All posts by Lars Walker

Open Season, by Archer Mayor


My office was directly opposite. It was a cubicle really, eight feet by eight, with a ten-foot ceiling that always made me want to tip the room over so I’d have more room and more heat.

Set in Vermont in the winter, Open Season is the first in a series of police novels starring Joe Gunther, a detective in the town of Brattleboro. This book goes back to the ʼ90s (Joe is a Korean war veteran; you don’t run into many of those in stories anymore), and I have some reason to believe that author Archer Mayor has moved it in a politically correct direction since then. So I may be unhappy with later books, but I’m likely to give the series another chance, because I enjoyed this one quite a lot.

As the story begins, Joe is called to a sort of a murder scene – a local man, known to be very kind and tenderhearted, has broken into an old woman’s house and been killed by her with a shotgun. Soon other local people become the victims of attacks, and it’s discovered that they all have something in common. They were all on the jury that convicted a black man of killing a white woman in a famous local murder case. Joe has no choice but to re-open that case, quickly learning that it was shoddily investigated. So it becomes a double investigation, trying to find the real murderer while trying to stop an avenger who is no sweetheart himself.

One thing I particularly liked about Joe Gunther was an element of realism that rarely appears in fictional detectives. Having been injured in an accident, Joe is told by a doctor to stay in bed for a couple days – and he actually stays in bed! How many times have you seen that happen in a mystery?

Mild cautions for language and adult themes. Recommended.

Slumgullion 2/28/13

To celebrate this not being a leap year, a variety of things for you today.

First of all, by way of Pastor Paul McCain of Cyberbrethren, a short but oddly fascinating film about calligraphy.

Pastor McCain says, “Type designer, illustrator and artist Seb Lester will revive the BlackLetter script that has been out of use for more than three hundred years. He will document his efforts on video, a gorgeous tribute to handwritten letters.” Link to original here.

From Mitch Berg at Shot In the Dark, a celebration of the brave men who sabotaged the Nazi atomic effort in Norway in 1943. I’m a day late with the anniversary, but I had to share it.

I’ll cop to it; after the 2009 “Nobel Peace Prize” award to a president who, as of the award deadline, had done nothing to warrant it, and has done even less since, my self-esteem-respect as an American of Norwegian anscestry has taken a bit of a beating.

But it’s on days like today – the 70th anniversary of the Norwegian raid on the Vemork heavy-water plant at Ryukan, Norway – that I get a bit of that old Norse møjø back.

Finally, a great little lesson in communication, from David All.

Sacramone sighting

I know what you really come here for. Book reviews and theological meditations are all well and good, but what you’re really looking for is information on the present whereabouts of Anthony Sacramone, who used to blog at Luther At the Movies, and still blogs at Strange Herring when he feels like it.

Through my extensive network of spies and informants, I have received information that Anthony is now the Managing Editor of The Intercollegiate Review…



And Modern Age…

Both are publications of the Intercollegiate Studies Institute.

On my promise of total secrecy (which of course is worthless) he sent me a free copy of each publication. As you can guess from the covers, Modern Age (which goes back a long way and was once edited by Russell Kirk) is a scholarly journal, while the Intercollegiate Review is a lighter, slick magazine with more of an entertainment slant.

Subscriptions are available from ISI here.

Life in the barrens

I’m not going to tell you the exact letters on the “vanity plate” on the car I followed on the way to work this morning. That could, theoretically, lead you to identify the owner individually, and it’s always possible I misunderstood them.

But the message of that license plate offended me morally, as I understood it. What it said sent the clear message that the driver did not have any children. Not in terms of lamentation, but as a boast – “I’m better than you are. I’m not cluttering the world up with toxic human beings.”

Now it’s hardly my place to criticize people for not reproducing, I who am myself a biological dead end. There are lots of innocent, even praiseworthy, reasons for having no children. There might be physiological causes, or psychological problems (my own case), or a person may have followed the call of the Lord to Kingdom service in a single state – as, for instance, in the case of priests and nuns.

But I’ve never heard anyone in those classes actually brag about not having children. Bragging implies a choice – not only a decision, but a decision of which one is proud. “Children are evil, and I have avoided that evil. I am no breeder.”

One of my college textbooks included a passage I’ve never forgotten, because it irked me. The author referred, with contempt, to Christian theologians (specifically John Calvin, as I recall), and called them “life-hating.”

His point, as I recall, was that the joy of life was identical with sexual gratification. Life-loving people were people who advocated (and practiced) the maximum amount of sex with the maximum number of partners, without consequences (the fact that sex without consequences was impossible in Calvin’s time didn’t interest him). Anyone who advocated traditional sexual morality – marriage and waiting for marriage – was obviously motivated by a deep-seated hatred for life itself.

Now, about forty years on, we can see the end of that thinking. The consummation of sexual “liberation” is not love of life, but hatred of life – at least human life. If life is free sex, then anything that interferes with sexual freedom (which babies certainly do) is anti-life. By this logic, having babies – extending life to another generation – is anti-life. To love life is to say that human life should end with Blessed Me.

