance parties, as they are referred to, challenged Congress’ action on two grounds: (1) that the Progress Clause of the U.S. Constitution precludes Congress from taking works out of the Public Domain; and (2) that the new restriction on use of works formerly in the Public Domain was an impermissible restriction on Free Speech.

The case was argued before the U.S. Supreme Court this very morning. From the transcript of the oral argument, it is obvious that certain Justices (Ginsberg and Sotomayor) favor the government’s position, while other Justices (Scalia and Breyer) favor the position of the Petitioners. Where the rest fall is anyone’s guess. The decision should issue later this term. Stay tuned to TLM for the exciting conclusion.

Now for a confession. After all the dramatization above, I think the government has the better argument here. The Progress Clause of the Constitution contains no language that would prevent Congress from taking works out of the Public Domain (indeed, it did so upon the creation of the first Copyright Act). And it seems evident to me that Congress carefully weighed the public benefits of joining the international copyright community in determining to pick our collective pockets of those works formerly in the Public Domain. I’m upset that they robbed me (and without compensation—though that’s a topic for another day), but I understand why and how they did so. So there.

Did anyone other than the legal community even realize that this fight was going on? Does anyone have an opinion here? Are you all asleep? I thought so.

The White Tiger is a Book of Rare Quality

2011-09-29T16:50:00.002-04:00

The White Tiger, to our knowledge, is the only letter to a Chinese Premier to ever win the Man Booker Prize. And rightfully so. Author Aravind Adiga has penned a brilliant debut novel that has been widely praised across the pond but has yet to receive its just dues in the US. This novel pulls the curtain back on India’s economic revolution in a refreshingly original, honest and often humorous voice.

The story that unfolds, while distinctly Indian in the details, could be set in just about any “third-world” country: boy is born into rural poverty, migrates to urban area, work hard, grows some balls and ambition, puts some coin in his pocket, consumes his way into the emerging middle-class and becomes a connoisseur of Budweiser, WWE, Russian prostitutes and all the other trappings of the good life.

But it’s the man at the center of this hurricane that makes the book a treasure.

Balram Halwai is a man that’s impressed by English liquor and cheap denim. And just like the eponymous big cat in the title he is truly a rare animal. A man for whom success is measured by conspicuous consumption. He’s also a shrewd and conniving entrepreneur whose ambition has led him out of the “darkness” of his rural village and into the bright lights and filth of Mumbai. After smashing in his employer’s skull in a Dostoevsky-esque plot twist he opens a thriving taxi business. As a businessman on the rise he’s offered respite to reflect on his views and life in a late night letter to the Chinese leader.

He details his humble and difficult beginnings, his lack of schooling, his tenure as an abused chauffer and the delight he takes in indulging in the material delights of the new Indian economy. He is also a bit of pig. His views on wealth, women and the good-life all seem as though they’ve been formed by an MTV reality show and he posses few redeeming qualities. But he’s a compelling character because no matter how casually he swallows the bitter pill of his pitiable beginnings and gushes over his modest success the pain in his life is vivid and universal.

The White Tiger tells the story of two Indias through the eyes of the downtrodden. He provides a refreshing narrative of the social convulsions coursing through modern India void of the sentimentality that often dooms such projects. While this is hardly an original topic what sets The White Tiger apart is that Balram is no victim. In fact, “hero” might be more apt, at least in Balram’s mind. He’s crass, materialistic, ignorant and a true “success” story of India’s modernization. His tale is unique -arguably even ground-breaking- and undoubtedly adds to our collective understanding of the human experience.

Adiga deserves all the credit in the world. He’s created some inedible characters and woven a fascinating tale. We can’t wait to read his next offering, Last Man In Tower, due to hit bookshelves later this year.

The Local Scene: The Other Side by E. Thomas Finan

2011-07-11T20:18:00.001-04:00

The Other Side is a work of seven stories that comprise the debut collection from E. Thomas Finan, currently a lecturer at the University of Miami. Published by The Fieldnor Press in 2010, The Other Side treats various poignant moments in the lives of its characters. Finan experiments with a variety of voices and styles in bringing his characters to life and, because he is a strong writer with a talent for dialogue, he mostly succeeds.

My favorite story of the collection was, "Motley Black," which follows Jay, recently jilted and running from memory, as he leaves his home in San Francisco and travels by bus to Key West, where he hopes to begin the next chapter of his life. Anyone who has ever travelled by bus will appreciate the cast of well-drawn characters that Jay meets along the way, and it is obvious that Finan is writing from experience.

Others that scored points with me were the existentialist "Lucy di Sartoria," the obsessive "An Aria of Windrows," and the supernatural story, "The Other Side.". Overall, I found Finan's collection familiar and readable, with characters that elicit sympathy and make a connection with the reader. And I'm looking forward to more of Finan in the future.

The Dreamlike Beauty of an Expatriate Life: Everything Beautiful Began After by Simon Van Booy

2011-07-05T15:22:00.002-04:00

There is a dreamlike beauty to the expatriate life that Simon Van Booy captures perfectly in his debut novel, Everything Beautiful Began After, released today by Harper Perennial.

Rebecca, George, and Henry, have each come to Athens for different reasons, but all are content to become lost in its dusty streets and the hazy memory of antiquity. And it is a sandblown sort of fate that brings them together in that haphazard, thousand-causal-connections manner that typifies the joining of strangers in a foreign land and the binding of them together by common experience. But come together they do, and they eventually share an affection that is both real and enduring.

When tragedy strikes, it is through these well-formed and emotionally-complex characters that Van Booy demonstrates how the intimacy of casual acquaintance and the despair occasioned by last goodbyes can hijack an entire life. Everything Beautiful Began After paints a portrait of a world almost outside of existence where affairs may capture the heart forever and the loss of a future once-envisioned can become all-consuming.

More than simply a painter of beautiful scenes, however, Van Booy is also a skilled professional. His prose is thoughtful and poetic as he describes Athens so vividly that the reader feels the dry heat of a noonday sun at the foot of the Acropolis. He cleverly plays with language, not just English, but Greek, French, Italian, and even Arabic, as a sometime reminder of how difficult it can be to communicate with one another, especially where the subject consists of our own pain. And though it takes some getting used to, the periodic use of the second person and the present tense allows the reader to share in the aimless wandering of Henry as he seeks some path by which to reenter the world that he once knew but has since lost forever.

Though it is sure to be enjoyed by the general public, in my opinion Everything Beautiful Began After is a must-read for anyone living abroad or with fond memories of having done so.

We Have Met the Enemy: Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

2011-06-20T16:10:00.001-04:00

"The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much."

Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness is (unfortunately) best recognized in popular culture for providing the backstory for Francis Ford Coppola's 1979 movie, Apocalypse Now, which is a classic in its own right. The novel is based, not in Cambodia, but in a part of the African Congo that was a private colony of King Leopold II of Belgium in the latter part of the nineteenth century.

While waiting for the tide to turn at the mouth of the Thames, the protagonist, Charlie Marlow, notes to his fellow travelers that London and the Britons were once dark and untamed in the period just prior to Roman domination of the island. Marlow proceeds to recount his experiences as a steamship captain in darkest colonial Africa and, specifically, the recovery of Kurtz, an ivory trader, journalist, and poet-philosopher, who is lost to the darkness of the jungle and his own mind. The sometimes brutal treatment of the African natives plays a central role in the story, as does the chaos and lawlessness that results from unrestrained domination of one culture by another. Themes of darkness and light are interwoven in both story and character to show that each of us and each of our enterprises, at some level, are infected by that tendency toward evil that is witnessed by Kurtz in the moments before he utters his final words: "The horror! The horror!"

Given the theme of European colonialism, the novel is broader than Apocalypse Now in the scope of its treatment. And because it focused more specifically on the inherent duality within each human soul, the novel is also more terrifying. Conrad is a master of prolonged tension and in the subtle treatment of difficult and controversial themes--including colonialism--and both the topic and the prose gradually work their way under the reader's skin until he's strung as tight as a bow. But there's never a release, at least not one that completely diffuses the tension, and the reader is left with a feeling of unsettling anxiety long after the work is read.

Truth be told, Heart of Darkness is one of those few works that keep us up at night, not simply because of the story or its basis in colonial reality, but because of its undeniable application to human existence. Does anyone share this reaction to the work? What other works, if any, keep you up at night?

Happy Bloomsday, Everyone.

2011-06-16T14:43:00.002-04:00

It's been a good, long while since I've posted a word here at The Literate Man. My thanks to Aaron for picking up the slack. The break wasn't intentional, but evolved out of (1) my misguided First Reading Challenge: The Aubrey/Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian (I'm currently on book 13 of 21 and can read nothing else), and (2) final edits to on my own novel, The Last Will and Testament of Lemuel Higgins, which is in the final stages of editing and design prior to publication.

But I couldn't let Bloomsday pass without recycling TLM's reviews of Ulysses from late last year. There were two: one relating reflections at the halfway point and one presenting a final review. June 16, 1904, was the date that Joyce chose for Ulysses' protagonist, Leopold Bloom, to go rambling about Dublin and provide us with some of the most colorful scenes in all of English literature. It also happens to be the day that James Joyce had his first date with his eventual wife, Nora Barnacle. In any case, the date is celebrated worldwide (and particularly in Dublin) as Bloomsday in honor and recognition of Joyce's epic work and enduring genius.

So raise a pint to Ulysses, number seven on TLM's Top Eight Novels for Men, and to James Joyce, one of the most honored (and divisive) authors in literary history.

BURR: Gore Vidal’s Portrait of History’s Forgotten Man

2011-05-30T10:27:00.004-04:00

Gore Vidal is the godfather of historical fiction. While he may not have invented the genre, he’s the man that has done more to elevate its status than any other writer and added more quality content to the canon than arguably anyone else.

Everyone seems to have their favorite Vidal novel and here at The Literate Man (TLM) we’re Burr diehards. And how could you not be intrigued by Aaron Burr’s story or at least Vidal’s interpretation and telling of it?

General in the Revolutionary Army, would-be conqueror of Quebec, president of the United States of America and Emperor of Mexico? If things would have turned out just a little bit differently this is the résumé Aaron Burr could have had. Instead, his epitaph reads: US senator, US Vice-president, treasonous exile, alleged practitioner of incest and a mostly forgotten founding father. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

But that’s the magic of Vidal’s vision. In the writing of Burr he’s taken an historic footnote –Burr- and turned him into a man that was a whisker away from becoming quite possibly the most important figure of the 19^th century. If only things could have worked out differently.

Most people today simply know Burr as the man who shot and killed Alexander Hamilton in an 1804 duel. Which is true. But commonly accepted history has made Hamilton a martyr and Burr little more than a strange curiosity. In Burr, Vidal has given the man an historical defense.

Vidal has taken certain liberties in writing this account, including the creation of the refreshing young narrator, Charles Schuyler, a clerk in Burr’s office, who is approached by political enemies of future president Martin Van Buren to prove he’s the bastard son of Burr. That’s a strange sentence, but an interesting one. And the book is full just those sort of shocking and interesting revelations.

The author was meticulous in his researching of the material and even some of the themes that seem to employ a great deal of creative license (such as his assertion that Hamilton alleged incest between Burr and his daughter, thus triggering the fatal duel) are based in fact. But more than just an impressive compilation of facts, Vidal has told this story in a compelling and humanistic tone that most revisionist historical accounts fail to achieve.

And what a treasure trove to draw from. Burr seems to be personally involved in all the most important historical events of his lifetime. Vidal takes us from his days as a colonel in the Revolutionary War, the founding of what would become JP Morgan Chase, his electoral tie with Thomas Jefferson in the 1800 presidential contest, allegations that he and Andrew Jackson hatched a scheme to conquer Mexico and appoint himself emperor, and ultimately the killing of his former best friend, Hamilton, in a gun fight in New Jersey.

You simply couldn’t make this stuff up. And whether or not Vidal’s interpretations would hold up under absolute historical scrutiny, we’ll probably never know. But if you’re looking for an enthralling read Burr hits the mark by any measure of examination.

The Dog Of The South: Not Your Typical School Bus Ride Through Mexico

2011-04-09T06:48:00.011-04:00

Here at The Literate Man our primary mission (aside from stopping plate tectonics and fomenting small revolutions) is to share the gift of literature with our fellow man, woman and child. We are book nerds, to be sure. And we like to share the books and writers we like; books and names that don’t often appear at airport bookstores or in Oprah’s Book Club, but have nonetheless brought us a great deal of delight and hope they might do the same for you.

Charles Portis is one of our favorites and if it wasn’t for sloth and fantasy football we would have shared our thoughts on this great man of letters long ago.

Almost every red-blooded American is familiar with Portis’ most famous work: True Grit. Whether it’s the John Wayne original or the Cohen Brothers remake, Portis’ terrifically-titled novel has carved out a place in the English lexicon.

But it’s The Dog of the South that is Portis’ real masterpiece. This is the kind of work that makes us cavalier in heaping praise like “genius,” “hilarious,” and “even funnier than Lethal Weapon II.”

The plot is thin. The narrator is unreliable. The story lacks resolution. And it’s absolutely perfect.

From the simple opening sentence of this book (“My wife Norma had run off with Guy Dupree and I was waiting around for the credit card billings to come in so I could see where they had gone.”) a wild adventure featuring a cast of Southern wierdos is hatched.

The protagonist and narrator through this ill-conceived odyssey from Arkansas to British Honduras (present-day

Belize

) is Raymond E. Midge, an aspiring algebra teacher and military enthusiast looking to reclaim his stolen wife and car -not necessarily in that order. In a turn of fair play Midge steal’s Dupree’s Buick (“a rusty little piece of basic transportation” with a hole in the driver’s side floor board) and the chase is on.

Halfway through Mexico he stops to help an elderly man in a broken-down school bus (with the moniker ‘Dog of the South’ painted on its side) and becomes entangled with the indefatigable Dr Reo Symes. Symes is a typical Portis eccentric who’s on his way to Belize, where his mother runs a church, to talk her out some property in the US (he envisions opening up a theme park devoted to Jefferson Davis). These two characters come to depend on one another as they follow the trail of the elusive “lovebirds” and battle with tropical storms, hippies, “dopers”, car troubles and each other’s own idiosyncrasies.

Portis unravels this disastrous jaunt through Mesoamerica at a brisk pace that makes the 256 pages fly by. Throughout the many comical exchanges he displays his gifts for writing dialogue, creating unforgettable characters and reveals a world much broader than the two ridiculous men that carry the story.

It’s regrettable that this book, and Portis himself, have not received a wider audience. Perhaps this shameless plug (and maybe that Oscar thing, too) will lead a few more people to discover his gifts.

If you like reading and you like laughing you’ll like this book. And if you do like it, please share it with someone else who might appreciate it as well.

The Literary Blog Hop Asks: Are You Predisposed to Like the Classics? Yes. Next Question.

2011-03-31T14:39:00.000-04:00

I'm beginning to look forward to every other Thursday and the Literary Blog Hop hosted by the lovely ladies over at The Blue Bookcase. Not only have they introduced me to some wonderful literary book blogs, which have turned me on to some great books, but they always ask the most interesting questions. This week's question is as follows:

Do you find yourself predisposed to like (or dislike) books that are generally accepted as great books and have been incorporated into the literary canon?

Yes (like). Next question.

Discuss the effect you believe a book’s “status” has on your opinion of it.

Aha! I thought we were getting off easy this week. Ok. Well, I'd like to say that I remain objective in my reviews, regardless of the reputation of the author or work under consideration, but that's simply not true. In fact, I would argue that it's not human. We're all subject to social pressures and preconceived opinions, though some do a better job than others of maintaining a relative objectivity. For myself, I think that a book's status or reputation creates a kind of synergistic effect on my own appreciation of it. If it enjoys a reputation as a classic, I am predisposed to like it, and I tend to be more effusive in my praise of it. On the other hand, if I do not like it, my dislike tends to be exaggerated as well.

A case in point is our recent review of The Man Who Loved Children. Though not widely known, the book enjoys a reputation as a modern classic and, in fact, is included in Time Magazine's list of the Top 100 Novels in the English language from 1923 to the present. I was predisposed to like it. I did like it. And I was probably more effusive in my praise because the book (twice) met and even exceeded my expectations.

