All posts by Lars Walker

Fiction, Reviews

‘Paris In the Present Tense,’ by Mark Helprin

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Music asked nothing, required nothing, needed nothing, betrayed nothing. It appeared instantly when called, even in memory. It was made of the ineffable magic in the empty spaces between – and the relation of – its otherwise unremarkable components.

“Wow,” I thought. “There’s a Mark Helprin novel I haven’t read yet.” A bargain deal had appeared, and I checked on Amazon and found I hadn’t bought it. So I did. Only then did I discover that I’d read Paris In the Present Tense before. I must have gotten a free review copy or something. However, I was only briefly discomfited by this. A Helprin novel always bears – and rewards – re-reading.

Jules Lacour is a septuagenarian Jewish music instructor in Paris. He is neither rich nor famous, though he is one of the geniuses of his generation – because this generation cares nothing for genius. But Jules has lived content with his art, except for missing his late wife.

But now his grandson has leukemia, and Jules wishes he had money to get him treatment. An offer from an American insurance conglomerate, to write them a signature tune, gives him brief hope, which they then dash callously.

So when Jules discovers that he has a previously undiagnosed brain aneurism that could kill him at any moment, he concocts a plan to make the company pay, and thereby to give his grandson a chance at life.

My big problem with Paris In the Present Time, you’ve probably guessed, is that our hero is an unapologetic fraudster. I don’t approve of fraud, no matter how bloated and greedy the target. However, that’s a question the book scarcely considers. The story is about love – Jules’ love for his parents, murdered by Nazis. His love for his wife, who died too soon. For his daughter and his grandchild. For a beautiful young student who is transparently smitten with him, and for a woman of more appropriate age whom he meets too late. But equally it’s about his love for Paris, and especially his love for music. The book is lush with gorgeous description and meditations on the meaning of it all. This is a book for reading slowly and savoring. It sweeps the reader into realms of transcendence.

Also, it meshed with – and helped to feed – my recent delusions of glimpsing some kind of Unified Theory of Existence. Helprin seems to have had some of the same thoughts I’ve had – maybe I stole some of them from him.

Insurance fraud aside, Paris In the Present Tense is a wonderful book. You ought to read it.

Religion

It’s all music

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I may be achieving a breakthrough. Or possibly I’m losing my mind. Or it could be the new medication I just started taking…

I got up this morning to put in my two hours of writing (okay, it’s more like an hour and a half when I deduct bathroom and tea-making time). Then I went to the gym, as usual. And while I was driving there, I had this epiphany. It rose, I’m pretty sure, partly from the lingering effects of reading Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything. And from Mark Helprin’s Paris In the Present Tense, which I’m re-reading. It’s a novel about a musician, with all kinds of metaphysical implications.

Anyway, it occurred to me that (as best I understand physics, which is probably not as well as I think) the universe is made up of atoms, which are made up of particles and charges and empty space and stuff. Every solid thing is actually just energy in motion. What makes things exist is movement and attraction and repulsion and waves and so on.

In other words, the universe is music.

Which works just fine with my theology. The Bible says that God said, “Let there be light.” The light – energy – was spoken by God. Light is energy in a pattern. That’s pretty much like music.

Tolkien used this metaphor in The Silmarillion.

After I thought, “The Fall introduced discord into the music,” I found myself shouting out loud (in my car): “CHRIST RESOLVED THE CHORD!”

Well, it seemed profound to me at the time.

Of course I used this space not long ago to explicate a theory that the universe is a Story.

So which is it, Walker?

Maybe the universe is a ballad. No metaphor is every perfect.

Above, a little music from that most theological of composers, the Lutheran J. S. Bach.

Music, Religion

Sankta Lucia and Christian beauty

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It’s been a few years, I think, since I’ve mentioned the Sankta Lucia celebration. “Sankta Lucia” is Saint Lucy of Syracuse, a virgin martyr of the early church. A Sicilian legend says that once when there was famine, ships appeared in the Syracuse harbor on St. Lucia’s Day, loaded with grain. Thus there came to be a tradition of eating whole grains on December 13. Somehow this tradition evolved in Scandinavia (especially in Sweden) into eating a particular kind of bun on that day. The girls of a household would rise early, prepare the buns, and then march in procession, led by one girl portraying Lucia, wearing a crown of candles (Lucia means light, after all), and wearing a red sash to symbolize martyrdom. They would sing a version of the Italian Santa Lucia song (as above) and serve the buns for breakfast, to general celebration.

