All posts by Lars Walker

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The scourge of yet more ‘Vikings’

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“How long, O Lord?” said the prophet (Isaiah 6:11 is a prominent example of the theme, but several prophets asked the same question with – it seems to me – some justification). I am no prophet, nor the son of a prophet (Amos 7:14), but the same question has occurred to me now and then too. Right now I’m wondering how long, O Lord, this “Vikings” series will plague me.

I’m happy to report that I have at last finished all 6 seasons of the History Channel “Vikings” travesty. The longer the thing went on, the more the writers seemed unconstrained by the petty straitjacket of actual facts. Occasionally a historical character shows up, less often a historical event. But they are portrayed in ways the writers must have thought clever (like hand-operated paddlewheel landing craft for an invasion). I have endured all these outrages with the patient endurance of a Christian. And now I find that lo, my travails are not ended. For I’m going to have to go on to watch the sequel, Netflix’s “Vikings: Valhalla” series.

The thing is, the topic I’ve been commissioned to write about is the conversion of the Vikings to Christianity. And it’s not that the original series didn’t deal with the issue – it’s just that they dealt with it in ways that don’t have much to do with my thesis. The Vikings in this series are treated as an ethnic group (which is not what “Viking” originally meant), and they’re all proudly and stubbornly heathen. Christianity has made almost no inroad among them (in this production) by the time of King Alfred the Great’s victory over their armies at Edington. This was not the case in real life. The conflict of faiths is treated here as almost a religious war, which (in my moderately educated opinion) it was not. The Vikings on the series are always talking about their gods as “the true gods.” They didn’t really think that way historically. They were actually more like Hindus, recognizing any god they happened to encounter. They’d be happy to acknowledge the Christian god too, except for His offensive insistence on monotheism.

What I want to write about is the progress of Christianity in Scandinavia itself. I’ve avoided reading much about this new Netflix sequel series, but I understand it involves Jarl Haakon (gender-switched, because of course he/she is), and Harald Hardrada. So they’ve got to touch on my topic.

Therefore, I must gird up my loins for the ordeal.

And I believe I can do this. A couple weeks ago it would have been harder. I’ve always had an irrational and extreme response to watching programs I considered stupid or offensive. Such experiences raised very painful feelings in me.

But in just the last couple weeks, I seem to have made a breakthrough. I’ve found what appears to be a “brain hack” that helps me regulate my emotions better than in the past. I’m not going to go into detail about it now – I want to see whether the effect lasts, and even if it does it may not be applicable to anyone else.

But, like Alfred the Great, I believe I now am equipped to go forth and face the “Vikings.”

Authors, Reviews

Theatrical review: ‘Further Up and Further In’

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I had a great experience Saturday afternoon (before all the shock of the events in Pennsylvania). Max McLean was in town with the Fellowship for the Performing Arts production of “Further Up and Further In.” A friend of a friend had bought a block of tickets, they had a seat free, and my friend arranged for me to get in.

“Further Up and Further In” is a splendid example of a one-man show. The performance time (about an hour and 20 minutes) rushed by.

I’d seen McLean’s work before, having bought the DVD of “The Most Reluctant Convert.” I thought it an impressive low-budget production, though McLean seemed a little rubber-faced in the role of Lewis. I suspected that the stage was his true medium, and was gratified to be proved right.

I read an article years ago that said that if you only know Sir Laurence Olivier from the movies, you have no idea what a genius he was. He was directed to subdue his reactions and his gestures for the more intimate environment of film. But some spark (the author said) was lost.

McLean doesn’t seem to have subdued his performance greatly for the movie, but on stage this approach is highly effective. The dramatic scenario here is that we’re having a conversation with Lewis in his study in the year 1950, but of course it’s not really like that. Lewis would never have gesticulated as McLean does – these exertions are for the audience in the upper decks. (Also, Jack Lewis would have been smoking constantly, which does not happen in this play.) What we actually have here is a long sermon – but it’s a brilliant sermon, cut-and-pasted from Lewis’ articles, books, and letters. It’s all vivid and exciting, and the stage furniture – desk, wing-backed chair and drinks cabinet – sits before a large rear projection screen that displays images illustrating the narrative.

The text deals with problems of faith such as how we can believe in God at all, and how to deal with the problem of pain. It ends with Lewis speculating on ultimate things, on the end of the world (he quotes heavily from the sermon, “The Weight of Glory”) and the wonders of Heaven.

