All posts by Lars Walker

Another half-baked theory from me

James Lileks (whom I hate, because he’s cleverer than I am) posted an item today at buzz.mn about “Dead Trolley Day.” Today is the anniversary of the date in 1954 when streetcars went out of service in Minneapolis. Since then a folklore has risen in our community (supported by at least one local TV special), a tale of how the wicked bus promoters acquired the trolley lines and proceeded to drive them into the ground, so that they could replace them with smoke-belching buses, although they were better in every way, and everybody loved them. The truth is a lot more complicated, of course. As Lileks notes, the trolleys were hot in the summer and cold in the winter, they blocked traffic, and they required the streets to be overhung with webs of ugly electric cable.

It occurred to me to wonder—why are liberals so nostalgic about artifacts? If you try to tell them that the people who built, operated and rode those trolleys were wiser than we in some areas having to do with personal morality, they’ll be outraged. But they generally cling to the objects themselves—trolleys, old buildings, etc., with fierce devotion. Continue reading Another half-baked theory from me →

My neighbor’s misfortune

I drove about an hour south last night, to meet my pastor brother from Iowa for supper. In the course of the conversation I discovered, to my surprise, that he’d been heavily involved in flood cleanup the last few days. And he hadn’t been going down to Iowa City or Cedar Falls, but to one of the nearest towns, where many of his parishioners live.

Its whole business district was under water. Devastating losses (though thankfully no deaths), and nobody had flood insurance, because historically the water has never come anywhere near this high. He said they’d all been out piling sandbags the night before the crest, but they might as well have stayed home and watched TV, because the river topped the bags by several feet.

His church has “adopted” a woman who’d recently moved to town, apparently because of low real estate costs, and bought a nice house “by the river.” She’d lost almost everything, and had no friends or family in the area.

I was ashamed I hadn’t called to check how they were doing when I heard about the flooding. When I heard of the massive earthquake in China (where his daughter is now), I called right away to find out if they’d heard anything (she wasn’t in any danger).

I guess that because I knew he himself doesn’t live near water, and because the disaster was “around these parts” rather than “way off in foreign lands,” I just assumed nothing bad could happen.

It’s a form of xenophobia, I suppose, to figure bad stuff only happens far away. Wishful thinking, too.

Mother of Kings by Poul Anderson

I approached the late Poul Anderson’s Mother of Kings with some trepidation. I wanted to read it because a) it’s a Viking historical fantasy, and b) I’m thinking out a book of my own in which one of the main characters in this one plays a part. But in a book about Gunnhild, wife of Norway’s King Eirik Bloodax and mother of King Harald Greyfell (and his brothers—they ruled jointly) I imagined I’d be dealing with a Marion Zimmer Bradley-esque feminist fantasy, all about what oppressors men are, how smothering Christianity is, and how real freedom is found in the worship of some Mother-goddess or other. I expected visceral, existential feminine rage.

Having read the book, I almost wish it had been like that. It would at least have had some fire to it.

Gunnhild is a character of mystery in Viking history and lore. Historians believe she was probably a Danish princess, conventionally married to Eirik Bloodax, son and heir of Harald Fairhair, who is remembered as the uniter of Norway. (Anderson seems unaware—or doesn’t care—that historians today doubt that Harald was really more than a regional overlord in the west, who may have begun the process of unification. For the purposes of this story he treats the account found in Snorri Sturlusson’s Heimskringla, the Sagas of the Norwegian Kings, as literally true. I’ll admit I do the same thing in The Year Of the Warrior, but I claim in my own defense that the theory was new back then, and I hadn’t heard of it).

In the sagas and legends, though, Gunnhild is a very different character—the daughter of a Finnish (“Lapp” or Sami) wizard, a witch of fearsome power, terrible in her hatreds, lascivious in her morals, and bloody in her vengeances.

Anderson splits the difference. He imagines her as the daughter of a Norse chieftain, a girl who chooses to learn magic at the feet of two Finn wizards, whom she manages to kill off at the same time that she magically summons Eirik to sail in and sweep her off her feet. This is a promising beginning from the dramatic point of view, but sadly Anderson doesn’t sustain it. Once married to her prince, Gunnhild becomes a fairly conventional wife and queen, devoted to her husband and children. She assists them all through their lives by the use of her magical powers, but is thwarted more often than not. Her successes, when they happen, aren’t terribly impressive or lasting.

The result is that it’s hard to root for Gunnhild. She’s not good enough to sympathize with much, and not powerful or evil enough to be very entertaining. She becomes an almost passive center around which the drama of 10th Century Norwegian politics plays itself out. This is a great drama, but in this work it lacks (it seems to me) the rich hues and symphonic music of real epic. Anderson does some moments of pathos well, particularly concerning the deaths of Kings Haakon the Good and Harald Greyfell, but overall I found it pretty dry.