It’s a lovely tradition (I’ve observed recreations a few times) and seems to be gaining in popularity even in these secular times.

One thing I love about it is the fact that it’s a revival of tradition. In spite of the growing hostility to Christianity in our culture, genuine beauty still appeals. That’s worth remembering, even if we Protestants are forced to do some borrowing from the Catholics (that’s less a problem for me as a Lutheran than for some). But maybe we need to question the emphasis on stark simplicity in our worship. We seem to have won the argument over pomp and ceremony so well that many churches have proceeded to embrace pure ugliness. And ugliness ages poorly.

I’ve been thinking about art recently, for reasons I won’t go into here. It seems to me that – though there are many ways to divide up the world – one way we can categorize people today is by whether they are pro-beauty or anti-beauty. As far as I can observe, the Progressive movement has turned aggressively anti-beauty. Our side isn’t necessarily pro-beauty, but I think we ought to make that an issue.

Because I think beauty will win, hands down.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Case of the Terrified Typist,’ by Erle Stanley Gardner

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Like every child of the 50s, I know Perry Mason in the form of Raymond Burr on TV. (I hated the show when my mother watched it, but now I find it quite delightful in reruns.) And I’ve read a couple of PM short stories over the years. But I’d never read a Perry Mason novel before. Critics indicate that Erle Stanley Gardner, the author, was not big on characterization, which usually means a book won’t be my kind of thing.

But I got a deal on The Case of the Terrified Typist and I tried it anyway. And you know what? I now know why the Perry Mason series was so popular. Gardner knew how to spin a tale.

Trial attorney Perry Mason has a big document that needs retyping, and his secretary Della Street is having trouble finding a competent typist. She calls an agency, but they can’t promise much. Then a woman shows up in their office and, asked if she’s the typist, she says yes. She turns out to be a whiz at it, and gets a lot of work done very quickly, very accurately. Then she disappears as mysteriously as she appeared.

When Perry and Della learn that the police are in the building, looking for a woman who robbed a diamond import business, they do a search and find a clump of chewing gun attached to the bottom of the typist’s desk. Inside that clump are valuable diamonds.

That’s the neat hook that opens The Case of the Terrified Typist. As the story proceeds, Perry will be hired to represent one of the diamond company’s employees against charges of murdering a diamond smuggler. Surprisingly, Hamilton Burger, the district attorney, chooses to bring murder charges without a body being found.

The whole story was complex, but it was also lively and suspenseful. I had a good time reading it. It made few demands and entertained me thoroughly. I just might read more Perry Mason.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Mysteries,’ by Graham Wilson

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Here’s the scenario: Jim, an Australian man, purchases a very old house in an out-of-the-way corner of Sidney. While doing renovations, he notices a basement concealed and sealed off beneath the floor of one room. He assumes this feature might have historical significance, so he notifies the government, which sends an assessor, a young woman, to look at it. To his astonishment, Jim discovers that this woman is his long-lost daughter, with whom his wife ran off long ago. Though he searched for them, he never found them, until now.

On top of that, they soon realize that the house he has purchased was built by an ancestor neither of them ever guessed they had.

If all this sounds a little far-fetched, I entirely agree. But it’s a tribute to the storytelling skills of Graham Wilson, author of The Mysteries, that I was entirely swept up in the book and overlooked its gross improbabilities.

We learn about Jim’s life and his struggles to rise from poverty. We learn of his ancestor Michael, who built the house – how he was transported as a convict from Ireland, served his time at hard labor, and built a semi-legal fortune along with his stone house. As his descendants discover his story, the reader learns it too.

I thought the story slowed somewhat toward the end, and perhaps too many details about Michael’s life come to light. But I read The Mysteries all the way through, and quite enjoyed it.