If “Further Up and Further In” comes to your town, I highly recommend going to see it. I had an exhilarating time.

Reading

Kristin Lavransdatter’s Husaby

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The video above shows the farm and neighborhood landscape which Sigrid Undset appropriated for the setting of the second novel in her Kristin Lavransdatter trilogy — The Wife.

This is not the kind of Norwegian scenery that generally gets promoted in the world. This is in the Trondelag, one of Norway’s best agricultural areas. The Viking kings made the town of Nidaros in the Trondelag their capitol — today it’s called Trondheim. Stiklestad, where Saint Olaf was killed, is also in the Trondelag (that will be described in The Baldur Game, and I promise I’m working at it as fast as I can). I had some ancestors from that area myself.

The farm where Kristin and her husband Erlend live in the novel is called Husaby. This is a significant name — historians note that many farms belonging to kings were called Husaby (it means “house town,” I think). So when Erlend brought Kristin to a farm called Husaby, we’re meant to understand that it was a place that carried some prestige, regardless how poorly he’d been managing it.

Yes, thanks for asking, I am still reading The Wife. Got some distance to go.

Have a wonderful weekend.

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Random Norse stuff

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The curse of reading long books is that I’m forced to bore you in these posts with the details of my life, which is more than most a mundane one. I go days without talking to anyone, for instance, and it doesn’t bother me at all. Makes for dull reading, though. I am self-aware enough to grasp that.

And yes, I’m still slogging through the Vikings series on Netflix. I’ve found that it helps to hate-watch it. I expect “hate-watch” is even a term people use out in that wide world I’ve heard about – watching a show or series, concentrating on the pleasure of hating everyone involved. Every time a character dies on the series – sympathetic or unsympathetic – I cheer inwardly – “There’s one I won’t have to watch anymore!” One bad haircut and impractical costume that will not offend my eyes henceforth. A few pages of clunky dialogue I’ll be spared.

I’m closing in on the end of the fourth season. Then Season Five has twenty more episodes, apparently. I pray to Heaven I’ll learn enough that’s relevant to my assignment so that I won’t have to move on to Vikings Valhalla, where (according to what I’ve read), they turned Jarl Haakon of Hladir, whom you may remember from The Year of the Warrior and Death’s Doors, into a Strong Black Woman.

When I ponder these matters, I am convicted that our societal sins must have been very great, to merit our hoisting by such a petard as this.

I had a nice surprise today. I got my first invitation in many years to lecture again on a cruise. Not a bad deal either – Iceland and Greenland (where I’d love to go), and they’d spring for my air fare and cut my cruise fee in half. Still, I can’t justify it fiscally, at this point in my pilgrimage. And the booking company shows no signs of further compromise.

Nevertheless, it was nice to be asked. I’d thought they’d forgotten about me completely.

Bookselling, Reading

Booklisti, and a reading report

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First of all, business. Feel free to check out the new listing I have on Booklisti. They asked me to make a list books of my own, and one of books that I wanted to recommend, for any reason. A fascinating look into my fascinating mind. For which the world, of course, has been eagerly waiting. Feel free to share it with seekers after truth and beauty.

Updating my personal situation, I’m delighted to report that my air conditioning is operative again – at last. (Just in time for a heat wave.) I haven’t checked precisely, but I think I was without it for about a month. Roughing it. Living as my ancestors did – or as I did when I was a kid, to tell the truth. I’m old enough to remember when air conditioning was still a luxury in northern states.

The problem, as I’ve explained, was that my home warranty company (which shall remain nameless) preferred to go the cheap-but-lengthy route of repair over replacement. I suppose there must be some way to register a complaint on their webside, but if there is, it’s pretty carefully concealed from the customers.

I’ve tackled another long book, which will delay my next review. I can give updates as I go, though. I’m reading The Wife, volume 2 of Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter (I reviewed the first volume a little while back). A passage that caught my interest today was this one, involving a visit by Kristin’s father, Lavrans, to her and her husband Erlend’s new home at Husaby (near Trondheim):

…they were accompanied by two gentlemen whom Kristin didn’t know. But Erlend was very surprised to see his father-in-law in their company—they were Erling Vidkunsson from Giske and Bjarkøy, and Haftor Graut from Godøy.

