I struggle to describe Killer-Glum’s Saga, as it really left no strong impression on me. Most great sagas feature some kind of powerful motivation for the main character – vengeance or a woman’s love or the righting of some great wrong. Killer-Glum has none of those things. He’s just a guy who goes through his life, and happens to have a talent for man-killing.
The saga writer seems to sense this lack, because he begins Glum’s tale with a trope borrowed from a thousand sagas, folk tales, and fairy tales: The hero starts out as his father’s least promising son, showing no initiative and often being taunted for his laziness. But when it comes down to cases, he proves extremely adept at fighting and killing, and before long he is the most powerful man in his district. We are told that he maintained this power for an unusual length of time. But eventually his enemies get the best of him, and he loses his property and has to move elsewhere. In the end he is converted to Christianity and dies in old age.
There are many incidents here, and a hundred characters to try to keep track of, but not much of a central narrative line. The situation is not improved by the fact that the text is somewhat corrupt.
One interesting scene did strike me – at one point Glum’s son kills a man, and Glum wants that fact not to be known. So he compliments a thrall on doing the killing, repeating the praise so may times that the stupid thrall begins believing it himself. Early medieval brainwashing.
My final evaluation is that Killer-Glum’s Saga is not one to read if you’re new to saga reading. This one is for the saga buffs; it demands a little effort.
It had been many years since I’d read a novel by the late Ed McBain (who was actually Evan Hunter, which name was itself at first a pseudonym for Salvatore Lombino, who legally changed it to Hunter). I was a fan of McBain’s 87th Precinct novels for a long time, but Eight Black Horses offended me. It had to do with a rapist who was targeting pro-life women, and at one point the author had a policewoman musing that she thought both sides were wrong. I thought it was awfully generous of McBain to concede that pro-lifers were no worse than rapists, and stopped reading the series.
But Hark!, an 2004 87th Precinct book, came up on a deal recently, and I figured, after all we’ve been through since, Eight Black Horses was actually pretty mild stuff. I figured I’d give it another chance.
Verdict: Hark! wasn’t bad, but I don’t like McBain’s writing as much as I used to.
The 87th Precinct books are set in a city called Isola, which is obviously New York City under an assumed name. The central character has always been Detective Steve Carella, but a regular cast of other detectives supports him. A recurring character in many of the books has been a criminal called “the Deaf Man.” The Deaf Man is a genius, and bears a grudge against the 87th. So he periodically reappears sending them mocking messages that provide cryptic clues to whatever major score he’s planning on their doorstep in order to prove how dumb they are.
This time he’s sending them hand-delivered notes containing quotations, mostly from Shakespeare. Much of the book consists of the detectives brainstorming what the messages might mean. There seem to be recurring themes of word reversals, palindromes, and anagrams. Also hints about books. But there really isn’t enough information to guess, which is just the Deaf Man’s game.
Several subplots involve man-woman relationships. Steve Carella is planning a double wedding – remarriages for his widowed mother and his sister. Detective Burt Kling is dating a black doctor, and feeling the social pressure. Detective Cotton Hawes is dating a television reporter and wondering whether she cares more for him than for her career. Another detective is dating the only woman on the squad. Even the Deaf Man is living with a prostitute who’s helping him with his scheme but may be smarter than he assumes.
But the best part of the book, for me, was a small subplot involving a detective from another precinct named Fat Ollie Weeks. Fat Ollie is a perfect comic relief character – he’s fat (of course), and he’s not too bright. His ideas of police procedure are Neanderthal, and he’s a bigot and a sexist. But recently he started dating a Hispanic woman cop, and he’s finding better impulses blossoming within him, to his own surprise and discomfort. Also, he’s working on writing a novel which is apparently pretty good.
Hark! was an okay novel, but I found it a little slow, and all the police brainstorming got a bit wearying (though there were amusing moments of cop ignorance about Shakespeare). I was reminded how society has changed during a scene where a superior is apologetic for asking the woman detective for “a woman’s point of view.” Back then that kind of talk was considered sexist — today the woman’s point of view is considered the only acceptable point of view.
Also, I rebel against the whole idea of the Deaf Man. At the beginning, Ed McBain’s books were praised for their authentic descriptions of police procedure. But the Deaf Man is pure Hollywood. Real criminals don’t act like that, or so I’ve been informed.
Speaking as an old man who has climbed a number of metaphorical mountains of the literary sort (and zero ones of the real sort), I know how to begin a massive writing – or translation – project. At least I know what works for me. The trick, in my experience, is not to look at the mountain.
