Wild Horses, by Dick Francis

It was disastrously easy to make bad horseracing pictures and only possible to do it at bankable level, in my view, if racing became the framing background to human drama.

Although the sentiments above, expressed by Tom Lyon, narrator of Wild Horses, refer to the movie business, they clearly express author Dick Francis’ own approach to writing mysteries. Racing is always the background, but the heart of the story is… well, the human heart.

Thomas Lyon, film director, is a native of Newmarket, Suffolk, England, and he has chosen to come home from California to do his latest film, based on a successful novel inspired by an actual murder that occurred during Tom’s childhood. A horse trainer’s wife was found hanged in a stable, and whether it was homicide or suicide remains a mystery.

The story starts with Tom at the death bed of an old friend, a farrier, who is dying of bone cancer. His friend’s mind is confused, and he makes a confused confession to Tom, thinking him a priest. Throughout the story that follows, Tom feels a strange kind of obligation, as if he were in fact a priest with a duty to God.

Although it’s been decades since the murder the movie is based on happened, it turns out that someone doesn’t want old stones overturned. Tom receives death threats, the film’s star is attacked with a knife, an old lady is wounded, and then there is a murder. And step by step Tom comes to the realization that his friend’s dying confession has a direct bearing on the mystery.

This is Dick Francis at his best. Tom Lyon is a very satisfying hero, ethical, brave, and not overconfident. A particular pleasure of the story is the joke Francis tells on himself (since he’d seen several of his own stories adapted, at least for TV), in making the script writer, also the author of the novel it’s based on, an arrogant, inflexible prima donna who is not as smart as he thinks he is and does nothing but make difficulties.

Only mild cautions for language and subject matter. Highly recommended. Good holiday reading, for instance.

How to Roast a Goose

Maybe in your Christmas reading, you have wondered about cooking a goose. You’ve read about the Cratchit’s Christmas dinner: “There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last. Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows.” Here, Isabella Beeton writes on how to choose and prepare this bird.

Don’t forget the Smoking Bishop drink, which is not the same as the cheese Stinking Bishop. Honestly, I don’t think I would like either of them.

In the wake of evil

Horrible news out of Connecticut today. Horrible; unimaginable. Our prayers go out to everyone affected.

I’ll probably be sorry I said this, but people keep coming up with gun ban ideas. Which is perfectly understandable, but in all honesty I don’t think it’s well reasoned.

Unlike a lot of people, I’m old enough to remember when events like this were unheard-of. I think there may have been one school shooting during my childhood, but I never heard about it at the time. It wasn’t something that kids had to think about. It was less likely than getting hit by a falling airplane.

So clearly something has changed since that time.

And what has changed has not been the availability of guns. Hunting was much more popular then than it is now, and handgun laws were only in force in a few cities.

So what has changed is not that.

Something else must have changed.

Hmm… can you think what that might be?

W.H. Auden, Tolkien Fan

“[W.H.] Auden became a close friend of Tolkien’s and an ardent champion of his work, defending him in public and in print against a host of early skeptics; he was one of the first serious writers (along with C. S. Lewis) to ask whether Tolkien’s narratives of heroic quests and imaginary worlds could be considered something more than simply escapist reading,” writes Erin Overbey at The New Yorker

Auden praises Tolkien for succeeding where Milton failed, that is in showing an absolutely powerful God who has allowed us to reject him.

They love Lucy

This is St. Lucy’s Day, known as Luciadagen in Norway. Through the vagaries of history, St. Lucy came to have special significance in Scandinavia, based on a legend that she appeared one night during a famine, in a shining ship loaded with food for the people. It’s originally a Swedish custom, but widely observed in other Scandinavian countries too, for one girl of the family to get up early and prepare special rolls for breakfast, which she serves while wearing the Lucia costume, a white gown and a garland in her hair with lighted candles in it. She leads a procession of other girls, singing the traditional Italian song as performed in the video above.

More information about the day’s customs below the fold, courtesy of Sverre Østen’s book, Hva Dagene Vet, ©1988 by Ernst G. Mortensen’s Forlag (my translation): Continue reading They love Lucy

The Shoulders of Giants, by Jim Cliff

Any author who offers a fresh take on an old genre and carries it off successfully, deserves praise. So all in all I praise Jim Cliff for The Shoulders of Giants, the first volume in a projected new private eye series.

Cliff’s hero and narrator is Jake Abraham, a young private eye just starting out in his own office in Chicago. He says he grew up on Jim Rockford and Spenser, and he’s a little starry-eyed – and aware of it. The novelty of his character is that instead of the expected cynical, hard-boiled sleuth we’ve seen so often, Jake is young and optimistic and not entirely sure of himself – but nevertheless good at his job.

In this story he’s hired by a disgraced former police captain to find his daughter, who has disappeared. Before long her murdered body is found, and then there are more bodies, and soon the police are looking for a serial killer. Because one of the detectives is a friend of his, Jake is allowed to hang around, and even to help (he’s unique among fictional private detectives in actually standing aside and shutting up when the police tell him to), and his inquiries lead him at last into a deadly showdown with a murderer.