What about you? Do you love to love the classics or do you love to hate them?

The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead (TLM's New Number Eight)

2011-03-30T12:49:00.000-04:00

I've always found it unpredictable to re-read a work that I loved once upon a time. At different points, I've come away both more certain than ever of my respect (Sometimes A Great Notion) and questioning what I could have so appreciated on the first reading (Moby Dick). But when Jonathan Franzen wrote a piece in the New York Times championing The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead, I decided that this was one favorite worth revisiting.

I first read The Man Who Loved Children in college some twenty years ago as part of a course on Australian Literature. That course, by the way, revealed to me some of the best work that I had read to that point (including The Man Who Loved Children), and I took away from it an abiding appreciation of Australian Literature thta survives to this day. Upon my first reading, I was convinced that The Man Who Loved Children was among the three greatest works of literature that I had read to that point. Twenty years later, I had only vague recollections of the Pollit family in a constant state of agitation with themselves and one another, along with a healthy respect for Christina Stead's powers of both characterization and creativity based on the relationship between Sam Pollit and his daughter, Louisa.

My more recent second reading has convinced me that The Man Who Loved Children is one of the greatest tragedies ever written and it deserves a place among TLM's top novels for men. Not that it is a book for or about men in particular, despite its title. Rather, The Man Who Loved Children is a book for and about anyone that has ever felt manipulated, repressed, limited, or emotionally dominated by those individuals that are closest to them. In other words, it is a book for and about everyone. It reportedly draws heavily from Christina Stead's own life and her relationship with her father, which is undoubtedly part of its genius.

As for the plot, the blind and dysfunctional Sam is the patriarch of the Pollit family, which resides outside of Washington, DC. At once a dictator and a narcissist, Sam has so alienated his wife, Henny, that they are no longer on speaking terms, communicating only through their children or in written form. This, of course, leads to constant emotional hostage taking in a house comprised of six (and eventually seven) children.  Toward those children, Sam believes himself a god, demanding their awe and respect for his various projects and achievements, while also digging so deeply into their lives and their brains as to crowd out any notion of privacy or individuality. Stead does a masterful job of showing each child's reaction to this dominating treatment, as they each struggle to support one another. And it is largely this sense of mutual support in the face of overwhelming and sinister domination (and I am not being melodramatic here) that gives the book's conclusion its tragic force.

Christina Stead creates a world--set wholly within the confines of the Pollit home--that is so emotionally deep and complex that the reader has the distinct feeling of having lived among its characters as a passive (though alternately incredulous and furious) observer throughout the time period covered by the book.  I suspect that it is that same gut wrenching emotional journey that has kept The Man Who Loved Children from obtaining the popular acceptance and acclaim that it most certainly deserves. In any case, I have no problem whatsoever making The Man Who Loved Children TLM's new number eight.

Has anyone out there read The Man Who Loved Children? More importantly, is there anyone out there that read it and did not absolutely marvel at Stead's skill at characterization?

Aaarrrgghh ... Is Piracy Really a Problem for the Publishing Industry?

2011-03-25T13:14:00.004-04:00

As a general matter, I like to keep my work life separate from my blog life, and I find that there is rarely any substantial overlap between the two. That said, as I've mentioned in passing on a couple of occassions, by day I'm an intellectual property attorney dealing primarily in issues of copyright and trademark law. Recently, our firm's publicist asked me to give an opinion on the scope of the problem of e-book piracy in the publishing industry.

My reaction to this question has always been skeptical. I just don't see e-book piracy as a significant potential problem given the fact that people don't consume books in the same way that they consume music and film. First, though e-book sales are increasing rapidly (as recently reported in a study by the Association of American Publishers), hardcover and paperback book sales still constitute a majority of the market. Second, book purchases tend to be carefully considered decisions in my experience, as opposed to impulse purchases of music and movies. Third, and perhaps most important, e-book distributors are ahead of the curve in terms of distribution (and far, far ahead of both the music and film industries when piracy first became a serious problem for them). Simply stated, it is easier to pay $10 for an electronic copy of The Lost Symbol from the Kindle Store, the iBooks Store, the Sony eReader Store, etc., than is it so find a quality copy through Bit Torrent, download it, and upload it onto your particular device.

But not everyone agrees, as evidenced by a recent article by David Carnoy over at CNET entitled, "Kindle e-book piracy accelarates." Evidently, there is a group of e-book enthusiasts that like to shop in bulk (as in 2500 books at a time).

So, what do you think? Is this really as much of a problem for the publishing industry as it has been for the music and film industries? Have you ever looked for a pirated copy of a particular book or known anyone that has? Thanks for any (anonymous) insight that you may be able to provide.

The Literary Blog Hop Wants You to Consider Your Own Mortality

2011-03-18T15:50:00.000-04:00

Debbie Nance over at Readerbuzz apparently had quite the St. Patrick's Day because she's thinking about death. And as a green-blooded Irish-American, I can tell you that a Jameson-soaked contemplation of The End is often the unwanted byproduct of the hours of Guinness-swilling jubilation that precede it. But I give her credit--what could be more Irish than to tie a contemplation of one's own mortality to a work of great literature? Here's to you, Debbie. Slainte!

The question Debbie posed over at the Literary Blog Hop is the following: What one literary work must you read before you die? Like everyone else that's weighed in on this topic, I'm pulled in ten different directions at once.

If I'm recommending to others from the books that I've read over the course of my life, I think I'd have to go with Ulysses by James Joyce. The fact that Joyce was Irish is merely a happy coincidence, but I'll toast him just the same. Slainte! Though it was a struggle to get through, I think I've never been as intimate with the characters of a literary work nor have I ever seen such mastery in Joyce's playful manipulation of the English language. Ultimately, it is hands down the most rewarding work of literature that I've ever read.

Now, if we're talking about the one literary work that I feel that I must read before I die, I'm going with Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. There's something about the decline of an entire civilization that makes your own mortality just a little bit easier to contemplate.

Thanks to Debbie and the girls at the Blue Bookcase for a great topic.

The Aubrey/Maturin Series, Books I through V (Reading Challenge Installment 1)

2011-03-07T14:48:00.002-05:00

This is the first installment of four in TLM's First Reading Challenge: The Aubrey/Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian. We will cover each of the first five novels in the 21-novel series, including Master and Commander,Post Captain, HMS Surprise, The Mauritius Command, and Desolation Island. Since simply outlining the action in each book would defeat the purpose of the challenge, I will breakdown each book by most memorable scene, dominant theme, and most interesting character. Of course, I encourage every one of you to share your thoughts by posting your comments below.

Master and Commander:

Most memorable scene: The taking of the Cacafuego, a Spanish frigate, by Captain Aubrey and his brig, the Sophie. This is O'Brian's first extended description of a battle at sea, wherein he proves that he is a master. Jack Aubrey follows Lord Nelson's advice to "Never mind maneuvers, always go at them!"

Dominant theme: Divided loyalties. Both Stephen Maturin and James Dillon, the Sophie's first lieutenant, have dark histories fighting the British as members of the United Irishmen. Maturin is both practical and philosophical in his outlook, while Dillon's raw internal struggles lead him to seek his own demise.

Most interesting character: Jack Aubrey. An unapologetic rogue on land, Aubrey is an experienced sea officer and brilliant naval tactician just coming into his own during the action of M&C.

Post Captain:

Most memorable scene: Stephen Maturin leading Jack Aubrey across the French/Spanish border dressed in a bear costume. The ruse was necessary when Stephen and Jack are caught in France at the time that the Peace of Amiens fails and war resumes with Britain.

Dominant theme: The vagaries of life at sea. Jack Aubrey spends half of the book running from creditors, who seek to have him thrown in debtors' prison after shifting political alliances rob him of prize money that he is due. His fortunes revive when Stephen Maturin is able to use his own political influence to involve Jack in the capture of a Spanish convoy carrying treasure.

Most interesting character: Stephen Maturin. It is in Post Captain that Stephen Maturin's role as a British intelligence agent becomes a prominent part of the series. Maturin is half Irish and half Catalan, and it is his Catalan heritage that leads him to fight tooth and nail against Napoleon, even overriding his Irish republican distaste for British hegemony.

HMS Surprise:

Most memorable scene: Stephen Maturin operating on himself to remove a bullet lodged between his ribs during a duel. The duel is precipitated by Stephen's love for Diana Villiers, who has become Richard Canning's mistress in India.

Dominant theme: Affairs of the heart. Both Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin suffer from problems of the heart in HMS Surprise.  Aubrey is cheated out of his share of the captured Spanish treasure and this complicates his pending marriage to Sophie Williams. Stephen, meanwhile, ineffectually declares his love to Diana Villiers, who will continue to torment him over the course of the series.

Most memorable character: Diana Villiers.  At once fickle and practical, Diana wraps both Aubrey and Maturin around her finger, though it is the learned and philosophical Maturin that receives the most deep and lasting wounds from their relationship. The reader is never quite sure whether to consider her Maturin's proper mate or a sly female villain of the heart.

The Mauritius Command:

Most memorable scene: After Maturin returns to report to Commodore Aubrey the failure of an effort to take Mauritius from the French, Aubrey returns to the scene of the routing and methodically, captured ship by captured ship, turns the tide back in favor of the British, who eventually take the island, though Aubrey is robbed of credit for the enterprise.

Dominant theme: Measuring up. Lord Clonfert was, at one time, superior in rank and reputation to Jack Aubrey; however, he finds himself under Commodore Aubrey's command at Mauritius.  Clonfert had demonstrated cowardice during an earlier campaign with Aubrey, and it is evident that Aubrey's continued success has him feeling both cowardly and unworthy so that he overcompensates in his command and becomes gravely injured. Rather than suffer the success of Jack Aubrey at Mauritius, Clonfert commits suicide by removing his bandages.

Most memorable character: Lord Clonfert, for all the reasons noted above.

Desolation Island:

Most memorable scene: The sinking of the Waakzaamheid, a 74-gun Dutch ship-of-the-line, in the extreme South Atlantic. Aubrey's new ship, the Leopard, having been chased nearly to Anterctica by the much larger Waakzaamheid over the course of many days, the ships exchange fire, and a lucky shot takes down the Dutch ship's foremast, causing her to sink with all hands.

Dominant Theme: Intelligence (and counter-intelligence). For the first time in the series, the United States takes a prominent role as Aubrey is charged with hauling the American intelligence agent, Luisa Wogan, along with other convicts to Australia.  Maturin makes good use of Ms. Wogan, using her lover to feed her counter-intelligence and helping them both to escape aboard an American whaler while the Leopard is fitting for repairs.

Most memorable character: Stephen Maturin. O'Brian deals directly and honestly with the evils of addiction by afflicting one of his two main characters with an addiction to laudanum. His disappointments with Diana Villiers feed the beast that torments him and it is, in part, his deplorable state that leads Jack Aubrey to take to sea once again.

And so concludes the first installment of TLM's four-part series on the Aubrey/Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian.  Please feel free to share your thoughts, comments, suggestions, complaints, etc. I'm personally in the middle of book seven, The Surgeon's Mate, so it may be a few weeks before we have another installment. In the meantime, happy reading.

The Book as Sacred Object, and Recollections of the Paris Codex

2011-02-25T14:02:00.000-05:00

So, this morning I received a nice, big box of very old books on Spanish and Mexican history that I had purchased on the cheap at auction several months back. I already have a fairly large collection of books on the Maya of Guatemala and the Yucatan, and my hope was that I would find a couple of useful--or at least intriguing--volumes in what I otherwise understood to be a grab bag of dusty, old history books. I was not disappointed.

But even more than the useful or intriguing knowledge that may be contained within their pages, I found myself relishing the look and feel and musty old smell of each and every volume that I pulled from among the styrofoam packing material and unwrapped from its tissue paper. And I realized once again that, despite all the support for ebooks and audiobooks that can be found in these posts, there is nothing quite like a good old book to fire my imagination. For me, as for most of you I would suspect, books are sacred objects, and I find myself caring more about them than I do about even my most important and useful possessions. Every time that I stumble on a worthwhile old tome, I want to take it in like a stray kitten and nurse it back to health or at least put it to the use for which it was intended. I know that I'm not alone in this appreciation.

The whole experience got me thinking about the most significant book that I've ever held in my own two hands--the Paris Codex. For the uninitiated--and I'm perfectly willing to admit that the field is obscure--the Paris Codex is one of four surviving manuscripts written by the Maya at the time of the Spanish Conquest. That there are only four may be blamed as much on Spanish zealotry as the ravages of time--they famously burned thousands of such manuscripts in their less than subtle efforts at conversion. And only one, known as the Grolier Codex, remains in the Americas today. The rest are scattered about Europe in Madrid, Dresden, and Paris, where they are known less than creatively as the Madrid, Dresden, and Paris Codices.

Each provides an example of the well-developed written language of the Maya, the only such writing system that originated in the Americas and, arguably, one of only three written languages that developed organically (i.e. was not borrowed or adapted from some other civilization) throughout the entire world. The written language of the Maya died out in the generations following the Spanish Conquest, though amazing strides have been made in the last several decades with respect to the understanding and preservation of the language, which can still be found not only in the codices, but on stelae and temples throughout Central America and Mexico.

The Paris Codex is kept in a sealed box at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, and is not generally accessible to the public. I was able to handle it only after a lengthy formal request process during which I explained repeatedly that I was working on a book in which the Paris Codex figured prominently. By sheer persistence, I wore them down. And I was even able to sneak my wife in as well as my "translator" on the day of our viewing.

To hold a five hundred year-old book from a "lost" civilization that is written in a language that no longer exists is absolutely indescribable. I remember carefully paging through the codex from beginning to end over the course of several hours, its pages still bright and beautiful, though delicate and fading in spots. And I couldn't help but think of the author, seated cross-legged, paintbrush in hand, half a century behind me, and born of a civilization that owed nothing to my own. I might as well have been reading the marks of an alien world light years away. But one thing I knew that I shared with him was an appreciation of the written word and a love of the books that contain it. In many ways, I think it is the written language that allows us to finally transcend time and place and to sympathize with those around us--and isn't that the very thing that makes us human?

I've gone on far too long--I get wrapped up in books, what can I say? But what about the rest of you? Do you consider any books sacred? Do you remember a particular experience with a particular book above all others? And what do you think it is about the written word that transfixes and binds us?

TLM's First Reading Challenge: The Aubrey/Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian

2011-02-09T15:41:00.001-05:00

It's been more than a month since our last post here at TLM. The cause is obvious, as is the cure. I'm addicted. I'm not afraid to admit it. And I feel compelled to share my addiction by embarking upon the very first TLM Reading/Listening Challenge.

The challenge is this: one complete tour through the 21 novels that comprise Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin Series before year's end. If you've never picked up the Aubrey/Maturin Series, it treats the adventures of British naval officer Jack Aubrey and his Irish/Catalan naval surgeon Stephen Maturin throughout the years during and immediately following the Napoleonic Wars. Though fiction, the novels are renowned for their historical accuracy, and each provides enough swashbuckling adventure, political intrigue, and romance to fill a ship-of-the-line. Richard Snow of the New York Times called the Aubrey/Maturin Series "the best historical novels ever written."

Here are the 21 Aubrey/Maturin novels in order:

Master and Commander(1970)

Post Captain (1972)

HMS Surprise (1973)

The Mauritius Command (1977)

Desolation Island (1978)

The Fortune of War (1979)

The Surgeon's Mate (1980)
The Ionian Mission (1981)
Treason's Harbour (1983)
The Far Side of the World (1984)
The Reverse of the Medal (1986)
The Letter of Marque (1988)
The Thirteen Gun Salute (1989)
The Nutmeg of Consolation (1991)
Clarissa Oakes/The Truelove (1992)
The Wine-Dark Sea (1993)
The Commodore (1995)
The Yellow Admiral (1996)
The Hundred Days (1998)
Blue at the Mizzen (1999)
The Final Unfinished Voyage of Jack Aubrey/21 (2004)

So who's in? I have a bit of a head start. I'm through the first five novels, and I'm on to number six, The Fortune of War. Thus far, The Mauritius Command and Desolation Island are my particular favorites, though all have been enjoyable reads. I will be posting on them in sets of five, with the first post, covering Master and Commander through Desolation Island, to come over the next several days.

