Black-suited Pietist

Photo credit: Yunus Tug for Unsplash+. Unsplash license.

Today, after much soul-searching and delay, I made up my mind to go to a certain well-known men’s clothier and buy a suit. More than that, I allowed myself to be talked into ordering what’s known as a “bespoke” suit – cut to my size and tailored for my peculiar personal form. The waiting time will be more than a month.

You see, I’ve got a little money coming in, and I’ve frequently felt the incongruity of the fact that, for all my talk about men dressing decently, my own (only) suit is rather shabby. It’s a point of traditional wisdom that a “decent” suit is not an extravagance. A man ought to be prepared to present himself respectably when it’s called for.

My suit will be a rich, elegant black, so that I can wear it with my customary black Victorian vests.

Black is the traditional color associated with Pietism and Puritanism (though the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony, generally depicted in illustrations in severe black suits, actually liked bright colors. And their hats were not tall and stiff, but soft).

I’ve been reading about my own Pietist roots, in Thomas E. Jacobson’s recent book, Pain In the Belly. It’s about the Norwegian pietist Haugean movement, especially its history in the United States. I’ll be reviewing it once I finish it, but one thing strikes me already:

Author Jacobson (who happens to be a friend of mine) likes to describe the conservatives, the party who wanted to follow the patterns of the old Norwegian state church, as “objective,” since they emphasized the efficacy of the sacraments, in which God does all the work and we are mere recipients of His grace.

My people, the pietist Haugeans, he describes as “subjective,” since we emphasized the necessity of a personal experience with Christ. We were suspicious of anyone who said their relationship with God was confined to receiving the sacraments. If faith is real, we argued, the individual will be transformed, and there will necessarily be an emotional component.

I’m not accustomed to thinking of us Haugeans as subjectivists. I’ve been a strong opponent of subjectivism in the church since college.

And yet the description is perfectly fair. I’m used to thinking of the subjective as just mushy emotionalism, but it doesn’t have to be. Real life is, in fact, a combination of the objective and the subjective, just as it involves the combination of the physical and the spiritual.

But this led to a further puzzling thought.

We Haugeans are often accused of Pharisaism, but Pharisaism is a defect of objective theology. The Pharisee makes a list of his duties, checks each item off the list, and considers himself square with God.

Haugeans are the opposite. We emphasize the passion of faith, total submission in all areas of life.

And yet, it’s not unfair to compare us to Pharisees. We do tend to get obsessed with lists of rules, as means of demonstrating our inner piety. I comment extensively on this characteristic in my novel, Troll Valley.

Perhaps the bottom line is that nothing human is entirely one thing or another.

The Limeliters

I understand the old folk music craze is the subject of some current interest, on account of the new Bob Dylan movie. I hear it’s good, and have no plans to see it (despite Dylan/Zimmerman’s Minnesota roots), because Dylan has never done anything for me, personally. (I speak of entertainment, not failed attempts to borrow money. So don’t believe the rumors.)

The focus of the film, I understand, is Dylan’s break from the folk movement when he insisted on using electric guitars, to the horror of Pete Seeger, who operated as a sort of surrogate father and commissar for the Folkies. He was (as the movie does not make clear, I’m told) a fervent Communist and Stalinist. Many conservatives see Dylan’s adoption of electric music as some kind of affirmation of capitalism. Perhaps there’s something in it, though I never quite understood the rationale – you can be sure Dylan will never explain it.

I have always hoped – perhaps naively – that the really big, commercial folk groups of the day operated to some degree outside Seeger’s sphere of influence. Such groups as the Chad Mitchell Trio, the New Christy Minstrels, and the Limeliters.

The Limeliters were my favorite.

What set them apart was the vibrant edge Glenn Yarbrough’s tenor voice brought. After he left the group he had quite a successful solo career, and I was always a fan, though he was never a top seller.

Anyway, I remember the period well, and still like the music better than I like Dylan’s. Above, the Limeliters, in an uncharacteristically Christian moment, do “What Wondrous Love Is This?” and “Old Time Religion.”