If you think about the size of the mountain as you begin, you’ll soon grow disheartened.
You have to concentrate on today’s work. What will I do today? How much can I accomplish just today?
If you write merely one page every day, you can produce a 365 page book in a year. (It takes me considerably longer, though, when you include revisions. But you get the point. One step at a time.)
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” as the Lord says in the Sermon on the Mount. (Matthew 6:34)
Anyway, I’ve ordered some orthopedic aids to help me sit for long periods at my laptop, and I’m on the case.
The video above troubles me.
Not because of the artist herself – Lucy Thomas, who apparently won some talent program and obviously has an astonishing voice. I like her singing very much.
And not the song in itself, in particular. Leonard Cohen was in some ways the archetypal Israelite, forever wrestling with God. And this song expresses his troubled world-view in transcendent fashion.
My problem is that somebody – as you can see from the captions – is promoting it as a worship song.
Dearly beloved, “Hallelujah” is not a worship song! (I’ve written some drivel about it before in this blog myself.) It’s a song about sex, couched in near-blasphemous biblical imagery. It’s a brilliant piece of work but it doesn’t belong in your church.
It’s disrespectful both to God (who is not being properly revered) and to the artist – whose work is being twisted in a direction he never intended.
I understand the Christian impulse to turn all things to God’s glory.
But art deserves respect for its own sake. Not to be hijacked, even by well-meaning worship leaders.
At least give it time for the copyright to run out.
An awful image of Erik the Red, from the 1688 book, Gronlandia, by Arngrimur Jonsson. Good, free pictures of Erik are hard to find.
I’m not sure whether this is good news or bad news, but my productivity on this blog is likely to be reduced a little for the next five months. I’ve snagged a new translation job, one that promises to be a bit of a challenge.
I can’t tell you what the job is at this point, because it’s a private thing for a scholarly project, and nobody has given me permission to talk about it. If I find out differently, I’ll let you know.
But I will say I’m translating a very long biography from Norwegian to English. I’m not actually certain I can meet the hoped-for deadline. But I’m gonna try my best. That means less time reading for pleasure, and fewer reviews on this blog, I fear.
What I’ll post instead of reviews I have no idea.
But tonight I’m going to post about Viking names.
As you may have noticed if you’ve read about the subject, Vikings used what’s called the “patronymic” in naming. A patronymic is not a family name in the sense we undertand them, but simply an indicator. Thorvald’s son Erik is called Erik Thorvaldsson. Erik’s son Leif does not inherit the surname Thorvaldsson, but is rather called Leif Eriksson (you may have heard of him). The surname is just a pointer – I’m talking about this Leif here, not that other Leif over there.
But the Vikings also liked to add nicknames. This brought the identification to what we information professionals like to call “a further level of granularity.” Which means it involves more detail; it’s more specific. Erik Thorvaldsson was known as Erik the Red, which was likely to single him out even better than the patronymic did.
But an interesting thing sometimes happens with these nicknames (though not in Erik’s case). Sometimes they replaced, in practice, the person’s original name. Take for instance Thorleif Skjalg, the father of Erling Skjalgsson, hero of my Viking novels. (Skjalg probably means “squint-eyed.” I like to think of Charles Bronson.) Thorleif Skjalg was so identified with his nickname that his son ended up being known as Erling Skjalgsson rather than as Erling Thorleifsson. And Erling went ahead and named one of his own sons Skjalg. So the nickname became a proper name.
Another example is Snorri Goði, a historical personage who appeared as a character in my novel West Oversea. (Goði is Icelandic for Priest or Chieftain.) His original name, according to the sagas (he appears in several), was Thorgrim. But even as a child he proved so difficult to handle that he got the nickname Snorri, which means (I believe) tangled or complex (related, I further believe, to our English words snare and snarl). And the name Snorri went on to become a fairly common Norse name. (The first European child born in America, according to the sagas, was named Snorri Thorfinsson.)
On this kind of a Monday I know I’m going to get killed in this line of work. It should interest the statisticians. As I am the only fellow in my line of work, it would give it a rating of 100% mortality. Just as, until we lost an astronaut, travel in orbit was the safest travel man ever devised with 0% mortality for millions upon millions of passenger miles. Safer than wheelchairs.
It’s always cause for celebration for this reader when another Travis McGee novel by John D. MacDonald shows up on bargain sale. This time it was One Fearful Yellow Eye, notable (in this reader’s opinion) for the quality of its prose.