If you are up for the challenge, I invite your participation--please let me know that you're in by posting below. I am also soliciting ideas for some sort of prize or at least acknowledgment of accomplishment for those who see the series through. Please do share your thoughts.

Literary Blog Hop (Hey, I Just Posted on Moby Dick--I Can Hardly Let This Pass)

2011-01-07T15:39:00.001-05:00

The fabulous ladies over at The Blue Bookcase are hosting The Literary Blog Hop once again. It's a great opportunity to get to know some of your fellow lovers of great literature and pick up a recommendation or two. If you have a moment, take a look around and leave a comment here and there to let everyone know what valuable service they are providing to all of us. And, if you're here from the Literary Blog Hop, please feel free to settle in and take a look around. If you're looking for highlights, try our reviews of Ulysses, The Ginger Man, and Sometimes a Great Notion (our all-time favorite).

After all that, I almost forgot to answer this week's question: How did you find your way to reading literary fiction and nonfiction?

My love of literature, like many of you, I owe to my parents and grandparents. As a young child, my grandmother would read I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew, a Dr. Suess story very vaguely in the line of Homer's Odyssey, which I eventually came read myself. Between that first book and my first real taste of literature it's all a blur of Stephen King and Scott O'Dell (and even a little V.C. Andrews, I'm almost ashamed to admit). But Steinbeck's The Pearl at 12 was a real turning point, as I remember. I suddenly recognized real literary genius and the incredible connection between author and reader that can come out of it. After that, I basically put away the pop fiction (okay, I still read the occassional Clive Cussler) and became a devotee of literary fiction.

I re-read The Pearl on a lazy afternoon a couple of years ago and fell in love with it all over again.

Moby Dick, and Thoughts on Standing the Test of Time

2011-01-06T14:00:00.001-05:00

So here's the story in brief (as if you needed it): one big angry white whale, one one-legged monomaniacal captain, and a mess of willing and unwilling seamen caught up in a suicide mission. The book is largely symbolic, of course, treating numerous dark themes, including man versus god, man versus nature, and man versus his own creeping obsessions and internal demons. But in terms of plot, that's basically it--and, perhaps because of its simplicity, the tale has lived in the American consciousness for 150 years.

In fact, the broad outlines of Moby Dick seem to have become as much a part of American culture as baseball and apple pie, and it is a testament to its ~~utility for selling completely unrelated products~~ longevity that it is used even today to promote, among other products, the Blackberry Torch. Moby Dick and Melville also appear to be at least partially responsible for the popularity of Melville's great-great-great grand-nephew, techno-artist Richard Melville Hall (a/k/a Moby), who is not shy about repeatedly publicly stating the ~~extremely tenuous~~ family connection. All of which is to say that Moby Dick remains relevant to the modern age as a cheap marketing tool, if not as the textbook on cetology and commercial whaling that Melville hoped it would become.

[Cue video of a dusty but copiously-bearded Melville slowly spinning in his grave.]

And yet, I felt strangely disconnected from the tale during this, my second, reading. First, the entire backdrop of the story is an industry that no longer exists (except, I suppose, in Japan where it survives under the rubric of "scientific research"). Second, while I'm not a member of PETA or even a fan of Whale Wars, Moby Dick fairly rejoices in a systematic violence that is committed on what is essentially a peaceful creature of the deep. That Moby Dick gets his revenge on all but Ishmael seems little recompense. In many ways, it reminded me of reading Hemingway's Death in the Afternoon, a treatise on Spanish bullfighting, which likewise left me more concerned about human nature than inspired or entertained. And third, Melville's long (often chapter-length) passages on the proper classification of whales and the science of whaling are both out of date and seem to unnecessarily interrupt the little action that there is. I understand that Melville hoped that the novel would be considered a treatise on whales and whaling, but I say pick a genre and stick with it if you want to maintain the reader's interest.

I'd really like your input on this. Have you ever read or re-read a classic and felt disappointingly disconnected from the characters within? In this case, I did--I felt quite outside the story of Moby Dick in a way that I do not with other Melville works (Typee, White Jacket, Billy Budd, etc.) or with Nathaniel Hawthorne, James Fenimore Cooper, or even Jane Austen. So what is it about those classic authors that continues to connect, while others, like Moby Dick for me, seem to fade in their significance over time? Just wondering ...

Reflections on the Year Gone By, and a Question for You, Dear Reader: How Can We Be Better?

2010-12-29T12:05:00.000-05:00

With the coming of 2011, it is inevitable (and healthy, I would argue) that we all reflect for a time on the year gone by. I began TLM in March with my very first blog post on The Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald and, with the help of Aaron and Greg, we proceeded to genarate another 50 posts (including this one) in the following 9 months. I have my personal favorites, of course: our Declaration of War on All Things Twilight is a poor (but honest) man's literary manifesto; Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West , which continues both to haunt me and to climb the ranks of my top ten novels of all time (it's currently number seven); and Ulysses , which represents a hard-won personal battle over the forces of literary intimidation and general laziness.

Objectively speaking, I think that we've been modestly successful in 2010. This past November, we received more than a thousand page views in a single month, which I consider a real achievement. And, in December, we briefly achieved 100 followers before someone dropped off the face of Google Earth and reduced us to 99 once again. Of course, many, many book blogs carry several hundred or even several thousand followers as a matter of course (and we applaud them for it). But our focus is a little different--we've tried to stay true to our mission: promoting the reading of literary fiction (and the occassional work of non-fiction) among male readers, an endangered species if ever there was one.

Which leads me to the point of this reflective post--we here at TLM appreciate the support of each and every one of you, and we recognize the strides that we have made in 2010--but we want to refocus and redouble our efforts on promoting the reading of fiction among men in 2011, and for that we need your help.

Based upon the comments that we received in 2010, there are a few promises that we are making to you in 2011:

1. Keep the post titles and tone light and playful--it seems clear that a playful sense of humor or at least a dry wit generates interest, drives readership, and creates loyalty. Relatedly, I vow not to use the first-person plural unless I am actually talking about "us" as a group;

2. Bring insight to bear and focus on unique aspects of each work that we review--there are literally thousands upon thousands of dry, uninteresting, and very opinionated book reviews out there (I'm looking at you, Amazon). But we strive to create discussion, which requires a novel approach, or at least an interesting topic.

3. Be more specific about how each work is of specific interest to men--we've never been nor will we ever be a He-Man Woman-Hater's Club (that's a Little Rascals reference for you youngsters out there), but the point here is to make reading relevant to the lives of our male readers (which we hope may also be of interest to our female readers); and

4. (Related to number three above) Incorporate more references to our favorite alcoholic beverages--we've received almost as much comment on our passing references to microbrews, scotches, and rums as we've received on the books themselves. And they seem to go hand in hand--a good book and a nice warm tumbler of single-malt scotch. It's always after five o'clock somewhere.

And now it's your turn. What else would you have us do? What do you love about your favorite book blogs? What do you hate? How can we improve the quality of our posts here at TLM? How can we generate/maintain more interest among our target demographic--men and the women that ~~love them~~ will push them to read again? Please do comment, and do so with brutal honesty, for we are committed to improvements in 2011.

Happy New Year to all!

A Holiday Interlude: Immoveable Feast, A Paris Christmas by John Baxter

2010-12-13T17:46:00.000-05:00

Cookies, anyone? They're fresh out of the oven. How about some egg nog? We're flavoring it with Ron Zacapa, which our wife assures us is the finest rum in the world. When you're settled in, please pull a chair up to the fire. All set? Good.

We bring you a bit of a holiday treat today, that being our brief review of Immoveable Feast, A Paris Christmas by John Baxter. Now, we here at TLM love Christmas--and we love Paris--and we would love to spend Christmas in Paris. But to say that we love Immoveable Feast is probably going a bit too far. Not that it's an unenjoyable work--in fact, we quite enjoyed it--but we found it difficult to find substance in a series of essays about yet another foreigner bumbling his way through the field of French haute cuisine after reading Joyce and Melville for the last two months. And now we can't believe that we just wrote that--seriously, have you ever read a more pretentious statement? And at Christmas too. Shame on us. If anyone deserves coal this Christmas, it's us. Maybe we should stop writing in the third person ...

Let's start this again. Immoveable Feast is the year-long story of Australian author John Baxter as he scours the French countryside to prove his culinary self-worth to his French wife's traditional family by cooking them a traditional French Christmas feast. I enjoyed the book at a very superficial level, which is where it deserves to be examined. Like my grandmother's sprinkled, tree-shaped Christmas cookies, Immoveable Feast is light and sugary ~~and completely devoid of nutritious substance~~. And just like a nice round Christmas fruit cake, Immoveable Feast is the type of book that, if you don't pick it up during the holiday season, is destined to sit--increasingly brick-like and forgotten--in the back of your cupboards until ~~it sparks to life and consumes you~~ you get around to throwing it out.

But if you do pick up Immoveable Feast during the holidays, like that cute family that makes the rounds singing Christmas carols every year, you will very likely enjoy it for at least an hour or two before it begins to grate on you. Seriously, though, the prose is light and easy, the humor plentiful, and the book is strewn with illustrations that give it an added Christmas appeal. And the descriptions of the touch, taste, and smell of traditional French Christmas dishes, as well as their ingredients, are genuinely mouth-watering. All kidding aside, I did enjoy it and I do recommend it.

So, what are your Christmas (or holiday) favorites? An extra cookie for anyone that comments without mentioning Dickens.

The Literary Blog Hop, Wherein I Sing the Song of Myself

2010-12-02T11:36:00.000-05:00

It's Thursday again, and our friends over at The Blue Bookcase are once again hosting the Literary Blog Hop--a capital idea if ever there was one. This week, I must admit, they've unsettled me. This week's discussion topic (from the very well-read and articulate Parrish Lantern) is "Who is your favorite poet and why?" And like a boot to the head, I suddenly came to the realization that The Literate Man has entirely ignored the topic of poetry for nearly nine months now. That said, there is plenty of poetry (or at least dirty limerick) in Ulysses, and it is based on Homer's Odyssey, and Joyce's prose is nothing if not poetic, so I give myself a half point for our two reviews of that book (here and here). But that does little to ameliorate this deplorable situation, which really deserves some serious attention.

So, there's no time like the present.

My favorite poet, hands down, is Walt Whitman. The why of my choice has everything to do with Whitman's poem, Song of Myself, included in Leaves of Grass. I grew up in a very small, one stop light town in Western New York, where I had a vague notion that the world somewhere out there was large and busy and exciting, with limiteless possibilities for those that were willing to dive into it, but it wasn't until I read Song of Myself that I knew it for a certainty. Song is nothing short of a celebration of the great variety of human existence and endeavor, admittedly focused on a post-frontier America, but also universally applicable. In Song and elsewhere, Whitman captures the harsh reality of human existence--the blood and sweat and decay--and places it in the larger context of the wonder of physical existence and the endless cycles of birth and death that bring us all together, both physically and emotionally. If I'm honest with myself, I think that Whitman still provides at least one of the pillars of my own individual world view.

And so, we owe a debt of gratitude to Parrish Lantern and The Blue Bookcase for bringing this glaring omission to our attention. It shall be rectified. In the meantime, what do you think of Whitman? Is there a particular poet that reaches your heart or tickles your fancy more directly? And to whom do you owe your own particular world view?

Ulysses, a Masterpiece, and My New Sixth Favorite Novel for Men

2010-11-29T11:08:00.000-05:00

So, I've done it. I've read Ulysses from beginning to end, finding parallels between the characters in Joyce's portrait of Dublin and Homer's epic of Ulysses' return to Ithaca after the Trojan War; slogging through the difficult chapters told in stream of consciousness; jumping from character to character as Leopold Bloom makes his way across Dublin at midday; patiently wading through Joyce's mockery of various affected styles of English prose; enduring the staccato-like catechism (which was apparently Joyce's favorite part of the novel); and winding up with Molly Bloom's internal soliloquy, which is without punctuation and so full of bodily functions and sexual fantasies that it would make even a sailor blush. I didn't do it alone, mind you--I had a Princeton professor to guide me--but it's done. And at the end of the day, I've emerged exhausted, but with a profound respect for Joyce as an artist, as a visionary, but most of all as a humanist.

There are too many dimensions to Ulysses to try to capture more than a handful in any reasonable review, so I won't even try. Joyce himself famously said that, with respect to Ulysses, he had "put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant." I'm focused here on the three aspects of the novel that impressed me most. In no particular order, they are as follows:

1. Recognizing the epic in the everyday. Ulysses takes place over the course of one day--June 16, 1904--in which Joyce follows first Stephen Dedalus (Joyce's alter-ego and the protagonist of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man) and then Leopold Bloom (the protagonist of Ulysses) as they make their way separately from their respective homes, through the streets of Dublin on a variety of errands, toward an unanticipated reunion in the wee hours of the night. The story relies for its structure on Homer's epic, The Odyssey, which first follows Telemachus (Ulysses' son) as he leaves home to search for his absent father, and then Ulysses as he returns to his home in Ithaca after the Trojan War. Numerous episodes recounted in The Odyssey have their corollaries in Ulysses, including (among many others) a humorous take on Homer's sirens and an encounter with a (then) modern-day cyclops, myopic in his view of Irish identity and his own racial superiority. Part of Joyce's genius is in showing that, viewed from the proper perspective, every life is an epic every bit as adventuresome as that of Ulysses.

2. Innovation in style. Though the original story was serialized and then published as a whole in only three parts, Joyce himself later accepted the addition of 18 Odyssey-derived episode headings. Nearly every episode exhibits a different literary style or character perspective, from stream of consciousness to newspaper headlines to mock Olde English to mythological description to question and answer (the catechism), from the head of Stephen Dedalus to Leopold Bloom to various characters in the Dublin street to an unnamed observer in a Dublin bar to young Gerty on the beach to Molly Bloom's final soliloquy. To anyone that has not read the work, this would appear to be an impossible, chaotic jumble of storytelling techniques and perspectives, sure to derail the main story. But Joyce makes it work, partly because the story that he tells is so simple and straightforward and human (see below) that the reader can easily follow along with a little patience and, if necessary (as in my case), some study. The mix of technique is shocking to modern readers--I can only imagine what it must have seemed to readers in the 1920's--but once you get the hang of it, Joyce's genius really shines through.

3. Daring to tell a story that is human in every respect. As mentioned briefly above, there are more references to bodily functions and sexual fantasy in Ulysses than perhaps in any other book that I have ever read. And while I generally view the overuse of sex or potty humor as a cheap device designed to pander to a lower readership, I think just the opposite is true in Ulysses. Joyce used the embarrassments and oddities and fetishes of every day to create not only believeable characters, but characters that you would swear that you know personally, even thought they are removed from modern life by an ocean and a century. The same is true of the misunderstandings, petty jealousies, lethargy, and persecutions that sap their and our strength day after day--theirs are yours and vice versa. This is Joyce's greatest trick in my opinion: allowing the reader to see him or herself in not only a single character, but in all the main characters of the work, male and female alike.

As a modern reader of what has been often deemed the greatest novel ever written in the English language, the only criticism that I have of Ulysses is that it is too historically tied to the issue of Irish nationalism. The references to English oppression and the roots of Sinn Fein make the work somewhat less relevant to the modern reader than it might otherwise be. At the same time, given that one of Ulysses' main themes is usurpation, I am not sure that it could have been written any other way. And it is for this reason alone that I place it sixth among my personal recommendations of novels for men--those that sit above it (and many that sit below it) are more enduring as expressions of universal human experience not tied to a particular time or place. This takes nothing away from the work itself, of course--it is undeniably a masterpiece--but reflects only my own personal view. I hope that in these lines I've persuaded more people to give Ulysses the old college try. In any case, let me know what you think of Ulysses, whether you've read it or not.

As a result of my experience with Ulysses, I have ordered an old, well-thumbed library copy of Finnegans Wake, which I am resolved to pick up (and review) at some point in the near future. If anyone has a recommendation for a critical review, please pass it along--I know that I'm going to need it. In the meantime, I need a little break.

