Well, there they are. I finally got my paper copies of The Baldur Game yesterday, so at last I can take a family portrait. My magnum opus, for all the world to see.
I hope there are people out there who’ve been burned by George R. R. Martin and Patrick Rothfuss, who have vowed never to start reading an unfinished fantasy series again, who will now descend like seagulls on a bag of potato chips (but with better manners, I hope).
I got a fair start, in terms of sales. The book climbed as high as number 20 on the Amazon Christian Fantasy list (after Hunter Baker’s Basefook post). It’s sagged now, of course, inevitably. This is where I’m hoping that people are using the time reading, so they can post their rave reviews in multitudes after a few days.
I’m not a man to toot his own horn, as I think you know. But I went through the whole series last year, shaping each book up for paperback release, and I can’t deny I liked them very well. I believe that if somebody else had written them, I’d be promoting them with enthusiasm.
For all who’ve bought them, thank you. If you’d post an Amazon review, or at least a rating, I’d be grateful.
One of the essential problems with the popular subgenre of English Village Police Mysteries is, how many murders can you plausibly set in a small town? You might call it the Midsomer Murders Dilemma. The Vixen’s Scream is only the second in John Dean’s Inspector Jack Harris mysteries, set in the Pennines, so at this point in the series it’s reasonable for our hero to doubt whether a serial killer could be at work in their community, where everybody knows everybody’s business. That doubt will be undermined as the story goes on.
Several “outsiders” have moved into the area (Inspector Harris’ chief subordinate is one of them), and one of the things they need to get used to is the sound of vixens (female foxes) screaming during mating season. The sound is disturbing, almost indistinguishable from the scream of a woman in distress.
One newcomer is a retired London schoolteacher, who keeps badgering the police with reports of women being attacked near her cottage. Inspector Harris, not a patient man, repeatedly informs her that she’s just hearing a vixen’s scream.
Until a young woman is found dead near the teacher’s home, her skull bashed in. And suddenly there are hints that other young women may have been murdered in the area, and Harris has to sort his way through multiple lies and alibis, meanwhile fending off the press, the particular bane of his life.
What I noticed in particular in The Vixen’s Scream was how good the author is at presenting plausible liars. His liars fooled me every time. They provide plenty of misdirection, keeping the puzzle puzzling right to the end.
Pretty good book. No cautions for the reader that I can think of.
I found, on looking into our archives, that I have actually read and reviewed previous books in the Inspector Jack Harris series by John Dean (an English writer, not the American Watergate figure). I was ambivalent about the two books I reviewed before – Jack Harris as a character does not entirely please me. Still, the books are okay as stories, and I enjoyed The Girl In the Meadow, number 10 in the series.
Near the English village of Levton Bridge stands Meadowview House, an abandoned country property that has recently been acquired by a wildlife trust. Then a strange man suddenly appears to disrupt the proceedings – he claims to be the unacknowledged natural son of the former owner, with a right to inheritance. This rouses the ire of Inspector Harris, an animal lover who used to play in the house with his friends when he was young.
But it becomes a professional matter for him when workers remodeling the house discover a woman’s skeleton concealed under the floor. The mystery of who this woman is, and the repercussions that follow when she is identified, lend increasing dramatic tension to the plot.
John Dean is a good writer, and the story worked out in ways that kept my interest. I continue less than over the moon about Harris himself as a hero – he is tactless, and his subordinates walk on eggshells in discussions, afraid to contradict him. But I think he’s softened a little from the earlier books in the series. I felt the book contained, like so many police mysteries nowadays, an unnecessary surplus of female cops, but that’s my prejudice.
The Girl In the Meadow was an entertaining book. Not much above minimum literary requirements, but fewer and fewer books are up to that minimum these days. So I recommend it.
This will not be a review exactly, as I don’t feel qualified to judge a translation from a language I don’t read, and a work of scholarship above my level of erudition.
What we’re dealing with here is heavily annotated translations of two different books, quite short, which deal with the conversion of the Icelanders. We know the author of the first book, the Book of the Icelanders, Ari þorgilsson, who is considered by some the father of Icelandic history. The author of the second, more detailed book, The Story of the Conversion, is an unknown churchman. The books center on one of the most famous events in northern history – the decision of the Icelandic Althing to peacefully adopt the Christian religion. Ari’s account seems to be primarily aimed at telling the story of his own prominent family, while the author of The Story of the Conversion seems more concerned with spreading the glory around to several of the prominent families.