For more on the consequences of such (profoundly life-hating in the true sense) thinking, see Jonathan V. Last’s new book, What to Expect When No One’s Expecting. I haven’t read it, but it looks like it’s worth reading.

The Black Box, by Michael Connelly

I wonder if the recent popularity surge of Scandinavian detective novels influenced Michael Connelly to add a Scandinavian element to his latest Harry Bosch novel, The Black Box. It doesn’t really matter. The Bosch series continues very strong, and I think the Scandinavians will like it for its own sake.

When Hieronymous (Harry) Bosch, Connelly’s most famous detective, first appeared in a novel, he was dealing with the chaos of the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles. This story takes us back to that surreal time. There were so many murders that detectives weren’t able to do proper crime scene work. They got shunted from place to place, protected by the National Guard, with time only to take a few pictures and notes before calling the meat wagons and rushing off somewhere else.

One murder scene he visited that night has nagged at Harry ever since. It involved the body of a white woman, who “shouldn’t have been in that neighborhood” at all. In time she was identified as Anneke Jesperson, a Danish freelance reporter and photographer. Twenty years later, now working on the Unsolved Crimes squad, Harry takes the case up again. But he finds that his superiors are not only not enthusiastic about him opening the case, but openly obstructive – it would be bad politics to solve the murder of a white woman on the twentieth anniversary of the riots.

Harry doesn’t care. He plays hardball both with the brass and with his suspects. He’s willing to go without backup onto his enemies’ home ground in order to flush them out. I was a little worried about a somewhat clichéd plot element here, but I thought Connelly resolved it in a believable way.

The Harry Bosch series is one of the best police procedurals going today, and it shows no sign of flagging. Recommended, with cautions for violence, mature themes, and language.

The Crooked Road, Vol. 2

One of my weaknesses as a reader and reviewer is that I’m essentially a prig. I don’t like criminals, and (though there are certain exceptions) I don’t much care for stories where criminals are the main characters. In stories, criminality is always being explained by creativity and a hunger for excitement, but I have a strong suspicion that there are lots of ways to skate close to the edge in life without stealing and murdering.

Still, when Andrew Klavan announced the publication of his story, “The Christian Killer,” in the anthology, The Crooked Road, Volume 2, I downloaded the Kindle version. And Klavan’s story is almost worth the price of the volume in itself. It’s a Christmas story that plays deftly on holiday tropes, managing to be cynical and sentimental all at once. And funny.

As for the rest of the stories, I liked some and didn’t like others. I found Janice Law’s “The City of Radiant Brides” pretty satisfying, a story with a surprise. Also Peter Lovesey’s “The Best Suit” completely confounded my expectations, in a good way.

Other stories went the sociopath path, and I generally didn’t take to them. Particularly Lawrence Block’s “Keller in Dallas,” another pleasureless (for me) outing with his stamp collector/assassin character. Dana Cameron’s “Disarming” left me entirely confused.

And some stories just broke my heart, especially Clark Howard’s long final story, “The Street Ends at the Cemetery.”

This is a pretty good collection, if you like this kind of thing. My problem is that I generally don’t.

Hot Money, by Dick Francis

Reviewing a Dick Francis book is almost a pointless exercise. I’ve only read one book of his that actually disappointed me, and you can be sure that the writing will always be professional and satisfying. But I’ve had a couple criticisms of his attitudes now and then, and Hot Money calls for one such, so I guess that justifies a critique.

It’s always interesting to discover by what angle Francis will approach his always racing-related plots. This time around the unique element is complicated family relationships, what psychologists call “constellations,” where parents and children fall into predictable roles, into which they tend to relapse whenever they get together.

In Hot Money the constellation is more of a supernova. Multimillionaire gold trader Malcolm Pembroke has been married five times, and has sired a number of children, most of whom resent each other and their siblings’ other mothers. One thing most of them agree on is their hated for Ian, the narrator of this book, whom their father seems to prefer. They’re all certain he’s plotting to cut them him out.

But when Malcolm’s latest wife is murdered, and a couple attempts are made on his own life, he goes to Ian and asks him to become his live-in bodyguard. Ian agrees, and commences picking through the minefield of his family’s loves and hates in order to stop a killer and save both their lives.

The large number of characters in this book make it sometimes hard to follow (make sure to bookmark the character list). That also goes for the superfluity of murder motives – everybody has one, but none of them seem adequate to murder. Sometimes I found the sheer volume of “soft” data kind of overwhelming.

And again, as I’ve seen at least once before in Francis, there’s a tolerant attitude to adultery that displeased me. On the other hand, there wasn’t any explicit sex, and the language wasn’t bad.

Not top drawer Francis, but good.