Literary Blog Hop (We'll Be Having Scotch and Cigars in the Library)

2010-11-07T12:21:00.002-05:00

Someone among our friends over at The Blue Bookcase has been taking her ginko biloba (I'm betting on Christina). This weekend marks the first ever Literary Blog Hop wherein we snooty literary types look disapprovingly through our wire-rimmed glasses, over the rims of our scotch tumblers, and through the haze of cigar smoke in our grand libraries at all those lesser genres, which so murk the crystal clear waters of the beautiful River of Literature, which flows unbroken down the valley of time from its origins among the forests of late-medieval England and Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur.

We're just kidding, of course. I myself occasionally read a Clive Cussler (adventure) or Orson Scott Card (sci-fi), and I even made it through the first 50 pages of Twilight before I was forced to quit and dedicate my life to its eradication from the planet (see our Declaration of War on All Things Twilight here). Which is to say that our tastes here at The Literate Man are not entirely or exclusively "literary," but we do generally find that we obtain the most enjoyment from works that tell an essentially human story, demonstrate growth or at least change in their characterization, endure the tests of time (exhibiting a consistent social relevance), and evidence an expert, innovative, or at least playful use of structure and language. We also prefer beer over scotch, but that is the subject of a different post.

One of our favorites (I say speaking for myself and Aaron, but perhaps not Greg) is Sometimes A Great Notion by Ken Kesey (see our review of it here). Kesey is much better known for One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest--which is a good book, don't get me wrong--than for Sometimes A Great Notion, which was his masterpiece and (arguably) the best book ever written about life in the great American Northwest. Sometimes is a novel of freedom and independence set in a world that tends toward conformity, which is perhaps the most relevant story of our age. Each of its many characters develop throughout the course of the novel, but none more so than the bookish and rebellious Leland Stamper, who finally comes to stand with his family against the forces arrayed against them. The novel is as relevant today as the day that it was written and its relevance should continue as long as workers' unions continue to exist. But perhaps the most impressive and "literary" feature of the work is Kesey's technique of multiple perspectives, whereby the thoughts and actions of several characters are presented on the same page and sometimes in the same line. It sounds confusing, I'll admit, but somehow Kesey makes it work. The truth is that I've never read anything like it except, perhaps, James Joyce's Ulysses, which I am convinced must have directly influenced Kesey's work.

So that's our contribution to the first Literary Blog Hop discussion. If you're here from there, please feel free to look around. Thanks again to The Blue Bookcase for putting an obviously great idea into practice. We sincerely intend to participate as frequently as possible.

A Review of Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak, or How Vladimir Nabokov Is Like a Paranoid, Junkyard Dog

2010-11-01T13:18:00.000-04:00

Doctor Zhivago is a tale of love set against the backdrop of the Russian Revolution and Civil War of 1917-1921, as well as the institution of the Soviet Union, which followed it. The novel is, in essence, a criticism of the Soviet system, which destroyed both culture and humanism in its single-minded pursuit of an ideology that was progressively twisted by those in power. More grandly, it is the story of the inability of the individual to control even his own destiny among the strong currents of time, ideology, and power. Publication was refused Pasternak in the Soviet Union in 1956. A copy of the manuscript was then smuggled out of the country in 1957 and appeared in English the next year. Pasternak was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1958, which he was forced to refuse in order to forego a scandal in the USSR. Unfortunately, he died only two years later.

I've read a few reviews of Doctor Zhivago out there on the interwebs, and it's impossible not to notice a fairly uniform dislike for it. Most reviews find it long and stale, with relatively cardboard characters that are thrown together in odd and contrived places and situations simply to move the story along or make a particular point about politics or ideology. And it's not simply a case of cultural differences or a misunderstanding of the artist--the dislike runs wide and deep. Russian-born Vladimir Nabokov once said, "Doctor Zhivago is a sorry thing, clumsy, trite and melodramatic, with stock situations, voluptuous lawyers, unbelieveable girls, romantic robbers and trite coincidences."  Ouch! So much for mutual support among Russian novelists.

I personally disagree with Nabokov's overall negative assessment of the work, which is to say that I like Doctor Zhivago immensely. I find it a fascinating account of life in the Soviet Union and an honest portrayal of mostly apolitical citizens whose primary concern is simply to survive the buffeting winds of change and idealism. The writing is depressingly beautiful. While Pasternak is not as fluid and artistic in his writing as John Steinbeck, Doctor Zhivago flavors strongly to me of East of Eden--an epic tale of love set against the backdrop of forces (natural or political) that are beyond the characters' control and which ultimately end up determining their lives. At the same time, Doctor Zhivago is periodically disjointed and contrived, characteristics which (I like to think) Pasternak himself attributed to the Soviet state that had swallowed his people and his culture.

And there are other (convincing) reasons for Nabokov's harsh opinion than the honest critique of a fellow writer. In fact, Doctor Zhivago was released in the West at around the same time that Nabokov released Lolita, and his criticism smacks strongly of territoriality--a junkyard dog running off the stray that has wandered too close to his fence. Moreover, Nabokov was convinced that Doctor Zhivago--despite its criticism of the Soviet system and the Soviets' refusal to publish the work--was a public relations plot by the Soviets to raise Soviet literature to new heights (i.e., above Nabokov himself) in the eyes of the world.

At the same time, looking behind the (seemingly paranoid) green monster, I think Nabokov is on to something. Doctor Zhivago has gained a fairly sizeable acceptance in its numerous film adaptations.  Even today, the story seems to run fairly consistently on the various classic movie channels. In short, because Doctor Zhivago is sweeping in its setting, both historically and geographically, and because it attempts to construct a romantic relationship that is buffeted by the winds of history, it appears to tap into those notions of romanticism that we have deemed appropriate to the screen, but not the page.

Is there anyone out there, besides me, that likes Doctor Zhivago more than its film adaptations? Is this unusual? Are there other examples of works of literature that have received only a middling popular acceptance as literature, but have blossomed in film?

Pride and Prejudice at The Jersey Shore (and, Oh Yeah, The Daily Beast Calls Fiction Readers Stupid)

2010-10-26T15:12:00.008-04:00

We try to stay above the fray here at TLM. Really. We rarely comment on headlines, except when they relate directly to the literary scene, which (it seems to us) happens less and less frequently. And when I refer to the literary scene, I generally mean well-recognized prizes for established literary genius (see our recycled review of Nobel Prize Winner Mario Vargas Llosa's work, Pantaleon y Las Visitadoras here). See how I did that? I just recycled Vargas Llosa for the third time. Priceless.

As for the would-be literary trolls, we try not to feed them. I mean, have you heard so much as a peep from us about toddler Justin Bieber's upcoming memoir? Not a one. How about Snooki's pending contribution to the world's literary heritage? Nada. Though, I do fully expect that it will have all the girlish intrigue of Emma and the social commentary of a modern-day Pride and Prejudice. Oh, I shouldn't have written that ... temptation too great ... but no ... I can't ... I shouldn't ... I can't help it .. oh what the hell?

"All round chicks?" interjected Mr. The Situation laying aside his teacup. "Yeah, I know a few. But those bitties gots ta have skills in tequila slammin, booty bumpin and grindin, Jersey hairspray art, ID'n muscle cars, patchin up old wife beaters, mixin' protein shakes, and they gotta have a nose to avoid that gold-plating that leaves your neck green to be tagged all round in The Situation's book."

"Right on, brotha" agreed his faithful companion, Mr. Pauly D, most enthusiastically "And she gotta have a sweet booty to be tagged at all ... that goes without sayin'."

"Get lost," said Ms. Snooki, gently disagreeing with her companions, as she picked at a ribbon on her dress that had come unraveled. "You two losers ain't know no chicks like that."

Oh, I think I've got a best seller on my hands ... Pride and Prejudice at the Jersey Shore. It would be like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, but a little less believable.

Anyhow ... before I was so rudely taken on that Jersey Shore tangent, I sat down to tell our faithful readers that The Daily Beast (my favorite news aggregator and my home page) thinks that we and they are stoo-pid. How so, you ask? Well, in compiling its annual list of America's Smartest (and Dumbest) Cities, the editors at The Daily Beast took four factors into account as follows:

1. The ratio of those holding undergraduate and advanced degrees to overall population (over 25);

2. The ratio of institutions of higher education to overall population;

3. The ratio of public libraries to overall population; and

4. Population-adjusted figures for the purchase of non-fiction book titles.

Now, I have no real problem with the first three factors, though I have to say that public library figures seem outdated in the Digital Age. But I have to seriously question the wisdom of focusing on non-fiction book sales at a time when many (if not most) of those titles are being put out by political pundits and (I kid you not) two of the top ten non-fiction best sellers this past week were "A**holes Finish First" by Tucker Max (if you do not know who this is, be thankful and let it go) and "Sh** My Dad Says" by Justin Halpern.

Does reading non-fiction make you smarter than reading fiction? I ask not only because I think the answer is obvious, but because I fear that this is the decided point of view of most male readers ... and we're a small group as it is. Why this bias against fiction, which at least at the higher echelons seems to be much more widely recognized, appreciated, and enduring than non-fiction? Is it just another symptom of a global culture with ADD (seeking the sound bytes that non-fiction titles seem to provide) or is it something more deep-seated and sinister?

Please discuss. Meanwhile, I'm going to get started on Pride and Prejudice at the Jersey Shore.

N.B. The Daily Beast's faux pas is compounded by the fact that its very name comes from the fictional newspaper in Evelyn Waugh's novel, Scoop. Assuming that someone at The Daily Beast has actually read the novel and that the founders did not simply pick the name off of a Wikipedia entry, they too would appear to be among the stupid.

Ulysses at the Halfway Point, or Who's Buying the Next Round of Guinness? (No Seriously, Who?)

2010-10-12T15:43:00.002-04:00

I suspect that my prior view of the work of James Joyce was very similar to most people's conception. I remember picking up a copy of Finnegan's Wake from the public library in Dubuque, Iowa, where I was studying for the LSATs at the time, thinking that it was the perfect opportunity to delve into a literary classic and, perhaps, to learn a bit about my own Irish heritage beyond the holy and hereditary trinity that is the love of the drink, the written word, and all things green. I remember just as clearly returning that volume only a week later, confused, dejected, and certain that its "classic" status depended entirely upon its impenetrability, coupled with the very human tendency to judge as genius anything that we feel that we cannot fully understand. In short, I judged it as a ~~complete fraud~~ somewhat-lyrical, stream of consciousness relic of an age long past that had little to no applicability to my life. I viewed anything written by Joyce with the same colored lens.

Then, earlier this year, my wife and I planned a trip to Ireland (my first, though I dare say not my last). I generally endeavor to read some classic piece of literature from or about the region while I'm there, if only to ~~pass myself off as intelligent while I'm getting sauced at the bar~~ get a flavor for the local literary history.  And so, I decided to take another crack at Joyce. But I hedged my bet by choosing Dubliners, a series of completely non-stream-of-consciousness short stories that depict the lives of ordinary people in and around Dublin at the turn of the Twentieth Century. While I generally do not enjoy reading short story collections, I loved Dubliners and reviewed it in glowing terms here. More importantly, I felt like I understood every word. And, though I stepped away from Joyce for a bit, I vowed to return to his more complex works and give them another shot.

And so, about two months ago, I began reading Ulysses, Joyce's classic tale of everyday life in Dublin as superimposed on the wandering plot of Homer's epic, The Odyssey, which Joyce himself held in the highest esteem.  I tried hard to focus on the lyrical value of Joyce's prose, though I was often lost in its meaning, and I managed to follow the action through several chapters before I began to feel the old frustration starting to build. It was at that point that I ~~began to drink heavily and it all made sense~~ began looking for outside help. Now, I really do not like to make a habit of this. Like many of you, I suspect, I like a classic work of literature to stand on its own. If I have to go searching for meaning and enjoyment, then I begin to suspect that neither are truly there to begin with. But I also hate to put down a classic once I've begun, and Google is just so damned convenient, and so I began to look a bit further afield. The Internet alone sustained me through several more chapters, and I felt like I had an understanding of the structure of the work and its characters, if nothing else; but it still was not enjoyable.

Then I stumbled on a downloadable, college-level course on Ulysses by Princeton Professor James A.W. Heffernan. I have listened to a few of these courses now on topics as diverse as classical music to Buddhism to anthropological study of the modern Maya, all of which have been produced and distributed by The Teaching Company. To be perfectly honest, I find them somewhat hit and miss (though, to be fair, they are more than hit than miss). If you are truly interested in a particular subject matter, they can be, not only worthwhile, but very entertaining. Be forewarned, however: there is no getting around the dork factor, and you have to be willing to be labeled as such if and when you are caught listening by your friends and family.

Anyhow, the Ulysses course has changed my perspective on the work entirely. I now recognize that without a working knowledge of either Anglo-Irish history or Homer's Odyssey and preferably both, no one is likely to take much away from the work other than its quirky characters and its lyrical prose, which is truly only scratching the surface.  I won't bore you with what I've learned--suffice it to say that the characters and the story have come alive on both a human and a mythic level. Only approximately a third of the way through the course materials, I now not only look forward to reading the balance of Ulysses, but I want to return to the beginning to reread the tremendous amount of material that passed through my mind wholly unappreciated.

My question for all of you is this: is this a legitimate practice in the appreciation of works of literature? Does the fact that a particular work requires explication make it more or less of a great work in your eyes? And, finally, who's buying that next round? Seriously, I'm all tapped out ...

Shameless (but Timely) Recycling: Pantaleon y Las Visitadoras by Mario Vargas Llosa

2010-10-07T13:09:00.001-04:00

Mario Vargas Llosa is, hands down, my favorite Latin American author, and I'm not just saying that because he won this year's Nobel Prize for Literature. We here at TLM roundly praised his work earlier this year in a review of Pantaleon y Las Visitadoras--a tale of the efficient introduction of prostitution services into the Peruvian army. He tells a good story, so I'm certain that his books may be appreciated in translation, but there is something about the rhythm and beautiful formalism of the language that makes him an especially enjoyable read in the original Spanish. Both La Ciudad y Los Perros and La Fiesta del Chivo stand out in my memory as fantastic reads. Congratulations to a true master and to all our Peruvian friends. Pisco para todos!

The Literate Man Is the New Haight-Ashbury, and (correspondingly) a Review of the Doors of Perception (Aldous Huxley)

2010-09-30T13:00:00.002-04:00

Today is a day for rebellion and counterculture at The Literate Man, a day for disavowing the conformist decisions of the past and opening one’s mind to the essential “Is-ness” of all things and the limitless possibilities that the world has to offer to those that surrender to it. And it is in this spirit that I have decided to throw caution to the wind and abandon The Literate Man’s tried and true ten-point rating system. Ok, so maybe it’s not a rebellion per se, and maybe it has nothing at all to do with 60’s counterculture, but I have been paying attention to those voices that I most respect in the book blogosphere (you know who you are) and I can see the wisdom of moving off of a subjective rating system in favor of a more participatory conversation about the book or literary concept under discussion.

And how could I judge The Doors of Perception anyway when its basic message is that, in judging, in focusing our minds on the individual and particular aspects of a thing, we fail to see its essential, holistic nature. I really shouldn’t even be describing it as a book for, in doing so, I fail to appreciate the artistry of its cover design, the symmetry of the representational symbols within, the interwoven pulp of the page, and the elements, both natural and artificial, that have combined to make it what it is. Or in Huxley’s words:

--
I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation—the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence.

“Is it agreeable?” somebody asked. (During this part of the experiment, all conversations were recorded on a dictating machine, and it has been possible for me to refresh my memory of what was said.)

“Neither agreeable nor disagreeable,” I answered. “It just is.”

Istigkeit—wasn’t that the word Meister Eckhart liked to use? “Is-ness.” The Being of Platonic philosophy—except that Plato seems to have made the enormous, the grotesque mistake of separating Being from becoming and identifying it with the mathematical abstraction of the Idea. He could never, poor fellow, have seen a bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light and all but quivering under the pressure of the significance with which they were charged; could never have perceived that what rose and iris and carnation so intensely signified was nothing more, and nothing less, than what they were—a transience that was yet eternal life, a perpetual perishing that was at the same time pure Being, a bundle of minute, unique particulars in which, by some unspeakable and yet self-evident paradox, was to be seen the divine source of all existence.
--

Far out ... I know.