Years ago, our hero Travis McGee, lanky and languid Florida “salvage specialist,” found a young woman named Glory contemplating suicide on a beach. She’d had an astonishing run of bad luck and tragedy. He took her home, fed her and reassured her and took her to his bed, and eventually she went on with her life. She met an older man, Dr. Fortner Geiss, a prominent Chicago physician, who admitted to her he was dying, but they gave each other a couple good years, in spite of his adult children’s hostility. Now he’s dead, and she’s discovered that his considerable wealth has disappeared. In his last months, he’d converted everything to cash, which is nowhere to be found. The inevitable – but counterintuitive in such a good man – conclusion is that he’d been blackmailed.
So Glory calls on McGee. His deal is to look for things people have had stolen from them, and if he finds it he keeps half. That’s okay with her.
McGee flies to Chicago and agrees to look into the problem. He’s a little out of his element in a Chicago winter, and Dr. Geiss’s son and daughter are no warmer – especially his daughter Heidi, a gorgeous ice queen. It’s not a big surprise when Heidi becomes McGee’s special rehabilitation project.
One Fearful Yellow Eye is not, in my opinion, one of the best McGee novels in terms of plot. I thought the ending strayed a little close to deus ex machina.
But in terms of prose, I’d rate it one of MacDonald’s best. He was soaring as a stylist in those days. Although I’d entirely forgotten the plot here, I found more lines and passages than usual that had stuck in my mind from previous readings:
“Then, bless you, I fed him that speech you made a lifetime ago on Sanibel Island. If there was one sunset every twenty years, how would people react to them? If there were ten seashells in all the world, what would they be worth? If people could make love just once a year, how carefully would they pick their mates?”
The day was like a dirty galvanized bucket clapped down over the city….
I found a parking slot around the corner from Heidi’s place, and as I was going to enter the downstairs foyer, I turned on impulse and looked upward and picked out a big fat drifting flake, stuck my tongue out, and maneuvered under it. Consumer report: The snow is still pretty good. Cold as ever. Melts as fast. And you can’t hardly taste the additives.
Anyway, I got a kick out of One Fearful Yellow Eye. Cautions for sexual situations and violence.
Another Toby Peters novel by Stuart M. Kaminsky. Light, seriocomic entertainment. Can’t go wrong with these. In fact, I think I found Dancing In the Dark a little funnier than most of the others.
Hard-luck Hollywood PI Toby Peters has been having a run of unaccustomed good fortune. He actually has a little money in the bank for a change, and his creditors aren’t hounding him. Then he gets hired by Fred Astaire. Astaire’s job poses certain challenges. A woman named Lyla, mistress to gangster “Fingers” Intaglio (who got his nickname because he likes to cut people’s fingers off) demanded he get her dancing lessons from Astaire. Once Astaire agreed, she started pressuring him to go to bed with her, or else she’d denounce him to her knife-happy boyfriend. Toby’s on the case, even if it involves learning to dance – a pastime for which he has zero talent.
Before he knows it, Layla has been murdered, and she’s only the first of a string of victims. Backed up by his cowardly dentist friend and his gigantic ex-wrestler/poet office landlord, Toby does his best to avoid gangsters, solve the murders, and keep Astaire out of the newspapers. Meanwhile, he finds himself in a new relationship with a woman who got away many years ago.
The sexual mores here are not ones I approve of (but what else is new?). And Toby makes a decision to let one suspect off that puzzles me.
On the other hand, at one point he finds himself dancing with Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth. That seems to me to qualify as a good day even if somebody’s shooting at you.
Bottom line – Dancing In the Dark is a fun book, and one of my favorites in a fun series.
I thought, since it’s Friday, I’d post some music consistent with my overheated musings in yesterday’s post. So here’s a lovely arrangement of “This Is My Father’s World,” one of my old favorite hymns. It was originally published in 1901, with lyrics by Rev. Maltbie D. Babcock (1858-1901), a sadly short-lived Presbyterian pastor who published several popular hymns. The tune is Terra Beata, based on an English folk song. (And I’m pretty sure they cribbed the first line for the Shire theme in the Lord of the Rings movies.)