Sunday Singing: Keep Your Lamps!

Today’s hymn continues our trend of traditional songs. “Keep Your Lamps!” is attributed to Blind Willie Johnson (1897–1945), an American gospel blues singer and guitarist, who was the first to record it in 1928. The performance above is by the choirs of Florida State University conducted by the composition’s arranger, André Thomas (1952- )

“Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” (Mt 25:13 ESV)

1 Keep your lamps trimmed and burning, (3x)
the day is drawing nigh.

Refrain:
Children, don’t get weary, (3x)
till your work is done.

2 Darker midnight lies before us, (3x)
the day is drawing nigh. [Refrain]

3 For the morning soon is breaking, (3x)
the day is drawing nigh. [Refrain]

4 Christian journey soon be over, (3x)
the day is drawing nigh. [Refrain]

Call for consumer input

Photo credit: Jonathan Farber. Unsplash license.

This extra Friday post is for the purpose of picking your collective brains, O Esteemed Readership.

I’m looking at the prospect of producing audiobooks of my novels.

Generous friends provided me with equipment, and I think I’m near the point where I can make good enough quality recordings to satisfy ACX, the Amazon audiobook publishing arm.

My plan has been to start with the Erling books, but now I’m uncertain.

So I ask you – if you bought an audiobook where the narrator is declared to be an Irishman, would it bother you if the book was read in a Midwestern US accent?

I contemplated trying to master an Irish accent, but I’m pretty sure it would never be really right. I could probably carry the accent for a few paragraphs, but over many hours of reading, the illusion would wear off. I’d slip too often into flat Minnesota tones.

So now I’m considering hiring an Irishman to do the Erling books (if I can find one; you can hire narrators on a percentage-of-royalties basis) and just doing my Epsom books myself.

What do you think? Would it disappoint you if I had somebody else play Father Ailill?

‘Gallows Knot,’ by Giles Ekins

I didn’t intend to review Giles Ekins’ Gallows Knot today. But I honestly got so caught up in it that I spent more time reading than I’d planned. It’s a flawed book, but compelling.

My original impression of the books in this Inspector Yarrow series was that they were rather quiet, almost on the cozy side. But gradually it became apparent that these are in fact very realistic, pretty troubling stories. There’s no sugar-coating here. It’s a truism among authors that you need to torture your characters – author Ekins does not spare his, especially his main character, Inspector Christopher Yarrow, who suffered horrific trauma at the end of the last book (which I won’t describe in this review).

But as Gallows Knot begins, Yarrow is back on the job. His town of West Garside, Yorkshire, is theoretically a quiet place, but before long there’s a new and horrific crime to investigate. A four-year-old girl has been abducted from the children’s ward of the local hospital. Not long after, she is found dead, raped and bludgeoned.

All resources are called out on this one, and we follow the police investigation as they examine the crime scene, interrogate possible witnesses, and even – in desperation – fingerprint the whole adult male population of the area.

Author Ekins is especially good with characters, good and bad, wise and foolish; they are treated justly and with sympathy. The prose isn’t bad, and occasionally the author can even sparkle, as when he coins the phrase, “the dark-murkled copse.”

As in the previous books, there are technical problems. These have improved from the first book, but the author still sometimes forgets his quotation marks or loses track whether he’s writing in the present or past tenses. He also (no doubt inadvertently) repeats a scene already used in one of the previous books. His authorial intrusions aren’t as blatant as in the first book, but sometimes he can’t resist breaking proscenium and commenting on the action from the perspective of the 21st Century.

This book finally gives Inspector Yarrow a romance, which is something we’ve all been waiting for. Personally, though, I have to admit I found it a little implausible (for reasons I’ll conceal to prevent spoilers.)

There’s also one important clue in the mystery that was not fully accounted for, unless I missed something.

Nevertheless, all things considered, I consider Gallows Walk and the whole three-book Inspector Yarrow series a highly entertaining reading experience. In a more just world, a good publisher would have taken this manuscript in hand and polished its rough edges.