This is a problem I’ve always had with Anderson, and with Science Fiction writers as a group (no doubt there are exceptions). Science Fiction writers by and large (and that’s what Anderson primarily was), it seems to me, have a hard time handling human emotions, dreams and aspirations. They’re more oriented toward machines and machine-like people.

I always comment on books’ theological implications and treatments of Christianity in these reviews. Mother Of Kings provides unusual problems. Anderson is neither friendly nor hostile to Christianity, so it could be worse. Historically Eirik Bloodax ruled Norway as a heathen, but converted, along with his family, to Christianity when he fled to England and became King of York. Some of his sons seem to have been genuinely zealous in their missionary work (a point that’s largely ignored in Heimskringla). Gunnhild is portrayed here (quite reasonably) as a nominal Christian, uncertain as to what religion (Norse heathendom, Christianity or Finnish pantheism) offers the most useful magic for her exploitation. Clearly she’s a heathen at heart, but her deepest inclinations seem to be pantheistic. This can’t exactly be viewed as an argument for pantheism, though, because Gunnhild isn’t admirable enough to provide one.

Perhaps I’d have found the whole thing more exciting if I hadn’t already known the basic story. But I doubt it. I can’t really recommend Mother Of Kings very highly.

How I survived my weekend in Mankato

I’ve learned that the other members of the Viking Age Club find it amusing that I keep referring to the slings and speed bumps of outrageous fortune as “adventures.” I’d think that would be a very Viking attitude. Perhaps they admire me for it. In secret.

In any case, we had a few adventures during our three days at the Sons of Norway District One convention in Mankato, Minnesota. We arrived Thursday morning and set up a small encampment in the auditorium of the Alltel Civic Center, where the vendors also set up. There was plenty of room for us all (and for the two reindeer, which one vendor had brought and kept in a cage next to his booth).

The group members who were delegates were housed in the adjacent hotel, but those of us who were just there for entertainment stayed in dorm rooms at the state college. A lady at the registration desk gave me a city map, and told me how to get there. One of our club members who was in on planning also gave me verbal directions, but I didn’t even try to memorize them. I never remember verbal directions right.

Ron, another member, hitched a ride to the school with me, and I set out up Main Street, following the map. It told me to take a right turn at a particular street which (according to it) had one name to the left of Main and another to the right. After going miles out of our way, we figured out that the right-hand name wasn’t actually marked on the street signs. So we figured out at last where to go. Until the street turned one-way against us.

Eventually we stopped a jogger, who told us to go straight ahead, then up the hill. This meant we’d have to go the wrong way in the one-way section, something that doesn’t deter joggers, but bothers me. I finally figured out how to go around legally and find the street I wanted. Then followed some time taking more wrong turns, until we found the school (the big sign saying “Mankato State University” was a tip-off), and (fortunately) the dorm was right there, or we might never have been heard from again.

When we got in, we found that nobody had arranged for bedding or towels for us. We managed to wangle blankets and pillows from student monitors. Overnight I remembered a face towel I keep in my car, and in the morning I went out to fetch it, and so was able to take a shower. The towel was small, and not entirely clean, but it beat the alternative. Or so I like to believe.

The next day we learned that, in order to save money, the Sons of Norway people had made a deal for rooms without bedding or towels. Only the guy who made the arrangements forgot to tell us to bring our own.

So I hit him a few times with my sword.

Seriously, I did. He’s a member of our group, and we did some live steel combats. I beat him in the end, but it took five bouts to break the tie. This does not redound to my glory, as it was his first try at combat following his training. And he wasn’t even dressed right. He’d forgotten his costume, and wore a white shirt and tie under his mail.

The next night one of our members gave us oral directions to the college, and we drove directly there. Ron’s and my reactions were identical: “This way’s no fun!”

Caveat elector

One of these days I’ll get around to writing about books in this space again. My problem right now is that I’m reading a very long book which I find amazingly boring. So you have my review of that book to look forward to eventually (perhaps sometime in August). Until then, I blog on whatever catches my fancy. Or my plain.

I say “plain” because I was looking at a wall calendar I got from Half Price Books last winter. It’s a freebie, and worth that price. Instead of pretty pictures, it features monthly calendars on both the top and bottom panels (to save paper), along with tips on how to live in a more environmentally friendly manner. Continue reading Caveat elector →

Story City Story II: The Sequel

I had two thoughts during my weekend in Story City, Iowa. (Well, technically I had quite a few thoughts. I think pretty much all the time when I’m conscious. That’s just the kind of guy I am. But two of these thoughts were new.)

One has to do with family, and it probably won’t mean much to you, but I’ll share it anyway, because… because… because I have this forum in which to raise my barbaric yawp, I guess.