The Doors is not so much a book as an extended essay, which was coupled in my edition with Heaven and Hell, another extended essay, both of which treat the subject of the expanded psychological states that may be induced by the taking of mescaline. Mescaline, for the uninitiated, is the active ingredient in peyote and several other species of other hallucinogenic cacti. The Doors is essentially a chronology of events as understood and recorded by Huxley after having ingested mescaline at his home in West Hollywood in 1952. Heaven and Hell explores the cultural development of views of the afterlife as potentially influenced by drug-induced visions around the world.

Actually, the essays are surprisingly enjoyable and not just in the hippie burnout way that I’ve presented them here. As anyone who has read Brave New World will attest, Huxley is uber-intelligent, and he makes a very compelling case for taking a fresh new look at the world in which we live by removing the biological blinders that evolution and the survival instinct have saddled us with in order to ensure our continuance as a species. That he removes those blinders by means of the ingestion of a psychoactive agent (and spends much of the essay contemplating the folds of a skirt) is almost secondary. His real message is that we need to slow down, look around us, bond with the expressions of existence that we rush past every day, and come to a broader understanding of our own place within the universe.

Now who can argue with that?

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes at The Literate Man, or Learning the Lessons of Blog Single Parenthood

2010-09-27T11:28:00.001-04:00

I have been a bad blog parent. I admit it. It has been three weeks since I have posted anything of substance (see The Corrections, September 7) and even that was a middling review of a great book. I am genuinely concerned that blog social services (a division of Google) will be knocking on my door at any moment, with an order to remove my TLM baby from my custody for neglect.

The truth is that I have a very large case headed toward trial, and it is literally sucking the life out of me. But that is no excuse--we all have our crosses to bear and most are much, much more burdensome than my own. I do have to say that this whole blogging thing is much more time-intensive than I had imagined. It is also much more rewarding, and I very much appreciate all the friendly connections that I have made as a result. But I have determined that, if I go it alone, I run the risk of dropping off the map whenever a particular case blows up, which does tend to happen, that being the very nature of cases.

Fortunately, I have friends, and some of my friends happen to be men, and some of my friends that happen to be men happen to read (take that, reading gender bias). Even better, they've agreed to stand by my side, to shoulder the burden, to carry the flame, to spread the word, and to continue the tradition of The Literate Man for as long as their hearts shall beat and their lungs draw breath. Or whenever they decide to stop. Whatever. Just kidding--I know that they're in for the long haul.

So, without further ado ... readership, Aaron and Greg ... Aaron and Greg, meet the readership.

[Begin Dating Game Theme Music]

Aaron is a business type and freelance writer from Miami. His prior (super secret) TLM credits include the following: My Invented Country by Isabel Allende, To Have and Have Not by Ernest Hemingway, and Salt: A World History by Mark Kurlansky. His more recent (public) credits include Three Weeks with My Brother by Nicholas Sparks, Paris Trout by Pete Dexter, and The Spy Who Came in from the Cold by John le Carre (TLM obviously loves this book, having reviewed it twice, and with good reason). In his spare time, Aaron wears funny t-shirts and enjoys libations of the barley, malt, and hops variety.

Greg is a lawyer type (though much more of a real lawyer than yours truly) and hails from our nation's capital, Washington, DC. His contributions thus far include Peace Like a River by Leif Enger and Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. A devoted father and hockey fan, Greg enjoys long walks to the DC Metro and cherry blossoms.

So, we here at TLM central will try to redesign and get up Top Five Books for Men listings for both Aaron and Greg as soon as possible (or as soon as they give them to me--guys?). In the meantime, enjoy the variety. I sure hope this bringing-in-the-responsible-uncles thing allows me to keep my baby.

The Spy Who Came In From The Cold: Great Read In A Bomb Shelter

2010-09-19T17:02:00.006-04:00

Patrick started us off on a Cold War bent a few weeks ago and since then it’s been nothing but bomb drills, Radio Free Europe, and non-stop Rocky IV marathons here at The Literate Man (TLM). If the Cold War was good for anything it was spawning an avalanche of spy novels. And the book that started it all, the epicenter of TLM's shameless Cold War nostalgia, was John le Carré ‘s The Spy Who Came In From the Cold.

This was the first le Carré Novel I had ever read. I have since picked up a second and could not agree more with Patrick’s spectacular praise for this book (thanks again to Patrick’s mom). After he sang its virtues I simply had to read it. And it was even better than I imagined.

This is not your father’s spy novel. There’s no run-away submarines, buxom Ukrainian agents or narrow avoidances of nuclear annihilation. This is a story about spies and spying and the horribly normal people who carried out this dirty war. And still, after nearly half century later, is the standard bearer for the spy novel.

Leamus, the main character in this book is an unassuming man of apparently extraordinary abilities. But he’s a simply a pawn in a bigger game who’s dimensions keep unfolding with every turn of the page. He is the focus of this book and while there are others involved (mostly his higher ups, the men pulling the strings on either side of the trenches) this is his story. Picture Graham Greene with a souped-up story line and a bit less focus on style and this is what le Carré has given us with in The Spy Who Came in from the Cold.

That’s not to say that this is more poignant than Greene’s classic works or that they reach the reader on a deeper physiological level, it’s simply that this book is written on a far higher plain than almost every other spy thriller that it can only be compared to work like Greene’s (Greene himself had high praise for this book). And yet at the same time its plot twists are reminiscent of the most exciting books of this genre.

The characters couldn’t be more unassuming if they tried and it might sound crazy that a book with no action, boring characters and drab locales could be a spy thriller; it’s like the Seinfeld of spy novels: a book about nothing. But the pace zips in this story and aside for about an 8-page section in the middle where it seems as though le Carré ( a former spook and admittedly in the midst of a great deal of existential doubt in his personal life when he wrote this) slides into a bit of a rant, the prose is taught and the plot line even tighter. From first page to the last you are blinded by a cascade of double crossing that paints a much grander and undeniably absurd picture. As a whole this is not only a fast-paced and engaging plot it’s also a powerful commentary on the absurdities of the Cold War itself.

The highest praise for this book might be that it defies convention. It delivers the best of a fine piece of well-crafted literary fiction as well as the unorthodox, but nonetheless, racing plot of a thriller all in one. There is little doubt that you will walk away from this book feeling well satisfied.

9.5 out of 10

Paris Trout: A Ridiculous Name For Deadly Serious Man

2010-09-19T16:57:00.004-04:00

There is something about the American South that makes it a space all its own in the literary world. Not many specific geographies in the world can lay claim to such a boast and certainly not many in the US. Indeed, the South seems to be its own breeding ground for the written word. Faulkner is known as the quintessential ‘Southern’ writer yet no one refers to Steinbeck as the ‘Californian’ writer or to Bellow as the “New York” writer even though place and setting are arguably as integral to their writing as Faulkner’s.

But by way of that lengthy and somewhat tangential lead-in, the latest of these Southern tales that I read was Paris Trout by Pete Dexter. Dexter is no Faulkner. He is what people like me imagine Faulkner should be. He is a deliberate and powerful writer who doesn’t always write nice things. But he writes truth. And that is not something you don’t find in so many books these days.

I’ve had this book for several years and I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to pick it up. Simply reading the dust jacket, adorned with praise such as “…masterpiece…”, “…breathtaking…” the winner of national book award should have been incentive enough to crack the spine. But when I finally did I was rewarded with a haunting and powerful novel that made a deep impression.

Dexter is an economical writer. The text is just 306 pages and it’s a small book, less than 300 words per page. It doesn’t take long to get through and it’s difficult to put it down once you start. But what Dexter does with these few leaves of paper is impressive. It ranks among the best work of ‘Southern Fiction’ I’ve ever read. And unlike Faulkner you won’t be bored to tears by the prose after 50 pages.

The eponymous main character of this book, Paris Trout, is an insane loan shark in a rural Georgia town. Dexter has created a monster and he just might be the most awful character I’ve found in a book in many years. He is truly a rotten person and he does rotten things. But the haunting sparseness of Dexter’s narrative makes Trout’s actions even worse. There is power in the plainness of his voice that makes this book penetrating on a very deep physiological level.

Trout murders a young black girl in 1950’s small town Georgia and shoots another woman over a fender bender and missing car payments. He is then put on trial and judged by a group of his peers. The account of what follows captures everything that was, and perhaps still is, awful about the segregation South.

There is no redemption; only ugly reality. One of the other principal characters in Dexter’s dark ride down Jim Crow lane is his powerful white attorney, Harry Seagraves. He is no Atticus Finch and this story has nothing resembling the warmth of To Kill A Mocking Bird. In this small town tale there are few threads of decency and we’re made accurately aware of this as we see a series of inexcusable involving Trout's estranged wife Lucy.

Dexter does a masterful job unfolding this story through actions and impressions of these three principal characters. In fact, he does such a terrific job of building up the characters and conflict in the first half of the book that the final resolution is somewhat of a letdown. Nonetheless, this book is poignant, moving, unforgiving, and at times unpleasant. And it’s also completely mesmerizing. Without a doubt one of the most impressive bits of fiction about early the early 20th century South that you will find.

9.0 out of 10

Toeing The Line Of Masculinity: The Literate Man vs. Nicholas Sparks

2010-09-19T16:47:00.005-04:00

Here at The Literate Man (TLM) we realize that the majority of the works we review are by male authors. This is by design. But in a meager attempt to enrich the diversity of this site’s content contemplated reviewing a book penned by a woman author. Unfortunately, we didn’t. But we did the next best thing. We read a Nicholas Sparks book, Three Weeks With My Brother.

And for any struggling and frustrated authors out there that have passed by a stack of Sparks’ books at a book store, or read his name at the top of the New York Times Bestseller list every day for the past decade or been forced to watch one of the big screen adaptations of his novels by your girlfriend or wife and hated him for his apparently easy success: shame on you.
Granted, the first manuscript he sent out to agent was accepted for representation within days. And within three months of snagging an agent he had received a $1 million offer from Warner publishing. And so what if he’s made a gazillion dollars with his numerous best sellers and box-office hits.

This is a man who has struggles just like the rest of us, actually many more than most people. Reading Three Weeks with My Brother, while not the most interesting book in the world, is nonetheless engaging, and is a good reminder (especially to the jaded human sub-specie of unpublished novelist) that happiness is much more than a million dollar book deal or a bestselling novel.

In fact, this book is a real downer. About every 30 pages or so my eyeballs felt compelled to shoot out salty water. Even at the end of the book and during the epilogue I was waiting, hoping, for some tiny morsel of happiness or redemption. And it never came. But sometimes in life there aren’t happy endings and it’s hard to paint rainbows and unicorns out of such things like: the traumatic death of your mother, your father’s descent into madness, a severely disable child, or having your sister devoured by a brain tumor –all in the span of a few years. The remarkable thing about Sparks’ life and indeed this story is that for every one of his staggering successes in life there seems to be a corresponding soul-crushing low point to counterbalance it.

I’ve never read any of Sparks’ fiction but if the dialogue is as bad as the supposedly real dialogue that he’s included in this non-fiction memoir of a trip around the world with his brother than I never will. But this book isn’t about the dialogue between him and his brother but rather about the ups and many downs of his life. It’s a breezy read at best, and there are many other (better) books out there. But Three Weeks With My Brother, is about as close to chick-lit as we’ll ever get at TLM, a broadening of our horizons, so to speak, and it’s a good reminder to cherish the good things in life.

So next time you pass a stack of Sparks’ books at the airport and curse him for his commercial success, remember that this guy struggles just like the rest of us and that there are many problems in life that a seven-figure book advance will never be able to fix.

7.0 out of 10

The Corrections (Jonathan Franzen) (9.2/10.0)

2010-09-07T10:45:00.000-04:00

I hate to think that I'm easily influenced by shotgun marketing campaigns, but I was so intrigued by the hype leading up to last week's release of Freedom by Jonathan Franzen that I finally picked up The Corrections, just to get myself in the mood. Released in the weeks before September 11, 2001, The Corrections is a portrait of generational and family dissonance and mutual adjustment as viewed from the economic bubble of the mid- to late-1990's.

Alfred Lambert, the stern, hardworking, and honest patriarch of the family, is suffering from Parkinson's disease and dementia. His wife, Enid, is in a state of denial, trying desperately to wring the last drops of family pleasure out of life before the inevitable comes crashing down about them. Their children, Gary the Responsible, Chip the Unpredictable, and Denise the Independent, find themselves making adjustments to their own complicated lives in order to acomodate the illness of their father. The decisions they make and the conclusions to which they are brought are often as surprising to them as they are to the reader.

There is not much that has not already been said about The Corrections. It is a masterpiece of middle-class family interaction and angst in the face of disaster. The characters are believeable and generally sympathetic if a bit overdone and caricatured. And if the scenes that reveal their feelings about one another are likewise exaggerated, the feelings that they elicit are very familiar. By the end of the novel, the reader feels as if he/she has lived a difficult moment among the Lamberts, who continue to reside in memory long after the story has concluded.

Perhaps the greatest testament to The Corrections is the fact that, despite the tragedy of 9/11, which would have derailed the success of virtually any novel, it both enjoyed high commercial sales and has since come to be recognized as a modern classic. I would have to agree. I know that many of you have read The Corrections, perhaps as much as a decade ago, and I'm interested in your views of the work after the passage of time. What do you think now?

Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell (non-fiction, 7.0 out of 10)

2010-09-02T13:18:00.007-04:00

For a guilty non-fiction fix, I'm an admitted fan of books in the currently fashionable genre of popular economics and social phenomena. Stuff like Freakonomics by Levitt and Dubner, The Undercover Economist by Harford, MoneyBall and The Blind Side by Lewis, and, of course, Malcolm Gladwell’s informative triumvirate, The Tipping Point, Blink and Outliers.

Having previously enjoyed The Tipping Point and Blink, I knew what to expect from Gladwell's most recent foray, Outliers. His gimmick is pointed research into well-known or everyday subject matters to find hidden patterns and meaning that carry over to his larger thesis. In Outliers, he examines why some people, which he calls outliers, become highly successful in their field – people like Bill Gates, the Beatles, professional hockey players, Robert Oppenheimer and (gasp) the author himself. Gladwell contends that success is as much a product of the opportunities that present themselves to an individual as it is of the individual’s talents and efforts.

You may be thinking that doesn’t sound like a groundbreaking theory. Worse, if you read his critics, you’ll see that many contend that Gladwell’s methodologies are derivative and unscientific. Outliers also suffers from a bit of unevenness – as with The Tipping Point and Blink, Gladwell leads with his best stuff and by the end of the book he seems to be rehashing the same themes with inferior data and less interesting case studies (basically writing about himself for the book's final act). I would suggest ignoring all that and reading it anyway if you’re inclined to popular non-fiction at all.

The joy of Outliers is in the depth with which Gladwell explores his case studies, shedding light on the stories behind the stories we know. Did you know that the Beatles became the Beatles by taking advantage of the opportunity to play countless hours of music in front of live audiences in Hamburg’s red light district? Or that a disproportionate number of professional hockey players are born in January, February and March? Equally important as these factual discoveries are the analytical building blocks employed by Gladwell – ideas (not necessarily his own) like The Matthew Effect and the 10,000 Hour Rule, which resonate beyond the covers of Outliers. Outliers entertains, educates and, most importantly, makes one think about their own successes, under-utilized talents and what might have been.

You had me at smote. Peace Like a River by Leif Enger (8.2 out of 10)

2010-08-30T14:46:00.004-04:00

We love it when a book begins well, especially when reading an author for the first time. Whether it’s the first sentence, the first scene or the first chapter, we relish in the immediate realization that the writer can turn a gorgeous phrase, develop an engaging character, or embroil a reader in an original conceit.

Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River engages right from the start. It begins with the intriguing premise that the narrator, Reuben Land, wishes he had good lungs and air to fill them with, and proceeds over the course of its first chapter to tell the brief but remarkable story of Reuben’s first breath. It’s a vignette that establishes critical elements of two of the most important characters in the story – Reuben and his father, Jeremiah. It contains one of my favorite images from the novel – Jeremiah’s right-handed smiting, shortly after Reuben’s birth, of the doctor who is prepared to resign Reuben’s fate to God after his failed attempt to make Reuben breathe. It ends with Reuben’s (really Jeremiah’s) foreshadowing challenge: “We and the world, my children, will always be at war. Retreat is impossible. Arm yourselves.” And it does all this in the equivalent of three pages. Spot on.

Of course, many novels start beautifully only to fail to live up to their initial promise. That’s not the case here, as Peace Like a River delivers. Leif Enger weaves a compelling, introspective and often humorous tale. Reuben, saddled with severe asthma, and his family embark on a journey after his older brother Davy finds himself on the run after dealing with local bullies in their small Minnesota town. Accompanied by his father and his immensely likable little sister, Swede, Reuben pursues his brother and bears witness to the miraculous. It’s a novel where the stakes never seem high, the characters never quite real, but the writing is too enjoyable and the story too wondrous, not unlike that perfect first chapter, to ever want to put it down. This one’s been around for a while, but if you haven’t read it already, check it out.

Back to our strong reaction to the book’s opening episode. We wonder, do you usually pause and reflect on the quality of the first sentence, scene or chapter of a book? Does it color your reading experience for a time, perhaps even for the entirety of the work? Is that fair? Do any novels stand out in your mind that began in mediocrity only to build into magnificence? Or any that failed to live up to a promising beginning?

Humulus Lupulus (that's hops, as in beer ... mmm ... beer)

2010-08-27T06:51:00.000-04:00

That's right, my friends, you've made it through another long summer week to Friday. To tell you the truth, I really don't know how you do it. Seriously, with the kids, all that work around the house, and the added responsibilities at work, it's a wonder that you find the time and the energy to get it all done. But done it is, week after week, and you've earned the right to kick back, relax, pop a cold one (might I suggest a Steel Rail EPA?), and be catered to. Take all the time that you need, and don't be shy, as there's plenty of EPA to be had.

Can I turn on the game for you? No? What? The Rachel Zoe Project? And a chardonnay? What the hell? Come on, this is a guy's blog! Ok ... ok ... I get it ... the entire book blog universe is female. The Rachel Zoe Project it is. And I might have some old pinot grigio in the fridge, I guess. Fine. Whatever. Fantastic.

Anyway, one of the many here in book blogdom that work tirelessly to make your life better, cleaner, easier, and more efficient is Jennifer over at Crazy for Books. Each week Jennifer hosts the Book Blogger Hop, which aggregates the old and the new of book review websites from around the globe. I can honestly say that I have never taken the time to peruse her listings without finding at least one new voice taht I return to week after week. So give it a try, leave a comment here and there to express your appreciation, and feel free to invite any you may meet on your wanderings back here to The Literate Man. We're always open to new friends.

If you are joining us from the Book Blogger Hop, then welcome! Please feel free to kick our tires and check under the hood. Don't mind that cat in the wheel well--he climbs up there to get warm. You might be interested in our abbreviated, yet (somewhat) comprehensive review of the work of Ernest Hemingway in last week's The Inevitable Ernest Hemingway Post. Or perhaps you'd be interested in our Declaration of War on All Things Twilight from a while back. Or maybe, just maybe you'd like to take at our review of Sometimes a Great Notion, otherwise known as the greatest novel ever written.

Jennifer's question this week is whether we use a rating system in our blogs. We do, of course, use a ten-point system measured to the nearest integer. But we also have our doubts. Book-loving is an inherently subjective endeavor, and our rating system is likewise a reflection of our own likes and dislikes, which certainly differ from yours. On the other hand, guys like shorthand, and the ratings do serve that useful purpose. What are your thoughts on the subject?

The Inevitable Ernest Hemingway Post

2010-08-25T15:02:00.002-04:00

This was inevitable. No weblog that represents itself to address classic English-language literature of interest to men would be complete without an extended discussion of Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway’s carefully-crafted public image was the consummate man’s man. He was (or at least presented himself to be) the ultimate sport-fishing, big game-hunting, womanizing, hard-drinking, expatriate war correspondent of his generation. And perhaps he was all these things, though there seems to be little doubt that his tremendous talent for crafting prose was equally matched by his talents for self-promotion and social climbing.

Putting the image of Hemingway-as-self-publicist to one side for a moment, no one is considered to have exerted more of an influence on American literature during the twentieth century than Ernest Hemingway. His terse prose and penchant for writing straightforward, convincing dialogue often reveals as much by silence or omission as by the words on the page. One of my favorite Hemingway shorts, “Hills Like White Elephants,” is comprised almost entirely of dialogue between a man and a girl at a café outside a train station in Spain. Though the subject is never stated, it is clear that the two are discussing a prospective abortion. While the man favors the procedure, the girl has serious reservations, recognizing the tremendous loss that she (and they) will feel if she decides to go forward. What makes the story powerful is the careful dance between the two around a difficult subject and the hidden (but universally understood) meaning behind the literal words that are exchanged between them. Whatever one might think of Hemingway as a person, writing like this leave no doubt of his tremendous talent.

We have not read the entire bibliography of Ernest Hemingway, but we have read most of his novels and a smattering of collections and non-fiction, as well as several books about the author himself. The following is a list of the works that we have read and a note of reaction to each.

The Sun Also Rises(1926): A masterful depiction of sexual tension between male friends set against the Festival of San Fermin (and the Running of the Bulls) in Pamplona. The novel was based on actual events wherein, not surprisingly, Hemingway sought the attentions of a woman other than his wife. Incredibly, the manuscript took Hemingway only six weeks to write.

A Farewell to Arms (1926): Based upon Hemingway’s own experience as an ambulance driver on the Italian front in World War I, this novel treats a soldier’s love for a woman against the backdrop of the political treachery that was experienced by men in uniform as power see-sawed between the Italians and the Austro-German troops.

To Have and Have Not (1929): Hemingway’s only novel set on American soil, this book treats the depression-era difficulties of a charter boat captain, who plies the waters between Cuba and Key West. Not generally considered Hemingway’s best work, it is interesting for the Steinbeck-like social commentary that it contains. The Literate Man reviewed this book several months ago, which review you can find here.

For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940): The story of an American demolitions expert fighting with the Republicans against the fascist forces of Franco during the Spanish Civil War, this is our favorite of all the Hemingway novels. The desperation and hard resilience of the Republican forces, who are certain of defeat and see the death of a great socialist cause, leaps off the page, as does the more general topic of the individual horrors and atrocities of civil war.

The Old Man and the Sea (1952): More of a novella than a novel, this book won Hemingway the Pulitzer Prize in 1952 (though it was officially awarded for his body of work). The work treats the story of Santiago, a Cuban fisherman who engages in an epic multi-day battle with a giant marlin far out in the Caribbean Sea. Many consider the story to symbolize Hemingway’s own battle against his critics, though Hemingway himself never admitted to the connection.

Islands in the Stream (1970): The first posthumous work published from among Hemingway’s numerous manuscripts, the book looks at three stages in the life of Thomas Hudson, American painter. The first is with his sons on the island of Bimini, the second as a reconnaissance official tracking German submarines through the islands of the Caribbean during World War II, and the last is the ambiguous end of the protagonist as he comes to grips with the death of his son by war.

Death in the Afternoon (1932): Hemingway’s first work of non-fiction, Death in the Afternoon treats the Spanish sport of bullfighting, including extensive technical analysis of the proper style of the matador. Hemingway’s admiration for the “sport” shines through on every page. For myself, well-written though it is, this book convinced me that there is no reasonable justification for the continued sport-slaughter of bulls in Spain or anywhere else for that matter.

A Moveable Feast (1964): This is probably Hemingway’s best known work of non-fiction. A memoir of his time in Paris in the 1920’s, the book features mention of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Ford, John Dos Passos, James Joyce, and Gertrude Stein. An homage to Paris before the war years, it is also a nostalgic look at those years when Hemingway was poor and happy with his first wife, Hadley, and their son.

The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway (1987): The Nick Adams stories aside, Hemingway’s shorts are some of the leanest, meanest, most poignant, and most memorable works in all of American fiction. This is a great book to pick up periodically as a filler between novels.

Ernest Hemingway on Writing (1999): A series of snippets about the craft of writing picked up from various and sundry sources. The quotes are interesting, but often vague and sometimes contradictory. As Hemingway once famously quipped, talking about writing “takes off whatever butterflies have on their wings.” And yet, they managed to make a book out of his numerous observations.

So, let’s get to the heart of the matter. Hemingway: literary genius or degenerate or both? My personal opinion is that Hemingway deserves all the accolades, and I will continue to read him until my dying day for the genius that he was, though my opinion of Hemingway the man will always taint my enjoyment. What is your opinion of Hemingway? What are your favorite works and why? Can you respect his body of work while recognizing him as an unrepentant braggart, drunk, and philanderer?

The Book Thief (Markus Zusak) (6.5/10.0)

2010-08-19T14:25:00.000-04:00

If you sat down to create the personification of death, what characteristics would you attribute to it? It’s an interesting question, and not always an easy one to answer. I think that it’s difficult to attribute any range of emotion to death simply because the event itself is so charged with certain base emotions that we all share. And because of our shared experience, death personified would appear to be somewhat two-dimensional. Characteristics including heavy, brooding, powerful, stoic, contemplative, frightening, and even cruel, predominate in popular culture, from the Grim Reaper to Joe Black. And we’re so consistently exposed to these darker anthropomorphisms that it is difficult to imagine any variation from them. What would the world make of a personified death that grew profoundly sad at the birth of a human being and overjoyed at taking him back at death?

The personification of death is the conceit of The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, a 2006 work which has received numerous awards in both young adult and general fiction categories and has been the recipient of positive reviews all around. It is death that tells the story of little Liesel Meminger s she struggles to make sense of the harsh words and actions of Nazi Germany under the Fuhrer and their effects on the people that she loves. In Zusak’s conception, death is one part stoic, one part curious, and one part sympathetic. He seems to have taken a unusual interest in Liesel, which he admits happens very rarely, and he follows her—collecting bodies along the way—through the long years of the war and beyond.

I admit that I liked the book as opposed to disliking it, but I found Zusak’s death as two-dimensional as any other representation, meaning that the novelty of the conceit wore off after the first hundred pages or so. And the human characters of the book were not very much more rounded, though it was impossible not to sympathize with orphaned Liesel and her adoptive parents, among others. The most interesting portions of the book for me were those that dealt with the hidden divide in German society during the war years and the mechanisms set up to root out and punish those that would undermine the Fuhrer and the war effort. At more than five hundred pages, I wish the book had included more of this. As it was, it dragged and I really had to struggle to finish it.

To tell you the truth, I really feel guilty about not liking this book more (especially given all the hype surrounding it). Perhaps it is simply a young adult novel from which I expected too much. Perhaps I am simply a bad reader. Or perhaps the book is simply overrated. I assume that most of you must have liked it. What was it that compelled you?

A Fierce Radiance (Lauren Belfer) (9.2/10.0)

2010-08-17T18:28:00.001-04:00

I read Lauren Belfer's debut novel, City of Light, because it was recommended to me by nearly every relative and acquaintance from my days up north. Like Belfer, my family hails from Western New York, where the winters are long, the wings are hot, and the beer is Canadian. I myself inhabited the hills and forests south of the Queen City (that's Buffalo for the uninitiated) until I reached the age of maturity, at which point I promptly pointed my '78 Chrysler Newport south and didn't stop until I reached the warm sands of South Beach. But don't get me wrong, I still love Western New York--especially its people, whom Belfer captured perfectly--and I will always consider it home. City of Light, then, is the fictionalized account of the social life of a young schoolteacher set against the backdrop of the development of electric power at the turn of the century and the political power struggles that surrounded it. I consider it to be the best work of modern fiction that has been written about the region or its history.

All of that is a buildup to my review of Belfer's new novel, A Fierce Radiance, which treats the development and mass production of penicillin during the opening days of America's involvement in World War II. Belfer truly has a gift for writing period pieces. I can only imagine the amount of detailed research that went into this account of New York City in the days after Pearl Harbor--her detailed descriptions of the architecture of the period is matched by her eye for social nuance among the medical professionals, captains of industry, politicians, and journalists that comprise the story's main characters. And her prose has a sort of silky, gloved feel to it that lulls you into believing, if only just for a moment, that you have a clear feel of what it was to have lived in those frightening and heady days of America's ascendancy.

It's not all perfect, mind you. There were times that I found myself shaking my head at the inconsistencies of a particular character or the contrivances that wrap up what is a complex and twisted plot line. But at the turn of a page, I consistently found myself back among the stone skyscrapers and the soldiers preparing to head off to war, and any author that can transport me so completely can be forgiven a few faults. Overall, I found the book very enjoyable, and I continue to find Belfer an author worth reading.

All Hopped Up on Goofballs

2010-08-13T10:09:00.000-04:00

It's Friday ... again ... and that means that Jennifer over at Crazy for Books is hosting her weekly all-night kegger, known as the Book Blogger Hop. It's a great place to see and be seen (write and be read?) and to mingle with the untouchable glitterati of the book blogging world. All kidding aside, I have found many a worthy blog through Jennifer's weekly good offices and I humbly advise you, good sir or madam, to partake of the festivities while the wekend is young. If and when you discover new talent (and there is no doubt that you will), be sure to leave a comment.

Now, if you are joining us from the Hop, please make yourself at home. I'll take your coat, thank you. Have a seat in this chair next to the fire and feel free to put your feet up on my mastiff--she won't mind, I assure you. I would offer you a cup of cocoa, but we are fresh out. Perhaps a nip of brandy? Or, perhaps you are interested in our take on the literary giants of yesterday and today. Feel free to peruse our listings at your leisure, and leave a comment here and there, for we dearly appreciate the input of our readers.

Jennifer's question this week is how many books you have on your TBR bookshelf. I will admit that my TBR listing is a fluid one. There are generally three or four books that I mean to get to, but they may get surreptitiously bumped if I come across a good review from among my many esteemed colleagues (which seems to happen very often). How about yours? Do you have a long list of must reads that you must read in order? Or do you go with the flow and pick up whatever happens to fall from the higher shelves onto your head in your local used book store?

Please let us know. And then have a great weekend.

Sound Off on eBooks and eReaders, Part II

2010-08-11T17:57:00.001-04:00

Curse you, Steve Jobs! You and your deep understanding of American laziness!

Some context: a while back, I posted on what I considered to be the serious shortcomings of Apple's iPad as an e-reader. You can find the entire bit here, but the arguments essentially boil down to three points: (1) it's too heavy; (2) it's too blurry; and (3) it becomes a mirror in sunlight. I've added another since that initial post (thanks to The Reading Ape's $100 book-buying challenge), which is that the selection of available books is seriously lacking. All of which is true, true, true.

What I failed to grasp in those early days was that the iPad is hands down the most versatile and convenient appliance that I own, and that convenience extends to the purchase of e-books. I believe that I also failed to understand the depth of my commitment to laziness, especially after 8 pm. Here's a scenario: I'm in bed at night, fiddling with the iPad, and perusing my fellow bloggers' latest words of wisdom, when I happen upon a review that piques my interest. I decide to buy The Ask by Sam Lipsyte. Now, I have three options: (1) write it down somewhere so that I can remember it on my next trip to the local indie, Books & Books; (2) head on over to Amazon, where I can order it and wait a couple of days for it to arrive; or (3) download it to either my Sony eReader or the iPad. I decide on number 3 simply because I have neither an excellent memory nor superior organizational skills, and I am fairly certain that the scrap of paper will be lost in any case. As for Amazon, I like to get my hands on interesting works while they are still of interest to me, which may or may not extend beyond my Adult ADD threshold of 60 minutes. Moreover, number 3 is cheaper then numbers 1 and 2, and lord knows I'm cheap.

As for the choice between the Sony eReader and the iPad, the Sony requires me to lug out my laptop, go to the Sony eReader Store, find the title, download the book, connect my eReader, and download the book to the eReader, all before I can start reading. The iPad requires exactly two steps: a search of the title in the iBook Store and a press of the buy button. Did I mention that I'm already in bed? I did? Did I also mention that I'm exceedingly lazy? Good. Then you can see where this is going.