Jake is a likeable character, and I generally enjoyed the story. I do have quibbles. Author Cliff seems to have done a fair amount of research on guns, but he doesn’t seem to have much hands on experience – he thinks you’re supposed to shut one eye when aiming, which most instructors will tell you not to do, and he has Jake, in a gunfight in a dark room, waiting for his opponent to talk in order to aim at the voice, when he would have been able to aim at the muzzle flashes. And there are a couple language problems. He doesn’t know what “enormity” means, and he confuses the word “illicit” with “elicit.” He also suggests a murder method to the forensic scientists which I’m pretty sure they would have been familiar with.

Still and all, a good start generally. I like Jake Abraham, and am positively inclined toward the next book. Cautions for the usual language, sex (including a gay bar), and mature themes.

Note to House Stark — it’s here

Suddenly, without warning, a winter rang out.

It wasn’t winter on Saturday, but it became winter on Sunday. The forecast called for a few inches, and I wondered idly whether I’d need to use the snow blower.

But the snow kept coming. The question changed from whether I’d need to clear it out, to when would be the optimal time to start. I still had the idea it would taper off in the afternoon, so I waited until 2:00, then sallied forth. My neighbors, with whom I share the driveway, were already clearing off the area in front of their garage. I did the liturgical exercises necessary to start up a snow blower that’s been sitting since spring (even if you put fuel stabilizer in the tank, which I had), and then dug in.

I have often encountered bad snow for blowing, but this stuff was almost precision engineered to jam up in the blower chute. Heavy, wet, adhesive. The temperature was just below freezing, and the snow never quite made up its mind whether it wanted to be slush or not. I’d go a couple feet, then clear the chute with a stick, then go a couple more feet, repeat. It was a little better between the houses, where the sunlight didn’t reach. My neighbors stayed on the job too, which also helped. Eventually we got it cleared.

But it was still snowing.

It snowed through the night. The next night, after work, I ran the snow blower again, to clear the rest of the snowfall – a couple more inches. Fortunately the temperature had dropped, and this stuff blew out pretty nicely.

I realized that this was the first time in my life I’d been happy to see colder weather. Continue reading Note to House Stark — it’s here

Reading report: Angrvadil

In Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis recalls a turning point in his youthful imaginative life:

…I had become fond of Longfellow’s Saga of King Olaf: fond of it in a casual, shallow way for its story and its vigorous rhythms. But then, and quite different from such pleasures, and like a voice from far more distant regions, there came a moment when I idly turned the pages of the book and found the unrhymed translation of Tegner’s Drapa and read

I heard a voice that cried,

Balder the beautiful

Is dead, is dead —

I knew nothing about Balder, but instantly I was uplifted into huge regions of northern sky, I desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described (except that it is cold, spacious, severe, pale, and remote) ….

This would seem to be the passage that Saga Bok Publishers (the discerning Norwegian firm which has hired me to translate one of its books) references on the back cover notes of Angrvađil when it says (my translation), “Artists, politicians, and others have been inspired by the stories in this book – from C.S. Lewis who was ‘uplifted’ by the magical atmosphere of the stories – to our own Roald Amundson….” I’m not sure that statement is strictly accurate, since Tegner’s Drapa as such doesn’t appear in the book, but there’s some association if only in that the Swedish poet Esaias Tegner’s translation would have been the basis for the English version Lewis read (assuming he read Fridtjof’s Saga and not just Longfellow).

The good people at Saga Bok sent me a copy of their new translation of Fridjtof’s Saga, along with preliminary material, entitled Angrvađil: Sagaene om Torstein Vikingsson & Fridtjov den Frøkne (Angrvađil: The Sagas of Torstein Vikingsson and Fridtjov the Bold).

These sagas are part of what are known as the Fornalder Sagas. The Fornalder Sagas are very old stories, preserved in Iceland not as reports of actual events, but purely for their legendary interest. Prof. Titlestad, whose book I’m translating, makes serious claims for the value of the sagas as historical sources, saying that useful information can be preserved in folk memory for about 300 years. The Fornalder sagas were much more than 300 years old at the time of writing, though. One reads them for the pleasures of the stories in themselves. Continue reading Reading report: Angrvadil

Why Christians Should Stay Away from Ayn Rand

Joel Miller writes about the essence of Ayn Rand’s anti-Christian philosphy:

Rand’s disdain for altruism is at root a protest against the cross. Christ’s crucifixion was immoral for Rand not because people took Jesus’ life, but because he volunteered it. And worse, because he sacrificed his perfect life for our imperfect lives. As she told Playboy:

Christ, in terms of the Christian philosophy, is the human ideal. He personifies that which men should strive to emulate. Yet, according to the Christian mythology, he died on the cross not for his own sins but for the sins of the nonideal people. In other words, a man of perfect virtue was sacrificed for men who are vicious and who are expected or supposed to accept that sacrifice. If I were a Christian, nothing could make me more indignant than that: the notion of sacrificing the ideal to the non-ideal, or virtue to vice.