The history of Story City (at least the part that interests me) goes like this. In the 1840s, a few Norwegians began to take the gamble of traveling to this dangerous new country (where, their pastors at home liked to tell them, epidemics were rampant, wild Indians were likely to scalp them and slavers made a habit of kidnapping Norwegians to be sold in New Orleans. The part about the epidemics was true). The earliest successful settlements were centered around Lisbon, Illinois and Muskego, Wisconsin. Most of these immigrants came from what we call Western Norway (actually southwestern, but officially Norway has no south). It helped in dealing with all the strangeness and dangers to live among people from home, people whose dialects and customs you understood. Continue reading Story City Story II: The Sequel →

Story City Story

It was a good weekend. I’m sunburned, stiff, dehydrated and exhausted (I can tell my hemoglobin level still isn’t up to specs), but I had fun.

The drive down was an adventure. I had to get up at 4:30 a.m. to be in Story City, Iowa in time to set up, and it was a three-hour drive directly into a vicious south wind. But I made it on schedule. There were only three of us there, two guys and a woman, but our friend Sam from Missouri also came up with his Viking boat, which raised the tone of the encampment considerably: Continue reading Story City Story →

Klavan nails it again

It hailed today. Again. Bigger hail this time, and it lasted longer.

Clearly, we have offended Divine Providence. In the spirit of all modern politics, I shall not hesitate to call for full confession of all our corporate sins, just as long as the sins I’m talking about are those of the party I’m not in.

Through the good offices of a friend, I got a replacement for the lost grill on Mrs. Hermanson, my ’98 Chevy Tracker, today. He even put it on for me. It’s maroon, while Mrs. Hermanson is white, which makes her look a little like a circus clown’s face. But my last two cars have been white, and I’m kind of hungry for some color on my ride.

Also, painting it would be like, you know, work.

Tonight I’ll pack her up so I can get an early start for Story, City, Iowa tomorrow. It’s supposed to rain all night, and continue raining tomorrow, and in Story City they project a 50% chance of rain Friday and Saturday. So I have a feeling this isn’t going to be the best weekend ever.

But I promised to be there, and we Vikings keep our vows.

By way of Libertas, here’s another incisive piece by novelist Andrew Klavan, this one from City Journal. It’s about children, and what our culture is doing to them.

The teacher told me that she once had to explain to the class why her last name was the same as her father’s. She dusted off the whole ancient ritual of legitimacy for them—marriages, maiden names, and so on. When she was done, there was a short silence. Then one child piped up softly: “Yeah . . . I’ve heard of that.”

I think our culture, which probably prizes children more than any in the history of the world, nevertheless sins against those children by hitting them from two sides. On the one side, the sexual “options” we give their parents deny them the security of stable homes. But we figure, “That’s OK. The state can parent them.” Only the state’s a lousy parent. So the kids end up with (at least) two sets of dysfunctional families.

But the heart of Klavan’s article is a call to creative conservatives to make a cultural impact that will show the kids there’s a different way.

Conservatives respond to this mostly with finger-wagging. But creativity has to be answered with creativity. We need stories, histories, movies of our own. That requires a structure of support—publishing houses, movie studios, review space, awards, almost all of which we’ve ceded to the Left.

Blogging like the Dickens

Mowed the lawn tonight—a tremendous achievement and a triumph over the very forces of nature. I’ve been wanting to mow it all week, but it’s been a solid wall of rain. And I’m leaving Friday morning for Scandinavian Days in Story City, Iowa (where, as it happens, my grandmother was born) to do a Viking gig. So I very much feared the grass would be permitted to express itself in all its creativity until next week. I don’t want that. I think my neighbors are close to firebombing me for lowering property values as it is.

I’ve come to realize that Barack Obama is right on one thing. This election is bringing Americans together. Not over him—the most he’s ever done to reach across political lines is to move the line to the left. No, the one thing Republicans and Democrats can now agree on is that the Clintons are incredibly sleazy and tiresome.

Oh, you came for blogging related to literature? How’s this? Charles Dickens desk sells for $850,000 in a London auction.

The money raised at Wednesday’s auction will go the Great Ormond Street children’s hospital in London. Dickens was a close friend of the hospital’s founder and spoke at its first fundraising dinner in 1858.

The buyer, the report says, is a tarot card reader. Could be worse, I suppose. It might have been a Dan Brown reader.

I’m taking bids for my own desk, by the way. Buy it now, before I die and the price goes way up! Extra-large size, made of steel with a formica top. Genuine rust at no extra charge. You can have it for just a tenth of what they got for Dickens’ desk, and this one’s a whole lot newer!

“There isn’t enough equality to go around”

The title above should have been the title of last night’s post, but I didn’t think of it until down in the comments.

I’m extremely pleased with that line. If this were a commercial blog, I’d print up tee-shirts or bumper stickers featuring it in large letters, along with our URL, and sell them. Because I’m a capitalist, after all, and it’s about time I got serious about grinding down the oppressed masses.



By way of Greg Slade
and the Christian-fandom e-mail list, here’s a link to Galaxiki, a wiki-based online universe-building site. Greg describes it thus:

Membership is free and there are tons of community solar systems that

can be edited, but it’s also possible to acquire your own, personal

solar system.

Not my kind of thing, but surely there are some titanically grandiose among our readers.