There were orthographic errors – word confusions, and sometimes quotation marks missing at the start of a paragraph. But I’ve seen far worse.

Sexual morality here is conventional contemporary, and attitudes toward Christianity tend to be critical, though few in number. Still, the storytelling was top-notch, and the book had undeniable charm. I do recommend it.

Writing

A skald’s reward

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Egil Skallagrimsson, from a 17th Century Icelandic manuscript.

Egil sat down and put his shield at his feet. He was wearing a helmet and laid his sword across his knees, and now and again he would draw it half-way out of the scabbard, then thrust it back in. He sat upright, but with his head bowed low…. He wrinkled one eyebrow right down onto his cheek and raised the other up to the roots of his hair…. He refused to drink even when served, but just raised and lowered his eyebrows in turn.

King Athelstan was sitting in the high seat, with his sword laid across his knees too. And after they had been sitting there like that for a while, the king unsheathed his sword, took a fine, large ring from his arm and slipped it over the point of the sword, then stood up and handed it over the fire to Egil. Egil stood up, drew his sword and walked out onto the floor. He put his sword through the ring and pulled it towards him, then went back to his place. The king sat down in his high seat. When Egil sat down, he drew the ring onto his arm, and his brow went back to normal. He put down his sword and helmet and took the drinking horn that was served to him, and finished it. Then he spoke a verse….

The passage above comes from the Saga of Egil Skallagrimsson (from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders). It’s a rather famous scene, in which we get to observe some of the nuances of the ancient poet-king dynamic. Egil is considered the greatest poet (skald) in the world, and he’s well aware of it. Even at the court of Athelstan the Great of England, one of a skald’s A-list gigs, he feels entitled to a certain level of appreciation. At this point he doesn’t feel he’s been getting it, and his passive-aggressive show produces a mollifying response from the great king. Egil is a prima donna, and prima donnas must have their due.

All of this is only vaguely connected with my theme tonight, but it came to my mind as an illustration. My own case is that I don’t feel unrewarded. I feel rewarded in the very best way.

It came to me during my morning writing session today. There are few satisfactions in life to match that of reading something you’ve composed and being able to say, “You know, that’s pretty good. That’s what I’d like to read in a book myself.”

And I thought, what rewards do I have as a author? There’s the pleasure of seeing my work published (though I have to admit there’s less satisfaction in viewing an e-book than in holding a genuine printed volume. But I’ve had that pleasure too). There’s money – though my books have brought little of that. There’s fame – which has eluded me thus far. Has the king withheld my gold ring?

No, I realized. The work itself is my best reward. I know I’m writing this book for myself when I was twelve years old, desperately longing for a good Viking novel to read. And I think I’m getting the job done. No amount of money could buy that satisfaction.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll take money and fame if they’re offered. But in a pinch this is enough.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Traitors Gate,’ by Jeffrey Archer

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I got a deal offer on Jeffrey Archer’s latest novel, Traitors Gate. I figured that since I’d never read any of his books, I might as well give one a chance.

Verdict: I can understand why Archer is a popular author. But Traitors Gate never really gripped me.

William Warwick is a high-ranking officer with the London police force. Among his duties is serving as part of the security detail that transports the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London to Buckingham Palace on state occasions. Another member of the detail is Ross Hogan, his best friend. A further thing they share is a common enemy – a high society con man named Miles Faulkner. Warwick and Hogan have stopped Faulkner’s schemes before, and early in this story they foil him in an attempted art theft. Faulkner vows revenge and hits on a plan to steal the Crown Jewels – not to sell them, but simply to publicly humiliate Warwick and Hogan, and ruin their careers.

Traitors Gate was technically impeccable. It delivered the kind of thriller excitement advertised on the cover. But for this reader, it all seemed pretty superficial. I didn’t really believe in the characters, and it all seemed kind of overprocessed, like white bread.

This book is part of an ongoing series. One challenge series authors always face is whether to describe characters who’ve been described in previous volumes. It’s always been my practice to assume the reader has started with this book, and provide new descriptions. It doesn’t take long, and it’s not hard to make it natural. But Archer doesn’t bother with that. Only new characters get descriptions, and even attributes like racial identity – not entirely irrelevant to this story – may be withheld until half-way through the book.