Pages 22 and 23 feature Dale’s article on Thomas Dewar Weldon (1896-1958), with whom Lewis had a variable relationship. They came to Oxford at the same time, and were good friends for a while. But even before he stopped being an atheist, Lewis grew weary of Weldon’s relentless, materialist cynicism. As a tutor in Moral Philosophy his teaching method (according to R. W. Johnson’s book, Look Back in Laughter: Oxford’s Postwar Golden Age) was to first demolish his students’ conventional beliefs, and then to demolish whatever new beliefs they constructed, until they were left “in a state of free-floating agnostic cleverness.”
Weldon declared, in a 1944 lecture at Bomber Command Headquarters, near Oxford, that the carpet bombing of German cities was justified because it would shorten the war and save lives. Lewis was already on the record, along with a number of Anglican clergy, as rejecting that argument categorically.
Weldon was (according to George Sayer) that “hardest-boiled atheist” who remarked to Lewis in his rooms one day that the evidence for the Resurrection of Christ was remarkably good, saying, “Rum thing,” as Lewis recalled in Surprised By Joy.
Weldon was also the model for the Dick Devine, the cynical, flippant character who’s so annoying in Out of the Silent Planet and (promoted to the title, Lord Feverstone) in That Hideous Strength.
“Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.” (Matthew 7:24-27, ESV)
Whenever I read the Sermon on the Mount, I’m struck by the surreal nature of the whole message. It’s as if someone told us, “Well, obviously the sky is green, and the quickest way to get from New York to San Francisco is by way of Hong Kong.” Look at the Beatitudes – “Lucky you if you’re spiritually poor! The Kingdom belongs to you! Lucky you if you’re mourning, because you’ll be comforted! Lucky you if people push you around, because you’ll inherit the whole shebang!”
These things are – very obviously – not factual, at least about life as we experience it. Jesus is turning our expectations upside down. The world doesn’t actually work the way you think it does, He’s saying. You need to zig when everybody else zags. You need to do take dangerous path instead of the safe one. Where there’s smoke, don’t expect fire. Don’t plan ahead. Don’t budget sensibly. Live like the birds of the air.
Live an impractical life.
And then, here at the end, He comes out with this metaphor of a rock. Which seems an obvious contradiction. He’s been telling us to build castles in the air, and now He’s saying, keep your feet on the ground, No, more than that – build your house on a rock. You need solid foundations.
The point, it seems to me, is this – Jesus is telling us not to believe our lying eyes. The world is not what we think it is. Everything that seems solid is in fact nebulous (a preview of modern Physics, perhaps?) while the really solid things are invisible and counterintuitive and have to be taken on faith.
Part 2: Emotion in faith
I’ve been thinking recently about the problem of emotion in our Christian faith.
I was raised, as I’ve told you, in the Pietist tradition. We believe in having what’s sometimes called an “Ah ha!” moment, when we receive Christ personally, often in a very passionate way. Much in our tradition is aimed at keeping that passion worked up. We’re warned against growing lukewarm, losing our first love.
The more high church tradition, against which my ancestors reacted, dismissed such thinking as “enthusiasm” (a negative term for them). They recognized – very sensibly – that it’s not only difficult, but ultimately self-defeating to try to live with our emotions perpetually amped up. It wears you down, emotionally and spiritually. (Remember how C. S. Lewis, in Surprised by Joy, describes abandoning his faith as a boy with great relief, after having worked very hard at keeping his fervor up?)
But the high church approach, to us Pietists, seems cold and lifeless.
It occurred to me that imagining the created universe as music, an idea I’ve been playing with recently, might help resolve this conundrum.
If you think of the Kingdom of God as a musical masterpiece, a symphony or an oratorio, then we believers are members of the orchestra, or the choir. If you don’t feel like playing or singing today, it doesn’t matter. You perform your part anyway. Just do the work. The music is the main thing.
And quite often, the music takes you by surprise and you get caught up in it spontaneously.
So when I pray or go to church or serve the in my vocation and “I’m not feeling it,” I do it all the same. Because the music is the main thing.
If my mind is on the music – the Kingdom of God – the religious ecstasy comes on its own timetable. “The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” (John 3:8)
Unless you’ve been in a monastery for a while, it would be pretty hard to read John Corwin’s Dead Before Dawn without thinking of Jack Reacher. Corwin’s hero, Amos Carver, is a former operative for yet another super-secret military black ops unit. But some years back the unit was abolished, with Carver left under a cloud of suspicion. His superior, a woman named Rhodes who’d been his friend, felt particularly betrayed. Carver dropped out of sight to live a beach bum’s life in Florida. Then he got a message from Rhodes, asking him to come quickly to the town of Morganville, Georgia, where she is now chief of police. Like Jack Reacher, he travels light, owning few possessions.