Cautions for language and some deeply disturbing (though not too explicit) scenes of child abuse.

Fossils congregate

This actually looks a little like Cahill’s. But it’s a photo by Pablo Merchan Montes. Unsplash license.

Somebody at the table brought up the subject of libraries, and I, of course, had a thing to say about that.

“The day is coming,” I opined, “when parents will be telling their kids, ‘You know, once upon a time libraries were places where people went to borrow books, not homeless shelters and day care centers.’”

I don’t know how impressed my friends were by this insight-slash-prophecy. How many things are there around us that started out as one thing and ended up as something else entirely? The theater began with morality plays during church festivals. Nascar began (I am informed) with bootleggers racing revenuers during Prohibition. Nokia started out as a wood pulp processing company in Finland.

There’s a group of my high school classmates – those who still live in the area, and who still live at all – who get together for lunch someplace every few months. This last Wednesday we went to the “new” restaurant in Kenyon, our home town – new in terms of management, though two previous owners have occupied the same commercial space. I might as well plug them – the manager was nice enough to send one of his staff up on a ladder to hang a shade to block the too-bright sunshine coming in through the south-facing windows. The place is called “Cahill’s,” which strikes me as an odd name for a Mexican fusion restaurant. But they were able to provide the stodgy anglo hamburger I required (really quite good). Also they had cloth napkins on the tables – I wonder how long it’s been since any eatery in Kenyon has boasted cloth napkins.

The conversation ran along customary retirees’ lines – where people take their vacations, how their kids and grandkids are doing (I had nothing to offer on that score), and our aches, pains, and medical procedures; I thought I had the prize for the most recent surgery, with my detached retina, but one of the “girls” had shoulder surgery just about simultaneously.

Afterward I filled up my gas tank (I like to support the local economy) at the Co-op gas station where my dad was a member, and headed back, past buildings that used to be something else, or the ghosts of buildings no longer standing. I had realized shortly after setting out that morning that I probably shouldn’t have gone at all – my left eye is still fuzzy; reading signs was a challenge, though I pretty much know the way without sign-reading. And the ride back was better; the sun was brighter and I remembered that I can see more clearly if I just close that bad eye.

Arrived home utterly exhausted from the rigorous exertion of ordinary human interaction; I was played out for the rest of the day.

‘Gallows End,’ by Giles Ekins

I was rather taken with Gallows Walk, the previous, first volume of Giles Ekins’ Inspector Yarrow series. The book showed signs of authorly inexperience, but it drew me in. There we met Inspector Christopher Yarrow of West Garside in Yorkshire, a former British pilot who lost the sight in one eye during the Battle of Britain. He’s intelligent and empathetic. In that story he hunted down and arrested a robber who had killed a payroll courier and (by vehicular accident) a little girl.

The main action of Gallows End, book two, takes a while getting going, as we begin by following the tragic aftermath of a secondary plot from the last book. But in time we join a group of golfers who discover the nude, strangled body of a young woman in the rough on the links. It takes some time to learn her identity, but she turns out to have been a young woman who was studying fashion design and working occasionally as a model. Her choices of work had not always been wise, but she was apparently liked by everyone who knew her.

The police procedural plot works itself out as Inspector Yarrow gradually sorts through a matrix of personal and professional resentments among a group of locals, until the true murderer is unmasked.

Author Ekins seems to like cliffhangers, and there’s a shocking one here. Cliffhangers are something I generally dislike, but in these cases the main mystery of the current novel is always cleared up first, so it’s all right.

The grammar and punctuation are better in this book than in the last one. Quotation marks, a problem before, have been fixed. There are also fewer confusions of tense. The text isn’t immaculate, but it’s much better.

If you like quiet, character-centered mysteries, I do recommend Gallows End. Mild cautions for disturbing situations and language.

‘The Dame,’ by Richard Stark

Richard Stark, as is well known, was just one of the pseudonyms employed by the prolific author Donald E. Westlake. Stark was his most famous and frequently-employed nom de plume; generally he wrote his humorous books under his own name, and his cold, hard-boiled ones as Stark.