The thing that I particularly noticed was the passage in The Story of the Conversion (a story familiar also from Heimskringla) that told about the incident in Trondheim where King Olaf Trygvesson, offended by the Icelanders’ outlawing of his missionary Thangbrand, arrested a group of Icelanders. He was persuaded not to harm them before one of their number could go to Iceland and get their countrymen to convert. I noticed that one of the men listed in this group was Thorarin Nefjolfsson, whom you may recall is a character in my novels West Oversea and King of Rogaland. I thought at first that this was fresh information, but a look at Heimskringla informs me that Thorarin is listed there too – I just never noticed him before.
It seems likely that Thorarin stayed in King Olaf’s retinue, and that may have been where he met Erling Skjalgsson. But I have them meet in Iceland in West Oversea, and give them a dramatic adventure together. And I think that was appropriate in terms of fiction. I felt that Thorarin’s bond of loyalty to Erling had to be a particularly strong one, in order for him to take the extraordinary risks he took to help rescue Asbjorn Selsbane for Erling.
I read somewhere – without a source cited – that Thorarin died with Olaf Haraldsson at the Battle of Stiklestad. I’d like to know how he retained Olaf’s favor after pulling such a stunt.
Anyway, this book is an impressive work of scholarly translation, and is recommended for serious students of Icelandic history and the sagas. Not light reading.
Today’s hymn is one for the evening. Does your church hold evening services? We dropped them many years ago, but about two years ago, we began holding an eventide prayer service monthly. This hymn was written by English architect James Edmeston (1791-1867) of Middlesex. He wrote about 2,000 hymn, many for children. He served at St. Barnabas church in Homerton, Middlesex, and supported the London Orphan Asylum.
“In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8 ESV)
1 Saviour, breath an evening blessing, Ere repose our spirits seal; Sin and want we come confessing: Thou canst save, and thou canst heal.
2 Though destruction walk around us, Though the arrow past us fly, Angel-guards from thee surround us; We are safe if thou art nigh.
3 Though the night be dark and dreary, Darkness cannot hide from thee; Thou art he who, never weary, Watchest where thy people be.
4 Should swift death this night o’ertake us, And our couch become our tomb, May the morn in heav’n awake us, Clad in light and deathless bloom.
“Her eyes were wide-set and there was thinking room between them.”
“I felt terrible. I felt like an amputated leg.”
“He had his right hand in the side pocket of the coat, and under the derby a pair of scarred eyebrows and under the eyebrows a pair of eyes that had as much expression as the cap on a gas tank.”
Apparently I have already read all the stories in Trouble Is My Business, a collection of Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe short stories, since they are taken from the collection, The Simple Art of Murder which I know I read a while back. But I didn’t remember them, and so had the pleasure of discovery all over again.
The stories included in this particular collection are “Trouble Is My Business,” “Finger Man,” “Goldfish,” and “Red Wind.” These stories were not, in fact, originally Marlowe stories at all (according to Wikipedia), but pulp stories Chandler wrote about a couple other detective characters, adapted to cash in on Marlowe’s popularity. Which relieves me a little, because the hero of “Trouble Is My Business” has a serious drinking problem. I mean, Philip Marlowe certainly liked his booze, but this guy (John Dalmas, according to the listing in Wikipedia) is putting it away at a rate that indicates serious maintenance alcoholism, and I wouldn’t give his liver many more years.
One doesn’t go to Raymond Chandler for great plotting. We read him mostly for his characters and his prose and his evocation of a time and place. I didn’t think the writing here was up to Chandler’s very best standards, but there are plenty of good lines: “She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t even pretty, but she looked as if things would happen where she was.”
Objectionable material was mostly limited to racial slurs. The cursing was mainly the sort of thing you hear in old movies, like “Nerts!” There’s no sex as such, though there’s plenty of sexual tension – at one point Marlowe kisses a married woman, and the author skips describing the actual kiss in the same way later writers would skip a sex scene.
I had a blast reading Trouble Is My Business. Recommended for hard-boiled fans.
Radio Announcer Markus Rautio in the studio, ca. 1930. Photo credit: Yle Archives. Unsplash license.
This continues to be a strange time in my disordered life. I’m still feeling the effects of finishing my great life project. There’s no reason I can’t start another great project, of course. Or several smaller ones. One must fill one’s time after all. Sedentary though I am by nature, my brain, I find, needs to be doing stuff. So I drag myself out of bed at 6:30 a.m. and (for the present) work on the art and science of book narration. I’m taking it in small steps, as Jordan Peterson recommends, laboring to overcome my technophobia through familiarization. And it’s working. I am getting more accustomed to it. For the present I’m just recording the instructional book I bought, to desensitize myself to the hardware and the software and the protocols. But I now begin to dimly envision myself actually recording one of my books. Or several. The Epsom books – I still think I’ll need to acquire an Irishman for the Erling series.
