Matterhorn (Karl Marlantes) (9.0/10.0)

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, The 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

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)

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)

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 ...

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)

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 Rocky 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, Absolute 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 Time 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)

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.