Even though it's too heavy to read comfortably, even though it's blurry and hard on the eyes, even though it's impossible to read at the beach, and even though the selection is miniscule, the iPad's convenience and my laziness have combined to put it over the top as my reading device of choice. Even I can't believe it.

In sum, then, I believe that in these lines I have definitively established that I am often wrong, I am exceedingly cheap, I am extremely lazy, and ... all of these things make me a big fan of the iPad, even for e-books. I have to imagine that the experience is similar for all the Kindle owners out there. I'd love to hear from some of you, if only to share the shame that this realization has brought me.

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy (8.5/10.0)

2010-08-09T11:33:00.002-04:00

When I first saw the movie Pulp Fiction, I remember thinking that certain lines had been moved with regard to popular acceptance of scenes of violence. Ultimately, however, the violence contained in Pulp Fiction and most mainstream Hollywood productions is more or less directly related to the plot; it is rarely gratuitous. Of course, the plotlines of horror and slasher movies revolve around depictions of violence, making them pillars of the plot itself. Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West, is unique in that the extreme violence depicted is not so much related to plot as it is the very nature of the characters and the scene in which the story is set. "Man is a violent (and godless) animal by nature" appears to be the premise out of which the entire novel develops. And it convinces.

Most of the story follows action on and around the Mexican border in the years 1849-1850, when violent encounters between whites and Native Americans were commonplace. McCarthy creates characters that readers of his other work might recognize, at least in broad outline. "The kid" is the unnamed protagonist--a runaway from Tennessee with excellent gunfighting and survival skills, which lend themselves to violence only when necessary for the kid's protection.  Judge Holden is the novel's antagonist and represents the embodiment of the violent nature of man. Large and hairless, Holden and the kid are sometimes placed together among the same group, but the reader is always conscious of the tension between them. In the end, it is the kid's capacity for pity and sympathy that places him opposite the judge both physically and philosophically.

Not surprisingly, Blood Meridian is written in a style that emulates (and sometimes parallels) the powerful scenes of Revelation. In McCarthy's version, however, it is the weak and innocent that are found wanting and are condemned to violent death.  Indeed, the end of the novel is as ambiguous and as apocalyptic as any I have ever read, wherein [**Spoiler Alert**] the reader can only be certain that violence has triumphed and firmly established itself as the nature of the world. Precisely how that triumph is accomplished (whether by violent murder or homosexual domination) is a subject of some debate.

I think that I have never been quite as unsettled by a novel as I have by Blood Meridian (though The Road comes close). It is considered by many to be McCarthy's greatest work and one of the most important works of our generation. Ultimately, I think that McCarthy's genius lies in his ability to dig deep into the places that many of us are afraid to go and show us the logical outcomes of some of our most troubling feelings and capacities as human beings. As for Blood Meridian itself, it was so very troubling to me as to practically defy description or categorization. I can only say that it is the work of a genius; whether I can count it among my favorites (or even most respected) will take a considerable amount of further contemplation. Blood Meridian begs for discussion, and I am very interested in what all of you have to say.

Dennis Hopper (that's a Hop pun, people)

2010-08-06T15:20:00.002-04:00

Dennis Hopper? Now, that's a stretch, you might be thinking. But I say not remotely, my friend ... not when Leslie Hindman Auctioneers is at this very moment featuring one of 100 signed copies of Dennis Hopper Out of the Sixties by Dennis Hopper (Twelvetrees Press, 1986) to be sold at its next Fine Books and Manuscripts Auction on August 12th (find the listing here). The book is expected to fetch between $600 and $800, which will really put a dent in the August weed and incense budget of whoever the lucky buyer is. On the other hand, it is nice to see tribute paid to a true, and recently-departed, American icon.

Which leads me to my next question: exactly how much money are you willing to part with? Because DO I HAVE AN INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY FOR YOU! Yes, you too can own a theoretical portion of a first edition, first printing of Faulkner's Light in August (expected to fetch between $2,000 and $4,000) (listing here), and I personally guarantee that you can visit that theoretical portion at least twice a year on my bookshelf in Miami Beach (food and lodging not included, though I do have a tent that I would be willing to lend).

Seriously, if you are a classics lover or simply a lover of antiquities, you must, must, must check out the auction site. But be careful, it's addictive. And if any of you bid against me for the Matisse-signed, first edition of Joyce's Ulysses, I swear that I will find you and make you pay ...

All of this was supposed to be a lead in to the Book Blogger Hop, which is being hosted all weekend long over at Crazy for Books. Go forth and see what bounty of book reviews the Internet has spawned. And when you find something that you like, be sure to leave a message. But come back to The Literate Man ... and bring your cash ... because that Faulkner is seriously tempting me.

The Perfect Mile (Neal Bascomb) (8.5/10.0)

2010-08-05T12:28:00.001-04:00

What do we all think about audio books? It’s a topic that receives a great deal of treatment out there in the book-review blogdom. And I’ll freely admit that I’m never quite sure about my own feelings on the matter. Is it possible to “read” a work of literature by listening? Or, more importantly, is the enjoyment that you receive from listening to an audio book equal to the enjoyment that you receive from actually reading that same book? I raise the issue because I recently listened to the The Perfect Mile on audio book (which can be found here). Moreover, I listened to it while running, and I truly believe that I got much more enjoyment from it in that medium than I would have by reading it in print. The same tends to hold true for me for my guilty pleasures, science fiction (Orson Scott Card) and action/adventure books (Clive Cussler, Robert Ludlum). I'm still a classics guy at heart, but I like to mix it up every now and then. But to the point: as a rule, I believe that a true work of literature (classic or modern) should be read and that listening to such a work deprives the listener of the true force of the tale. What do you believe?

Now what was I doing before I got so philosophical? Ah yes, reviewing a book ... that’s right. The Perfect Mile is the fast-paced (pun completely intended) story of three men from three continents that all chased the impossible dream of breaking the four-minute mile in the 1950’s. Roger Bannister, an English medical student, treated running as science and a hobby (his first priority being medicine); Australian John Landy trained longer and harder than anyone before or since; and American Wes Santee was a natural athlete who rose to prominence out of a brutal childhood and first proposed that he would break the four-minute mile. Bascomb’s treatment of the three is properly measured, providing enough background for the reader (listener) to identify with each (though Landy inevitably becomes the reader’s favorite) and presenting each race during the period 1952 to 1954 as a seat-edge sitting, nail-biting competition that inevitably comes down to the wire. And so, after numerous battles on the cinder track at competitions held around the world, the four-minute mile was finally broken by ... No, I can’t do that, but if you’re really interested a simple Google search will give you the winner.

If you run or work out at the gym or do work around the house or do just about anything that will enable you to wear a pair of headphones or ear buds, I urge you to check out this inspiring story (in audio format) that, at bottom, shows that human belief and perseverance can overcome any obstacle. Not that I’m running any four-minute miles, mind you, but it did inspire me to get out and run, and that’s worth something.

Matterhorn (Karl Marlantes) (9.0/10.0)

2010-08-02T13:36:00.000-04:00

Now, I’m not a big war-as-literature fan. I don’t spend hours watching the History Channel, and I still have trouble believing that there’s a market for a Military History Channel, though there clearly is or it wouldn’t exist. It’s true that I read Winston Churchill’s six-volume set, T he Second World War (and I reviewed it here). And I read his abridged treatment of World War I, entitled The World Crisis, as well. But I read those books more because I find Churchill’s war-prose hypnotizing than anything else. And the action in Churchill’s accounts is largely on Downing Street, in the White House, or at the Kremlin, and not so much on the field of battle itself. And, of course, I enjoyed both The Sun Also Rises and For Whom the Bell Tolls, but come on who didn’t? Anyhow, the point is that I’m not a big war-as-literature guy.

And yet here I am making another exception. Matterhorn, the 2010 debut novel of Karl Marlantes, is quite simply the best novel (war-based or otherwise) that I have read in several years. And I’m not the only one—The New York Times called it, “a raw, brilliant account of war that may well serve as a final exorcism for one of the most painful passages in American history.” I think the reason for its attraction is two-fold: (1) it is an intensely realistic portrayal of the conflict (you seriously feel at times that you are face down in the mud of the Vietnamese jungle with Marine Second Lieutenant Waino Mellas), and (2) it is, at bottom, a story of male relationships, both friendly and troubled, in the face of almost unfathomable hardship. The word on the street is that Karl Marlantes spent 30 years (that’s not a typo) on the book and the main characters (including the jungle, which is a character of its own) reflect a craftsman’s work.

The main plot revolves around the taking and retaking of Matterhorn, a hill that stands like a sentinel over a North Vietnamese approach from Laos. And there is plenty of super-realistic action as the hill is won, abandoned, and won again through the tremendously-sacrificial exploits of Bravo Company, Fifth Marine Division. But the subplots revolve around politics: the politics of advancement among officers and the politics of race relations among the grunts, which grows every bit as violent as the conflict in which it is set. And underlying all is a growing discontent with the war itself, the failure to identify a unifying goal, its lack of direction, and the tremendous cost in human lives.

Matterhorn may not be everybody’s cup of tea, but I’m willing to bet that even most opponents of the war-as-literature set (like me) will find it a deeply enjoyable read.

Hop on the bus, Gus

2010-07-30T16:50:00.001-04:00

Ah ... who doesn't love Simon & Garfunkel ... or at least Simon? There are very few types of music that I can listen to while reading, and even fewer bands, but Simon & Garfunkel slides right on by beneath my conscious mind like the river flows beneath an inner tube on a lazy, summer Sunday afternoon. It's just so ... groovy.

Anyhow, it's Friday and that means that Jennifer over at Crazy for Books is hosting her weekly blogger coffee klatch, known as the Book Blogger Hop. It's a great way to check out the old and the new of blogs practicing or otherwise related to the sacred occupation of the literary critic. It's definitely worth your time. And if you find a new blog that you like, leave a comment and let them know. After all, we're all in this together.

And ... if you've stumbled on The Literate Man as a result of the Book Blogger Hop, well then, welcome! Feel free to take a look around. We have some great sales going on at the moment. Might I suggest you take a gander at The Spy Who Came In from the Cold? Or perhaps you'd like to try on our all time favorite, Sometimes A Great Notion? Well, I'll leave you to it, then. I 'll be at the register if you need a fitting room or have any other questions.

Dubliners (James Joyce) (8.9/10.0)

2010-07-28T18:07:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make ... I don’t really like short stories. I mean, I see their utility for teaching the elements of story structure and characterization, and I appreciate the odd twist that makes for a memorable story scene, but I never find them really fulfilling. And I generally forget them very quickly. They are, I would contend, the rice cakes of the literary scene ... universally respected as the most healthy of literary treats, but consistently failing to deliver any actual nutrition to their hungry readers. I find it hard to believe that I am alone in this. Come on, be honest. Have you really gone out of your way to read short stories since you were ten and forced to read The Lottery?

Now, when I state a dislike of short stories in the context of a review of James Joyce, I feel guilty ... and I mean seriously guilty. Even the mention of Joyce conjures for me images of the staunch Irish Catholicism that I endured as a child and have been running from ever since. It’s enough to make me want to confess.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned ... it has been more than three years since my last short story.”

Fortunately for me, Dubliners is a bit different. First published in 1914, Dubliners is a collection of 15 short stories (okay, it’s really 14 short stories and one novella) that depict middle class life in Dublin just after the turn of the twentieth century. The stories revolve primarily around topics that are near and dear to the Irish heart: death (The Sisters, A Painful Case, and (of course) The Dead), poverty (After the Race, The Boarding House, and Clay), alcohol (Counterparts and Grace), and politics (Ivy Day in the Committee Room). Now, even as I write it, that depiction sounds downright drab, but Joyce’s lyrical skills are at their peak in these stories, and every single one manages to warm your heart just as if you yourself were standing next to a peat fire in some country pub out on the cliffs of the old sod ordering a round of pints for the lads.

Between the consistency of the Dublin scene that it paints and the beautiful effect of Joyce’s lyrical prose, Dubliners is a very enjoyable read. In fact, though it was written by the same Joyce that we love and hate for Ulysses and (ugh) Finnegans Wake, Dubliners is even completely understandable! It makes me wonder what Joyce might have produced if he hadn’t grown so enamored of experimenting with form and language. Not that what he wrote wasn’t good ... I mean, the best ... oh there I go feeling guilty again. That’s what happens when you criticize the master. Does anyone have a rosary?

An American Tragedy (Theodore Dreiser) (8.7/10.0)

2010-07-19T13:21:00.000-04:00

Don’t you all miss the days when it seemed that every great artist was an unabashed socialist? Ok, so maybe I don’t actually remember those days at all, but I sometimes feel like I lived for brief periods in the dark worlds of corrupt American capitalism painted by Dreiser, Steinbeck, and even Hemingway (oh, heck, let’s through Kerouac in there too), among many others. Don’t you? I have this purely romanticized vision of the turn of the twentieth century and the years that followed as a battleground of ideologies when it seemed like a system that valued human relationships (as opposed to supply and demand) might actually raise the human race to another evolutionary level. Of course, the intervening years have largely proven that dream to be just that—a dream—devoid of any grounding in human nature. But I like to reminisce in any case. Ah, those were the (completely nonexistent) days ...

No one, and I mean no one, is better at painting a straightforward tale of the evil influences of American capitalism than Theodore Dreiser. He’s like the Brothers Grimm of the American working classes or like the Dr. Suess of anti-capitalist ideology—except that the Cat in the Hat wears a bushy mustache and carries a hammer and sickle. Though 25 years separate them, Sister Carrie (1900) and An American Tragedy (1925) are almost mirror images of each other as they treat the effect of unbridled American ambition on first women and then men, who grow up in Darwinistic America devoid (individually or collectively) of any strong moral compass. The fact that Dreiser’s novels continue to be relevant in the twenty-first century is a testament to his ability to find universal and enduring themes.

An American Tragedy was based upon well-publicized actual events in upstate New York in 1906. Here’s the short, short version of the story: upwardly-mobile boy from a solid family takes advantage of country girl; aristocratic third-party female then expresses interest in boy; boy dumps country girl for a chance at the good life; but country girl is pregnant; boy thinks, “what to do ... I know ... murder,” or is it? Maybe it was just an accident. I will say that in the actual events, the boy was convicted of murder and executed by electric chair. But you’ll have to read the book itself to find out what happens to his on-page persona, Clyde Griffiths.

This is one of a very few books that I have re-read over the course of my life. And usually I find that my understanding of the story has changed in the interim. Not so here. Dreiser is forever an idealist and an advocate for the redemptive power of empathy. Though his dream seems further away now than ever, it is still undeniably enjoyable to inhabit that world for a week or two. Give it a shot ...

Some Folks Like to Get Away, Take a Holiday from the Neighborhood, HOP a Flight to Miami Beach or to Hollywood ...

2010-07-16T10:10:00.001-04:00

Ok. That was a stretch, but it's slim pickins on the hop-related puns this morning. It was either Billy Joel or Cyndi Lauper (I hop, you hop, we hop ...). I do live in Miami Beach, and I think we can all agree that Billy Joel was the better choice in any case.

It's Friday again (where does the time go? No, seriously, where does it go? I only managed one measly post again this week--though it WAS a juicy addition), and that means that Crazy for Books is doing the book blogger hop all weekend long. The cover is only $10 (send c/o The Literate Man in Miami), and I've been told that the band comes on at around 10. So dive right in, check out all the excellent work being done around the world by your fellow lit-bloggers and leave a comment here and there to give them the ~~attention that they so desperately crave~~ props that they all deserve.

Jennifer's question this week is what book are you dying to get your hands on. I'm going with that Book of Kells that sits in Trinity College in Dublin - that's got to be worth a pretty penny, right? If anyone wants to send it along, I will happily split the cover money that I receive from this week's Hop.