The Dame is one of the Stark books, an offshoot of his Parker series. The hero here is Alan Grofield, right-hand-man to the larcenous Parker and a sometime actor. Westlake/Stark gave Grofield four books of his own, of which this is the second.

The story begins with Grofield arriving at the airport in San Juan, Puerto Rico. He has been summoned here by way of a mysterious message, relayed by a corrupt general he knows. Someone wants to talk to him, and pays the way. Mostly out of curiosity, Grofield follows instructions, arriving at last at a remote jungle estate, where he meets the wife of a criminal boss along with her house guests. She wants Grofield to be her bodyguard. But he has taken an immediate dislike to her and turns the job down.

That night there is a murder. Soon the mob boss shows up with the announced purpose of identifying the murderer and administering some swift private justice. His chief suspect is Grofield. Grofield will have to come up with some fast moves and fast arguments to identify the true killer and save his own neck.

I can’t fault The Dame in terms of writing. Westlake/Stark was a pro, and he knew his business. The story offers plenty of danger and plenty of suspense, along with a certain mordant humor.

If I say I didn’t like it much, that’s simply personal taste. I tried reading Westlake some years back, reading a few of his much-admired Dortmunder books. But I could never get into them. Basically, I think I’ve never been able to sympathize much with criminals. Call it a prejudice.

I also noted some sophomoric Freudianism in play here, taking it for granted that chastity is just an expression of repression and neurosis.

So, my bottom line is that I recognize the quality of the product, but it wasn’t to my taste. Most readers seem to disagree.

‘The Dreadful Lemon Sky,’ by John D. MacDonald

A fellow who was pretty handy with a boat once said that anything you feel good after is moral. But that implies that the deed is unchanging and the doer is unchanging. What you feel good after one time, you feel rotten after the next. And it is difficult to know in advance. And morality shouldn’t be experimental, I don’t think.

Another deal on a Travis McGee e-book means another Travis McGee review, to the joy of all. Author John D. MacDonald was at the peak of his powers back in the 1970s when The Dreadful Lemon Sky came out; the result is a neat, tight, engaging mystery.

Our hero Travis McGee, Fort Lauderdale boat dweller and beach bum, is not technically a private eye. He basically does favors for friends and friends referred by friends, mostly recovering stolen property, retaining a large percentage of the value as his fee. The Dreadful Lemon Sky begins with something less than a “salvage” job. Carrie Milligan, an old friend, asks him to hold a large amount of cash for her for one month. If she doesn’t come to claim it by then, he should get it to her sister in New Jersey.

But it doesn’t take that long. A few days later, there’s a news item – Carrie Milligan was killed by a truck while crossing a highway near her home in Bay City (which appeared to me to resemble very much the city of Palm Bay, where I once lived). McGee and his economist friend Meyer sail north in McGee’s houseboat for the funeral. There he meets the sister along with Carrie’s circle of friends. And at that point McGee starts getting suspicious. Something is going on under the surface here – he will discover drug smuggling, political corruption, sexual kink and betrayal. The solution will prove to be a complex one, and cruel.

Every McGee novel includes scenes that stick in my mind, even after decades. This one includes a great moment where McGee rescues Carrie’s sister from being fleeced by a funeral director, and McGee’s meditation on the corrosive nature of corporate takeovers of smaller brands. Also, he rents a yellow AMC Gremlin in Bay City, which happened to be exactly the car I was driving back when I first read the book. We Gremlin drivers needed all the support we could get.

Great story. Great reading experience. Cautions for violence, drug use and a pretty lyrical sex scene.

Sunday Singing: Deep River

Today’s hymn is of traditional origin. Deep River is a song about longing for heaven, written over 150 years ago. The earliest printed evidence is from 1867. It’s performed above by Wilford Kelly.

” Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life.” (John 5:24 ESV)

Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river, Lord,
I want to cross over into campground.
Oh, don’t you want to go to that gospel feast,
That promised land where all is peace?
Oh, deep river, Lord,
I want to cross over into campground.

Book Reviews, Creative Culture