When Carver arrives in Morganville, hiking up the highway from the bus stop, he finds a pink pistol lying in the middle of the roadway. He knows that pistol – it belonged to Rhodes, who would never have mislaid it. Carver does not pick it up. He recognizes a set-up, and immediately goes on defense. The attack that’s supposed to kill him fails, and soon he’s in jail in Morganville, where someone tries to murder him in his cell. Those are just the first of the threats he’ll meet and handle in this town. Strategy was never Carver’s forte. He was a strong-arm guy, good at action. Rhodes was the thinker – but Carver will need to learn to think too before he can unravel a plot that just keeps leading to higher and higher-level conspiracies.
I have no complaints about the writing in Dead Before Dawn. It was professional and tight. The dramatic tension ratcheted up nicely all the way. The characters were adequate. There was even a happy ending of sorts.
My reservations are personal. I didn’t like the scenario of a guy going into fire fights against professionals with no backup except for two women (no doubt a concession to feminism, as if many women were going to read this book). I was also uncomfortable with the vigilante elements – vigilantism always troubles me, though I don’t deny it might be necessary in desperate situations. But I found it odd that a vigilante was called upon here to save (minor spoiler alert!) the rule of law in America.
Still, Dead Before Dawn was a good story, written by a professional. Can’t deny that. Worth the money.
It occurred to me this morning that (as far as I remember, in my increasing mental decrepitude), I’ve never yet inflicted on you my opinions on the subject of the Viking Funeral.
These opinions are strong.
The movie clip above, from the 1959 Kirk Douglas/Tony Curtis film, “The Vikings,” seems to have strongly influenced popular ideas about how the Vikings handled their dead. When I say, “Viking funeral,” that’s what people imagine. The corpse is placed on a pyre on the ship, the ship is launched out to sea, and the ship is set afire. The hero sails majestically off to Valhalla.
A few minutes’ critical thought will suggest to rational people that this is not a practical scheme.
First of all, you need a favorable wind. While you’re waiting for that (which could take a while) the corpse will be… ripening.
Secondly, the first thing to go up in flames would be the sail, which was generally made of wool impregnated with animal grease. That would go up like a match head. After which – oops! – the ship has no more wind power. Unless the wind is quite strong, the vessel will sit there burning down to the water line. What’s left will probably be left floating.
Or the wind may change and blow the whole thing back to shore and need to be dealt with all over again.
Finally, cremating a corpse is not as easy as most people think. You can’t just place a body on a pile of wood and expect it to be consumed. It takes very intense heat. Einar’s pyre in the movie doesn’t cut it.
In point of fact, we have no historical reports of such a funeral. There are legendary accounts – I know of two, one only similar. The first is in the myth of Baldur, where the god’s funeral ship is treated in just that way. The second is in the poem “Beowulf,” where the legendary Danish king Scyld Scefing is supposed to have been returned to the sea in a ship (he originally appears as a baby in a small boat, sort of like Moses). But that ship doesn’t burn. It just sails away into the other world. The idea is that Scyld came from the sea and is given back to it.
Both these accounts are legendary. The original listeners to the myth and the poem did not view them as how-to guides.
Archaeologists will tell you that there were two primary ways that high-status Vikings were sent off. The use of a ship or boat (or in some cases, an array of rocks placed in a ship shape) was common, and seems to suggest that the Norse believed that the afterlife involved some kind of voyage.
Depending on culture, historical period, and date, the bodies might be cremated before inhumation or not. Many believe that Christian influence was responsible for inhumation gaining popularity over time.
Grave goods were a necessity. The wealth of the family determined how much stuff would be buried with the dead – and there’s some evidence for a custom of ritually digging into graves and removing certain objects after a time.
Human sacrifice seems to have been common in elite funerals, and is attested by some excavated graves. There is no evidence whatever for the portrayal in the History Channel’s Vikings series showing sacrificial victims as free people who willingly volunteered for the job. The best account is the famous one from the Arab diplomat Ibn Fadlan (part of the basis for the movie, “The Thirteenth Warrior”), who described what seems to have been Vikings in Russia (though some historians dispute this identification). He describes the custom (in that particular setting) of a volunteer being called for (no doubt under considerable pressure) from among the slave girls, then being kept drunk (and likely drugged) through the days of the funeral feast, while being serially raped until she was finally stabbed and strangled. Horrific.
Call me narrow-minded, but I prefer the Christian way.
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