Here’s a thought of no importance whatever: It actually relates to narration – as narration is a branch of the broader field of voice acting and announcing. And I’m an old radio hand – best copy reader in my broadcast school class, worst recording engineer.
When I was but a wee tot, I used to hear announcers on the radio telling me that such and such a program was “brought to you by XXXXXX Company.”
And – this was before I knew how to read or spell – I heard the word “brought” as “brokt.” Once I did learn to spell, a few years later, I found that the word in fact did have a couple letters inside it that would work for the “k” sound, sort of – the “gh.” But I also learned that the “gh” wasn’t pronounced. The word was pronounced simply “brot.”
But recently, while watching a couple series on Amazon Prime (“Reacher” Season 3 and “The House of David,” since you ask) I heard the announcer saying that at least one of these programs was brought to me by… I forget what company. But I am certain she (it was a she) in fact pronounced the word “brokt.” So that the phrasing went “brok to you.”
The “gh” in “brought,” of course, is a residue of obsolete pronunciation. Whenever we find such strange, unused letters in an English word, they’re usually the shadow of a past genuine pronunciation. In olden times, the word was in fact pronounced something like “brokt.” Or “brocht.”
I wonder if that pronunciation by professional announcers (I am adamant that’s what they’re saying; I’m not just delusional) harkens unconsciously back to that antique English. Or maybe its just the way the human tongue naturally curls when set to the work of pronouncing those particular sounds.
I clearly remember ads on that same station (it was the Faribault, Minnesota station, specializing in Old Time [that means oompah] music, advertising Lockwood Auto Company. But I remember that I heard it as Lockwood “L-O” Company. That one, I’ll grant you, I got wrong. Made no sense at all, but when you’re a kid lots of things don’t make sense.
I took to American food from the start like a starving Eskimo flinging himself on a portion of blubber. The poet Keats, describing his emotions on first reading Chapman’s Homer, speaks of himself as feeling like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken. Precisely so did I feel … when the waiter brought me my first slab of strawberry shortcake … ‘No matter if it puts an inch on my waistline,’ I said to myself, ‘I must be in on this.’
There are biographies of P.G. Wodehouse out there; I haven’t gotten around to reading any of them. But a deal showed up on P.G. Wodehouse In His Own Words, and I figured I’d give it a try. It’s neither a long nor greatly illuminating work, but it is an opportunity to revisit a lot of Wodehouse’s best stuff, which can’t help being entertaining.
The scheme here is to go through the facts of the author’s biography, relating them to various quotations from his works. This book’s authors, Barry Day and Tony Ring, admit that we don’t know for sure how Wodehouse’s thinking worked, and we can’t always rely on his own statements on the subject – he considered himself rather a dull fellow, and embroidered his statements accordingly. But overall I think I learned a little reading it.
There isn’t a lot of drama in the story, except of course for the lamentable account of Wodehouse and his wife being detained by the Germans during World War II, and his grievous error in making recordings that the Germans used for propaganda. This mistake resulted in his never returning to England (though he could have gone back after a time, and the queen knighted him in absentia), but becoming a US citizen. The authors take what I consider the correct view – that Wodehouse dropped a brick but merely through thoughtlessness. And regretted it.
I did notice one error in the book. The authors believe (no doubt deceived by Jeeves’s glamor) that valets stand higher in the social order “Downstairs” than butlers. This is wrong. The butler was king of the servants in an aristocratic household. If Bertie had married and set up a stately home, I expect Jeeves would have been promoted to that lofty office.
But otherwise, I had a good time with P.G. Wodehouse In His Own Words. Recommended.
The horizon was dirty and the waves were back to horses. Sometimes a gust knocked one’s mane clean off and scattered it abroad. The wind remembered ice.
You may recall that I’m a big fan of Leif Enger, who not only writes like an angel but is a fellow Minnesotan. So I was happy to see (how did I miss it?) that he had a new novel out – I Cheerfully Refuse.
I’m sorry to say I was disappointed by this book. This wasn’t the sort of thing I looked for from the author of Peace Like a River. However, since it’s beyond dispute that Enger is both smarter than I and a better writer, I may have simply misunderstood him.