So, I’d say all in all Traitors Gate is a good airport book, one that will keep you entertained and not bother you at all with any deeper themes or moral challenges.

Uncategorized

‘There’s Something In the Barn’

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A Facebook friend alerted me to the movie trailer above. “There’s Something In the Barn.” It’s not one I worked on, nor have heard of it before. Not my kind of thing, really, but some of you might find it amusing. As I’ve often mentioned, I just don’t get horror. I think this springs from being a coward. It takes a braver person than I to enjoy being scared. Let alone to laugh about it.

The take on the “barn elf” here is an interesting one. One would never actually call them barn elves in Norway, I’m pretty sure. As mentioned in my novels, the Hidden Folk don’t like to be called by name. You call them the Good Neighbors, or the Little Old Men, or something like that. And, as the movie emphasizes, offending them is nothing to be undertaken lightly.

It’s basically a reversal on the sweet – but overly sentimental – picture offered in the classic commercial below, released by the Tine Dairy Products Company back in 2017:

You can make a good Christian argument that the horror version is more appropriate. The church traditionally has considered the Hidden Folk to be demons (probably).

There’s a theory that all horror is conservative. I’m not sure that’s true, but I think you can make a good case that Horror as a genre is conservative in its essence, if not in all its instantiations. (Instantiations is a lovely word I learned in Library School).

Got my tree decorated today. And I found a section in The Baldur Game that I think I’ll have to cut, or at least reduce to its bare bones. Like a victim in a horror story.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Dead In the Dark,’ by Stephen Booth

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I got a deal on Dead In the Dark, which proved to be the 17th volume of an 18-book police series by Stephen Booth. The series, as best I can discern, centers on the relationship between Inspector Ben Cooper and Detective Sergeant Diane Fry, but at this point she’s been reassigned to a sort of major crimes unit in a different area (they both live and work in Devonshire, England). There seems to be some friction between them at this stage.

Ten years ago, a man named Reece Bower was accused of murdering his wife, who had disappeared without a trace. The police were ready to arrest him on circumstantial evidence when a plausible witness reported seeing the victim alive. The case went no further, but public opinion condemned Bower. Now he too has disappeared, equally inexplicably.

Meanwhile, DS Fry is part of a team investigating the murder of a Polish immigrant, found dead in his flat after being stabbed in an alley. Suspicions naturally turn to nationalist groups resentful of immigrants.

I think my unfamiliarity with the series left me at a disadvantage in reading Dead In the Dark. The characters seemed somewhat unfocused in my mind. The story seemed kind of wide-ranging and scattered, and the ultimate solution of Bower’s disappearance struck me as implausible.

There were political elements too. I think author Booth made some effort to be evenhanded, but in the usual English style he tends to equate the right wing with racism.

Still, the writing was good. Dead In the Dark wasn’t a bad novel, but it might be better to start reading the series closer to the beginning.

Music, Writing

The Long Serpent reaches metaphorical port

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Above, the folk song “Ormen Lange” (The Long Serpent). I think I’ve posted versions of this song a couple times previously, but in each case they were more authentic than this one. I believe the song itself derives from a Faroese chain dance song, and the original song structure is a little foreign to Americans. This version was recorded some years back by a Norwegian folk group called the Wanderers, who dumbed it down a little, making it something I personally enjoy a little more.

And why do I post yet another version of a song I’ve already bored you with (at least) twice? Because it’s about King Olaf Trygvesson and his long ship, and he was Erling Skjalgsson’s brother-in-law, and this post is my public announcement that this past Saturday, I completed my (apparent) life’s work. At least in first draft. I finished the job of getting the essential story of The Baldur Game all down on paper. Or screen. In written form, in any case. There’s lots of revising and reviewing and rewriting to do yet, but the story is tentatively finished. I know how it comes out. I’ve typed END at the end.

The author is generally the last to know whether a story is any good, of course. But I’m pleased. This is, I think, the book I always wanted to write.

If I have not created deathless art, I have at least realized my delusion, like a mad scientist in a B movie.