The Spy Who Came In from the Cold (John le Carré) (8.5/10.0)

2010-07-15T14:44:00.000-04:00

You’d have to be a product of Generation Y not to love a good old Cold War spy story. No matter how many times I see or hear or read it, the ideological conflict as presented in the form of a dour-faced, steroid-pumping, muscle-bound Russki versus a hard-scrabble, street-smart, freedom-loving American is enough to bring back memories of bomb drills at school, a vision of Reagan declaring the Great Satan, and those epic Celtics/Lakers battles that defined a decade. All of us here at The Literate Man freely admit that we still pause in our channel surfing to watch long scenes (which we all know by heart) of R ocky IV, Red October, and Red Dawn, among others. Ah ... those were the days when gas was cheap and you knew who your enemies were or, more importantly, where your enemies were. It seems so long ago now.

What was I talking about again? Oh right, the novel. Sorry about that, I got lost in Cold War reverie.

So, I picked up my first le Carré novel, A bsolute Friends, in the Frankfurt Airport on return from a visit to the former East Germany and the Czech Republic in, oh say, 2004. The novel chronicles the Cold War relationship of Mundy and Sasha, who work together to help MI6 bring down East Germany and eventually find themselves betrayed by the forces of globalization, which (as products of the Cold War, like me) they never fully understand. It was a very enjoyable book, and I made a mental note to pick up more le Carré as I was able. I saw the film adaptation of The Constant Gardner and I read Mission Song, both of which I enjoyed, though neither as much as Absolute Friends. And so, when my mother sent along a copy of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (thanks, Mom!), I thought it would be an enjoyable read and a trip down memory lane along the lines of what occurs when I watch any of the aforementioned Cold War movies.

I. WAS. BLOWN. AWAY. It was like I was that high-tech PPSI punch-measuring machine at the end of the Ivan Drago training montage in Rocky IV. This is—bar none—the best Cold War spy story we have ever heard, seen, or read. And I now understand why it was named one of T ime Magazine’s All-Time 100 Novels. Ok, so about the story. It’s dark ... and I mean depths-of-the-human-soul dark, German winter solstice dark, Vito Corleone’s office dark, well ... you get the idea. Alec Leamas heads up the West Berlin office of the British Secret Service (known as the Circus), until his best double agent is killed, his leadership comes under severe scrutiny, and he is recalled to London. Then, in the Cold War espionage equivalent of a last-second, Hail Mary pass into the end zone, Leamas is fired, sent to jail, and hung out for defection like a slab of beef set dangling from the roof of a den of wolves (sound familiar, The Departed?). Anyway, the bait is taken, the trap sprung, and Leamas goes over the wall to East Germany, leaving the lovely (love interest) Liz behind with instructions not to try to follow him. His mission? To frame his counterpart, the East German Muntz, as a double-agent for the British.

I’d give you the rest of the story, but then there’d be no point in you reading it. And you need to read it. The plot is exquisitely crafted, with twists and turns aplenty, but it is the psychological realism in the context of counter-espionage that sets the book apart from anything I have ever read on the subject. Le Carré does an excellent job of describing the amorality practiced on both sides of the Berlin Wall (and the English Channel) in the name of idealism. My advice? Turn off that rerun of The Hunt for Red October (as good as it is—I love Sean Connery as a Russki, I don’t care what his accent is) and get your hands on a copy of this book. Do it now, comrade.

I Hop (Lawyer's Note: The Literate Man has no affiliation direct or otherwise with the International House of Pancakes)

2010-07-09T12:44:00.000-04:00

Is it Friday already? So it is, which means that the Book Blogger Hop is goin' on over at Crazy for Books. There's an astonishing number of great book-related blogs out there. So head on over to the site, take a look around, do the hop, and help get the word out about The Literate Man.

A brief note to all the Literati--apologies for the lack of quantity this week. My caseload has me seriously underwater at the moment. But what we lack in numbers, we more than made up for in quality. Read Sometimes a Great Notion ... seriously ... you'll thank me for it.

Also, while potentially anti-literary, you're all invited to stay with me in South Beach to experience the Miami Heat taking the next five NBA Finals in a row.

Sometimes a Great Notion (Ken Kesey) (10.0/10.0)

2010-07-08T14:49:00.000-04:00

That this greatest work of iconic, if underappreciated, American author Ken Kesey is not more widely read is, we consider, one of the great tragedies of modern American literary culture. Kesey is generally best known for his groundbreaking 1962 novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest , and his role as the leader of the cross country- and LSD-tripping Merry Pranksters, whose exploits were famously chronicled by Tom Wolfe in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Both are excellent works and well worth a read, especially if you have interest in either the Beat Generation (whose individualistic ideals and perspective Kesey largely inherited) or the drug-fueled love-fest of West Coast America in the 1960’s and 70’s. But any lover of great literature, particularly great American literature, and particularly particularly great male American literature, is doing himself a serious disservice by ignoring what is undoubtedly Kesey’s greatest work, Sometimes a Great Notion.

The novel chronicles the Stamper family of Oregon, whose fiercely-independent and hard-scrabble life is played out among the teeming, danger-filled forests that they log and on the banks of the Wakonda River, whose waters have eroded the land about the Stamper family home to the point that the live on a virtual island. Like the setting, the characters are well-drawn and endlessly interesting, from the half-crazed patriarch, Henry Stamper, to the physically brutal but dependable eldest son, Hank Stamper, to the patient loyalty and creeping desire of Hank’s wife, Vivian Stamper, to the softer intellectual person of Leland Stamper, the estranged half-brother of Hank who returns to the family logging business just as the Stampers stand off against powerful union interests, which demand that the family shut down operations to support an ongoing loggers strike.

But it is not just the compelling story of rugged individualism and fierce family loyalty that makes this perhaps the greatest novel ever written in American Literature (and we say perhaps only because we have not read them all). Kesey also innovates in style, using a technique of multiple first-person, stream of consciousness accounts of thought and action to bring the gritty characters to life. The points of view move from person to person furiously over the course of a single page and the reader can imagine the 72-hour amphetamine-fueled stints that Kesey admitted to in his writing of it. Whatever your criticisms of his technique, the effect is pure artistry—a symphony of action and emotion that builds to a crescendo that pits the Stamper family against all the arrayed forces of man and nature.

We have no problem placing this book at the top of our list of books for men and recommend it above all others for its incredible story and innovative style.

Doin' the Hop

2010-07-02T09:47:00.001-04:00

It's time for the Book Blogger Hop once again. This time, Jennifer over at Crazy for Books has asked all of us bloggers to give our names and explain a little about how we got started in the biz. Ok, so I'm Patrick and I'm addicted to books (Hi, Patrick). As for how we got started, I'm reposting from an interview that we did over at Australian book blog Page Turners not so long ago.

"We’re new kids on the block, having started this past March, but we’re in it for the long haul. As for the reason why, a National Public Radio story some years back determined that only 20% of fiction readers (in the US, UK, and Canada) were men. I’d be shocked if the number were higher in Australia. Not only do I think that this is a tragedy for men on an individual level (as I said above, I think fiction allows us to understand ourselves and one another), but it is a tragedy for society at large where a little empathy and understanding can sometimes make all the difference between uninformed violence and informed compassion. There is a real debate over whether the fiction-reading gap is due to a genuine lack of interest in reading on the part of men or a result of the heavy marketing dollars that are poured into romance and young adult novels based around female characters (the so-called “chick lit”). I tend to think that it’s is a combination of the two, but I do think that the publishing industry bears some responsibility for the actual state of affairs. Hopefully, with the continued development of reading technologies (an area in which men are definitely interested), that will begin to change. In any case, we at 'The Literate Man' want to do our small part to get men reading again."

And that's us in a nutshell. Come on in, take a look around, take off your coat (it's summer down here in Miami, after all), have a seat, put your feet up, and settle in for a good read. Oh yeah--and leave a comment--we want to hear from you!

A Declaration of War on All Things Twilight

2010-06-30T13:33:00.000-04:00

I tried to read Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. I really did. I am conscious of the many historical instances in which the seemingly unredeemable popular work of the day—championed by the great unwashed masses, but ridiculed by the literati—later became a pillar of English or American Literature. And so, I very consciously refrain from judging a work before I actually read it for myself and, in all likelihood, determine that it is not, in fact, so much trash, but just another in a long line of additions to English or American pop culture that is mildly entertaining and, perhaps, of latent artistic value to be recognized in some far off date when our children seek to define the age gone by. But fifty pages of Twilight revealed the issue to me in stark detail: we have finally become a nation of literary panderers. For every Cormac McCarthy, there are a dozen Stephenie Meyers who direct the focus of American literary endeavor to the very lowest common denominator. And I, for one, will not watch the ship of American literature founder and sink without at least trying to plug the leak and bail.

There are many arguments to be made against the story of Twilight itself, which anyone who has not been living in a cave for the past decade knows whether they’ve read the book or not. It’s decidedly unoriginal—both Anne Rice and Charlaine Harris did vampires better. It’s also decidedly creepy—the story of a man 109-year old man having an affair with a 17-year old high school girl. Not since Nabokov’s Lolita has a story so successfully cashed in on society’s prurient interest in young girls. And it unabashedly perpetuates the princess myth, wherein the helpless young girl is unable to defend herself against the terrible forces of this world and must seek the protection of the impossibly strong, handsome, and wealthy man that will, of course, dedicate his life to her safety and happiness. That literally millions of young girls around the world are being raised to think that this is an acceptable framework through which to see the world is more our failing as a society than Stephenie Meyers’ as a creative artist.

But none of this is surprising or even particularly bothersome to me. I am sufficiently jaded by popular American culture at this point that lousy, recycled stories roll off my back like so much water off a duck. What does bother me is the scale upon which Twilight has been adopted by and incorporated into American culture and the resulting shift of our collective focus toward those stories that present an airbrushed (if not wholly animated) depiction of American life in a series of clichéd cliffhangers and caricatures while eschewing (or at least relegating to a distant secondary status) any story that accurately depicts the joys and the hardships of this life and the emotional struggles that realistic characters endure in order to survive within it. I genuinely fear that the overriding popularity of Twilight has finally pushed us irrevocably into the category of slack-jawed cartoon watchers, with no interest in stories with organic meaning for our condition as human beings, stories that make us think, stories that make us consider other points of view or strive to be better, or at lease stories that involve an original thought.

And so, somewhat surprisingly, I feel that I owe Stephenie Meyers a personal debt of gratitude. Twilight was, to me, a boot to the head. I can now see the dark night about me, but I refuse to go quietly into it. I am awake, and I recognize that, in order to find those stories that I treasure—stories by which we collectively define and experience the many beautiful variations on the human condition—I must trade Twilight for The Long River Home, Penguin Books for Pushcart, the Oscars for the Independent Spirit Awards, Blockbuster for Netflix, and Amazon for the local library. I must refuse the dry pellets of food poured in my feed bowl and instead beg from the table, because that is where the nutrition lies.
And so, The Literate Man hereby declares war on all things Twilight. I would ask you to join us by making conscious decisions about where your entertainment dollars (and those of your children) are being spent. Rather than dripping amorphously into the jellied mass of the lowest common denominator, let us try to raise it up, slap it around, and help it to recognize that genuine meaning can still be found in literature, if only we are willing to look for it.

To Have and Have Not (Ernest Hemingway) (4.5/10.0)

2010-06-30T12:31:00.000-04:00

To Have and Have Not is the kind of book that you can barely believe was penned by Ernest Hemingway. This literary giant wrote many a beautiful thing in his day and no matter what terrible things he may have written between his several masterpieces the triumph of his genius cannot be erased. But this book comes as close as any will.

To Have and Have Not was Hemingway’s most ambitious literary endeavor by a long-shot. And he fails spectacularly. It’s a story about a smuggler and his family in Key West, which attempts to dissect the socio-economic injustices of Depression-era United States. This is no easy subject for certain, and his legacy would have been the better for not having attempting the feat. And yet, there is something admirable in Hemingway’s attempt even if it does make for a miserable read.

The story is disjointed in terms of both time and structure. It’s more a sequence of vignettes that fail to add up to a whole with a string of dead-end tangents around every page. When Hemingway broaches the greater social issues of the ‘haves and have-nots’ as the title suggests, there’s little point or connection to the plot. The examination is superficial, boring, and in the end sheds very light on the real issues. On top of that, it might just be the most extensive collection of awful metaphors ever published. Hardly a paragraph goes by without a clunker of a metaphor jumping off the page to stab the reader in his or her brain.

The most interesting parts of the story are the colorful scenes at various Key West watering holes, which Hemingway paints to perfection. These are no doubt well-researched, first-hand accounts of the Key West bar scene and its many colorful characters, but they serve no real purpose in the story other than to offer a break from the tired language of the rest of the book.

Worst of all, it’s impossible to like any of the characters. It’s almost as if Hemingway went out of his way to make his characters unappealing. And his attempts to add dimension to these figures simply gives the reader more reasons not to like them.

When Hemingway is at his best, he is king. When he’s at his worst, his writing makes L. Ron Hubbard look like Shakespeare. And after reading To Have and Have Not, even a TV Guide will look like breathtaking literature. In short, To Have and Have Not read this book, I’d much rather have not.

If you do give it a read, try and forget about it quickly. Dwell instead on A Farewell to Arms or The Sun Also Rises. This is the Hemingway that we know and love.

The Literate Man does the Book Blogger Hop

2010-06-25T12:36:00.001-04:00

Every weekend, Crazy for Books hosts the Book Blogger Hop, where bloggers and readers alike are encouraged to explore the book blogosphere in search of as yet undiscovered ~~snarky reviewers~~ talent. It is a great place to find out exactly what you have been missing and explore all of the distinct and varying perspectives on both classics and pop lit from our fellow lovers of literature. It is also an opportunity for bloggers, like The Literate Man, to ~~engage in shameless self-promotion~~ educate the reading public about the valuable perspectives that we offer. So get on board--do the Hop--and tell them that The Literate Man sent you.

My Invented Country (Isabel Allende) (7.0/10.0)

2010-06-24T12:13:00.005-04:00

It's about time we at The Literate Man expand our minds and broaden our horizons to include more talented female authors. One of our favorites is Isabel Allende. She has a gift for storytelling and is one of literature's living treasures.

If you've ever read any of her books you'll begin to notice that most of them cover very similar territory, and you might be forgiven for thinking that all of them sort of bleed into a single, larger narrative. My Invented Country (Mi País Inventado, if you're looking for the original) is no different in this regard. If you're looking for fresh ideas from Allende's cannon you won't find them here. But if you're looking for a light read that will put a smile on your face and fill your brain with snippets of knowledge about her birth country of Chile, this book will more than suffice.

Because The Literate Man's global headquarters are located in Miami--the capital of Latin America and fertile ground for Chilean expats (hola muchachos!)--we at The Literate Man have been to known run in certain Chilean circles. So I have to admit that my particular interest in My Invented Country wasn't of a purely literary bent, but rather a bit of personal research to see what makes our Chilean friends tick.

Promising to "evoke the magnificent landscape of her country," and "the enchanting idiosyncrasies of the Chilean people," I was hooked as soon as I read the back cover. Admittedly, my knowledge of this most southern of South American countries is limited to the information I gather from expat friends and a reporter friend in Santiago who writes about professional basketball there. So it was with great interest and great pleasure that I read this book.

Allende, in a way that perhaps only she can, weaves a personal, cultural, political, historical (and any other descriptive modifier ending in `-al' that you can think of), account of a little-known country rich in narrative. And with her gifted and quirky eye for the details that lay just under the surface this is a great Idiots Guide to Chile.

So whether you're looking to learn more about the rich and turbulent history of Chile from the Spanish colonial conquest to post-Pinochet democracy, the mouth watering cuisine of one the world's major fisheries, the craziness of Allende's mythic family, or you if you'd simply like to partake of her talent as a storyteller, you'll find all that and more in My Invented Country.

It's probably as close as you can get to visiting Chile without leaving the comfort of your favorite reading chair.

We're HUGE in Australia!

2010-06-23T20:09:00.001-04:00

Ok ... maybe that's an exaggeration. But Becky over at Page Turners is Australian and, what's more, she's definitely the coolest book-blogging Australian that we've ever met. More importantly, she likes us enough to print the brief "interview" that we put together in a fit of shameless self-promotion for her Lights Camera Blog Action series. Check it out here. Truth be told, we've had a nice little back-and-forth with Becky about Australian literature, which we can't get enough of. Thanks, Becky! And don't forget to check out Page Turners--it's definitely worth your time.