I Cheerfully Refuse is a postapocalyptic story – but not the usual kind with zombies or Mad Max societal ferality. The America of this book, about a generation in the future, I guess, is controlled by sinister powers known as the “astronauts,” who dominate business and politics from the east coast. But before that there was apparently a takeover by “hard-shell patriots” who burned books in “fundie bonfires.” Now life goes on in America, but the roads are bad, the electricity sporadic, the air and water polluted, and many communities exercise vigilante law.
Rainy (short for Rainier), our hero and narrator, is a house painter and part-time gig musician (electric bass) in the community of Icebridge (not far from Greenstone, the setting of Enger’s novel, Virgil Wander) on the shore of Lake Superior. His beloved wife (or partner, I wasn’t sure) is Lark, who runs a used book shop. Theirs is a happy life, and they get on well with their neighbors.
Then Kellan arrives. Kellan is a starving wanderer. It’s soon clear that he’s an escapee from one of the “medical ships” where human experimentation is done. Harboring such a fugitive is illegal, but Rainy and Lark take him in. He has something to trade for their hospitality – a rare copy of a book Lark has been searching for all her life.
But the authorities come for them, and before long Rainy’s world has been shattered. He flees in a sailboat, with no plan except a vague idea of returning to the Slate Islands, where he and Lark had a happy interlude years before. But he’s a hunted man now. In time he will acquire a companion, a nine-year-old girl he rescues from an abusive home. But it’s a cold world on the great lake with the law on your trail.
I Cheerfully Refuse is as well-written as you’d expect from an author of Enger’s genius. But his previous books have carried a gentle but pervasive odor of Christianity – sometimes even explicitly Christian. There’s a sort of Christianity here, too, but it’s the sentimental kind – a Rousseauean conception that people are basically good and only do wrong because society is out of skew. That all legal punishment is evil, and everyone should just be forgiven and set free.
I perceived (perhaps I’m paranoid) a political tone here that I’ve never seen in Enger before. As if he’s one of those panicked by the rise of our current president, who believes all the stereotypes about American conservatives, especially religious ones, as cultural troglodytes: “There was a sinuous distrust of text and its defenders.”
I might point out that it is not the conservative schools that are turning out illiterate graduates. It’s not the conservatives who try to purge the classics from curricula. It’s not the conservatives who design ugly, brutalist buildings and tape bananas to walls and call it art.
As I said, maybe I misunderstood. Maybe there’s a rich Christian subtext here that passed over my head. After all, big Pharma is a major villain, and there is a plot line in there arguing against assisted suicide.
All I can say is that I Cheerfully Refuse is a well-written book that disappointed this fan.
People who enjoyed a merely superficial acquaintance with my nephew Archibald (said Mr. Mulliner) were accustomed to set him down as just an ordinary pinheaded young man. It was only when they came to know him better that they discovered their mistake. Then they realized that his pin-headedness, so far from being ordinary, was exceptional.
Most P. G. Wodehouse readers are familiar with the Jeeves stories, and usually with the Blandings Castle stories too. But there is another substantial series of short stories that sometimes gets overlooked. These are the Mr. Mulliner stories, in which the venerable Mr. Mulliner sits with his drink in the bar parlor of a pub called The Angler’s Rest, regaling his audience with stories of the adventures of his innumerable relations. Often these stories involve a feckless young man of the usual Wodehouse type, who overcomes some obstacle to his marriage to the girl he loves. Usually the solution to the problem is purely nonsensical, based on some character’s unexpected personal quirks. The quality of the mirth varies from story to story, but some of Wodehouse’s best flights of fancy can be found in this category.
About half the stories in this volume, Mr. Mulliner Speaking, however, exhibit a different formula. This is because (and I was not aware of this, having not read these particular stories before) one of Mr. Mulliner’s relatives turns out to be a certain Miss Roberta Wickham. “Bobbie” Wickham is a character who pops up from time to time in the Jeeves/Wooster stories, and may have shown up at Blandings Castle too (I can’t recall). But whenever Bobbie appears, a different pattern is called for. Because marriage to Bobbie Wickham is always regarded as a fate to be dreaded, rather like running afoul of one of Bertie Wooster’s aunts.
For the red-haired Bobbie, in spite her extreme beauty, is a sort of benevolent sociopath. She never means to hurt anyone, but she has absolutely no self-control or sense of responsibility, and she generally drops her suitors into some kind of a nightmare situation, like being mistaken for a burglar by a butler with a shotgun, perhaps, or being forced to climb out of a high window with the aid of knotted-together bed sheets. If you find public humiliation hilarious, these are the stories for you.
Mr. Mulliner Speaking is a very funny book. I recommend it. My e-book version featured a number of OCR spelling errors that should have been caught and corrected.