More from Through Norway With a Knapsack

I’m feeling a bit better now, thanks for asking, having seen a doctor last week and gotten antibiotics and a steroid for my lungs. But a day at work still wipes me out, and I’ve got stuff I need to get done tonight. So, in lieu of the hard work of thinking out a blog post, I’ll just post another short excerpt from Williams’ Through Norway With a Knapsack, last night’s subject.

In this episode, our hero has gotten lost and spent a long day on the mountains, finally finding a guest house late at night, exhausted.

On awakening, I found a stout gentleman sitting at my bedside. He was the pastor of Lom. A Norwegian pastor is not merely a preacher; he is clergy-man, physician, magistrate, arbitrator, and general friend and father, to whom all his scattered parishioners appeal. In a country where there are none but peasant farmers – no aristocracy, no gentry, no towns and villages, no shopkeepers, no professional class – a highly educated man must be strangely isolated, and, unless endowed with the true spirit of Christian benevolence, must be one of the most miserable of men; but, if suited to his work, he may be one of the happiest, for his opportunities of doing unmistakable good, and of witnessing the full fruits of his good deeds, are almost unlimited. Most of these Norwegian pastors are, I believe, excellent men, and render great services to the people around.

In the present instance, the paternal relations of the good pastor of Lom were illustrated in my case, for he sat at my bedside, where he had evidently been watching for some time, as though he feared that some fever or other ailment might result from the over-exertion, excitement and fasting….

Reading Report: Through Norway With a Knapsack, by W. Mattieu Williams



Photo credit: Russavia, 2008.

It’s part of my necessary duties as a novelist, one who specializes in a country where he does not live and has only visited a few times, to do my best to read travelers’ reports, especially old ones from before the days of the automobile and the high speed ferry. When I found Through Norway With a Knapsack, by W. Mattieu Williams, first published in 1853, and slightly expanded and updated in 1876, I jumped at it, especially since the Kindle version came cheap. And I’m glad I did. Not only does it largely cover parts of the country I’m less familiar with, but the author – though not free of the congenital arrogance of the 19th Century Englishman, turns out to be pretty congenial. He knows how to laugh at himself, and is flexible in the face of unfamiliar conditions. He likes to travel light, like an early Rick Steves, which was not common for men of his background and class.

Instead of analyzing the whole thing, I just share a portion I particularly enjoyed:

After a few hours’ sleep, and a repetition of the meal just described, I started at two in the afternoon and walked on by a good road to Nordgård. On the way I was hailed by a man on the other side of a hedge, to know if I had seen two horses on the mountain. On finding me to be an Englishman he spoke to me in good English, and told me that long ago he emigrated to America and lived there for sixteen years; but the desire to see his ‘Gamle Norge’ again had brought him back, and finding his daughter married, with a farm and family about her, he was persuaded to remain and end his days there. I asked him which he liked best, America or Norway? He preferred America. Why then did he not return? He tried to explain; and, after some help in wording and shaping the expression, told me that he liked America, but did not love it; and that he loved Norway, but did not like it; and as loving was stronger than liking, he resolved to die at home.

Perhaps not recommended for any reader whose ancestors came from Telemark, unless you like hearing about how your people were the filthiest in Norway at the time. Otherwise, pretty good.

They Shall See God, by Athol Dickson


Ruth reached over a[nd] covered one of Katy’s hands with hers. She spoke very softly, saying, “Forgive me if this hits a little close to home, but I just have to ask: What good are the things that Jesus said and did if they make no difference in how people live?”

You’d have to go far to find a braver Christian novelist than Athol Dickson. As I’ve written in previous reviews of his books, I consider him far above the average CBA writer in terms of craftsmanship and depth. They Shall See God is actually a reissue (slightly re-worked) of one of his earlier novels. I don’t think he’d reached his full powers when he wrote it. Sometimes (and I’m not sure this isn’t just an emotional reaction to my own tensions about the issues) I think the dialogue is a little awkward, but that may just be that he’s accurately inventing conversations that are awkward in themselves.

In any case, They Shall See God is a bold (and generally successful, I think) attempt to deal with one of the touchiest possible issues in theology – the relations between Christians and Jews.

Kate Flint, New Orleans antique shop owner, mother, and recent widow, is a Christian desperately trying to hold her life together. Ruth Gold is a Reformed rabbi. Long ago, as little girls, they were best friends, until they witnessed a horrible murder and their parents determined to separate them.

But now the man who went to prison on their testimony has been released from prison. And people are being killed – beginning with Ruth’s boyfriend. As they come to realize that their lives are in danger, these two women must push past their mutual fears and guilts to try to form an alliance to save their own lives and those of others, and to unravel the deeper mysteries of the old crime.

I won’t say there’s no preaching in this book, because there are preachers here (good and bad), and they do their thing. But the preaching is preaching, and the dialogue is dialogue, and the human depictions cut right down to the heart. I found They Shall See God hard to read – simply because of hard truths – but moving and rewarding. Cautions for some pretty intense violence.