Under the pseudonym of Keith Peterson


Phil has already mentioned this in prospect, but Andrew Klavan’s early novels, written under the name Keith Peterson, are now in print again from Mysterious Press.
I especially recommend the John Wells novels, the first of which is The Trapdoor.
I do not recommend The Animal Hour.

J. R. R. Tolkien, human rights activist

Our friend Dale Nelson sends the link to this piece from the Tolkien and Fantasy website:

This letter isn’t referenced in any of the usual sources, so it makes for a minor discovery. The letter is signed by Tolkien and nine others, comprising the Honorary President of the Newman Association and nine Honorary Vice Presidents, the latter including Tolkien. The letter registers protest at the arrest of the Cardinal Primate of Hungary by the Hungarian government.

Sometimes even Brandywine Books throws a bone to the Catholics.

Have a happy Thanksgiving!

"Men must endure their going hence…"

In their way, these last weeks were not unhappy. Joy had left us, and once again—as in the earliest days—we could turn for comfort only to each other. The wheel had come full circle: once again we were together in the little end room at home, shutting out from our talk the ever-present knowledge that the holidays were ending, that a new term fraught with unknown possibilities awaited us both.

(Warren Lewis, on the last days of his brother C. S. Lewis, from his Memoir published in The Letters of C. S. Lewis [1966].)

Every year at this time I note the anniversary of the death of C. S. Lewis in 1963. There’s been a lot of speculation in recent years as to exactly when it was that Western Civilization began to collapse. Some choose the year 1968, the year the Counterculture came into its own in America, but others fix the date in 1963, when Kennedy was assassinated. I tend to go with 1963, but because that was the year we lost Lewis, not Kennedy.

One way or the other, it’s been downhill ever since.

From the University of Notre Dame, this article on recent scientific findings that indicate there’s a genuine physiological reason why we so often forget what we’ve come for, when we go from one room to another.

New research from psychology Professor Gabriel Radvansky suggests that passing through doorways is the cause of these memory lapses.

“Entering or exiting through a doorway serves as an ‘event boundary’ in the mind, which separates episodes of activity and files them away,” Radvansky explains.

“Recalling the decision or activity that was made in a different room is difficult because it has been compartmentalized.”

I expect passing through Wardrobes has a similar effect.

Reviewing the Review of Your Novel

This piece by Andrew Shaffer may be all we ever need to believe authors should not read reviews of their books. It’s a piece about a review which author Lethem writes on a review of his novel. “Reviewing Lethem Reviewing Wood Reviewing Lethem”

“When authors confront critics,” Shaffer assures us, “sparks are guaranteed to fly. On this front, Lethem does not disappoint. While he admits that he’s “not actually trying to read James Wood’s mind, or to change it now,” he spares no expense when it comes to that time-honored literary tradition: Name-calling.” (via Ed Rants)

The Unquiet Bones, by Mel Starr

If you’re mourning the end of Ellis Peters’ Brother Cadfael novels, you could do a lot worse than giving a try to Mel Starr’s series of medieval mysteries featuring Hugh de Singleton, Surgeon. Especially if you’re a Christian.

The Unquiet Bones begins with the discovery (in a castle waste pit) of a human skeleton. Hugh de Singleton is called by the Baron, Lord Gilbert, to examine the bones and determine if they belong to one of two castle visitors who disappeared a few months before, a nobleman and his squire. Hugh soon realizes that these bones belong to a young woman. And nobody in the neighborhood is missing a young woman.

Hugh, narrating his own story, explains that he is the younger, landless son of a minor nobleman, and studied to be a surgeon at Oxford and Paris (his Oxford mentor, John Wyclif, appears in a couple scenes). His fortunes in his profession were unremarkable until he sewed up a wound for Lord Gilbert, who was impressed enough to invite him to move to his own castle to serve his household and tenants. Hugh is all the more eager to do this as he has fallen in love with Lord Gilbert’s sister, Lady Joan, though he has no illusions about the possibility of marriage to someone so far above his station.

As the inquiry widens, Lord Gilbert appoints Hugh his bailiff, with authority to investigate crimes. Hugh systematically canvasses near and distant villages. He identifies one man as the murderer and then, troubled by doubts, uncovers evidence to clear him, which sends him back to square one. But he perseveres, and the mystery is revealed in the end. At times of doubt and puzzlement he resorts to prayer, which does not fail him.

There’s little suspense in this book, and the violence generally happens offstage. This will be a plus for those who read mysteries for the puzzles more than the action. The material is handled in a way that’s suitable for any reader old enough to follow the story.

I enjoyed the 14th Century setting, and the fruits of Mr. Starr’s research (he is a professional historian). I would have liked a little more dramatic tension, and the prose sometimes slipped into neologisms which spoiled the spell somewhat (he refers to a comfortable bed as “a special experience for me” at one point).

But all things taken together I enjoyed the book greatly, and plan to read more of the Hugh de Singleton mysteries.

Interview with a Plagiarist

Author Jeremy Duns has a lengthy analysis of the plagiarism in Assassin of Secrets and posts an interview with the author in the comments section. The disgraced author, Quentin Rowan, begins with his initial motivation:

When I was 19 a poem I wrote in high school was chosen for The Best American Poetry 1996. Up until that time I was an indifferent writer, a dabbler really, at the best of times. I was in college and like everyone trying to figure out what I wanted to do with myself. (Mostly I just wanted to play Rock music.) I took this anthology business as a sign that I was meant to be a famous writer. However, unlike any normal person who works at something a long time and eventually gets good, I decided I had to be good then and there. Because I was already supposed to be the Best.

And they all think just the same

This morning, while driving to work, Malvina Reynold’s song “Little Boxes” popped into my mind.

And I pondered it it. All that snide condescension toward people who live unexciting lives, and are able to own houses, however small.

Malvina Reynolds, of course, was a socialist, so she dreamed of something better for the masses. And it occurred to me to wonder, “What kind of life would she wish for ordinary people?”

I have to assume the glorious Soviet Union must have been her model. Delightful accommodations like those pictured above, where the happy workers shared a fulfilling communal existence.

And so I wrote my own version of the song, which you may read below the fold: Continue reading And they all think just the same