Like any crank, I know things most people don’t – about matters of no interest to anyone else. What sparks my attention in this passage is the estates this Erling Vidkunsson owns. Giske was the home of Thorberg Arnesson, who married Erling Skjalgsson’s daughter Ragnfrid (as described in my novel King of Rogaland). And Bjarkøy was the home of Thore Thoresson (remembered by history as Thore Hund, Thore the Dog), whose brother Sigurd married Erling’s sister Sigrid. The fact that this man (who’s likely a documented historical character – there are plenty of them in these books) carries Erling’s name suggests he’s a descendent of these people, and thus a descendant of Erling himself.

That’s all. It just pleases me to discover Erling connections in my reading.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Toxic Prey,’ by John Sandford

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I wouldn’t go so far as to say John Sandford’s series of Prey novels is losing its momentum. Sandford is still a professional who serves up professional entertainment. But I can’t help feeling the character of Lucas Davenport has become an anachronism, and his act just doesn’t work like it used to.

The opening of Toxic Prey (Book 34 in the series) is pretty neatly done. The author introduces a character in a highly sympathetic, highly admirable light. Then we learn that he’s a psychopath planning mass murder. Dr. Lionel Scott has grown convinced that we face global disaster if we don’t radically reduce the earth’s population. And he has engineered a hybrid virus capable of doing just that. He and his little group of fanatics have a plan to spread that virus, beginning in Taos, New Mexico and from there, pretty much everywhere.

But the Department of Homeland Security has gotten a tip about it, and they send their top agent, Letty Davenport – Lucas Davenport’s adopted daughter. She has recently gotten involved with an English MI-5 agent, who also comes along for the adventure. And the US Marshals send in her dad, along with his highly skilled, ethnically and sexually diverse, team.

What strikes me constantly in these later Lucas Davenport books (and in the real world he’d be long retired by now) is how awkwardly they fit our times. Aside from exciting plots, author Sandford’s great strength has always been the relationships between the cops, expressed especially in hilarious cop banter – usually obscene. But the books have kept up with the times – now about half the cops are female. And you know what – I just don’t believe the banter anymore. Guys who talk that way around women these days find themselves called on the carpet by Human Resources.

But I ought to note that he takes time out to praise John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee novels here. I’m always grateful for that.
And it should be noted that the bad guys in this book are on the left. You don’t see that often.

Aside from my personal quibbles, Toxic Prey is a perfectly satisfying thriller. Cautions for adult situations and language.

Religion

‘The glory and honor of the nations’

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Photo credit: Sebastian Gabriel, sgabriel. Unsplash license.

And how was your Independence Day? I feel like I spent the whole long weekend watching that bloody Vikings series, and I sympathize with the Dark Age Christians who are supposed to have prayed (there’s some controversy about this) “A furore normannorum, libera nos Domine” (From the fury of the Northmen, deliver us, O Lord”).

I mean, will the cursed thing never end? I finally finished Season Four, which turned out to be a double season – twenty episodes. And Season Five apparently has the same number. I grow grateful that they compressed the timeline – an accurate chronology might kill me off. Yet another martyr of Viking atrocities.

The more I watch, the more I’m impressed that the writers and producers simply had no interest in real Vikings at all. They invented some fantasy barbarians, in fantasy outfits and haircuts, and injected them into a fast-forward early medieval chronology. Here and there they throw in an authentic (or semi-authentic) artifact to make it look good, but basically they’re just spitballing – probably under the influence of drugs.

Well, enough of my problems. Let’s turn to something inspirational. Here’s part of what I read in my devotions this morning, from Revelation 21:22-27:

And I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and its lamp is the Lamb. By its light will the nations walk, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it, and its gates will never be shut by day—and there will be no night there. They will bring into it the glory and the honor of the nations. But nothing unclean will ever enter it, nor anyone who does what is detestable or false, but only those who are written in the Lamb’s book of life.

This is part of the big triumph scene in Revelation. God’s enemies have been conquered and disposed of in the Lake of Fire along with the devil and his angels. God’s eternal Kingdom has been revealed – it’s a huge city, perfectly square in shape. (I take this as a contrast with the earlier statement that the sea will be no more. The sea in Scripture symbolizes chaos and disorder, the unruly things God bridled at Creation, and which have now been abolished forever. Instead we now have the City Foursquare, solid, flawless, unshakeable. All the wrong and injustice of the world is gone. No longer will anyone complain that life makes no sense. In the Kingdom, it does make sense. Life is fair at last.)

And I was struck by these verses: “The kings of the earth will bring their glory into it….They will bring into it the glory and the honor of the nations.”

What does that mean? I can’t make pronouncements, being neither a theologian nor a Greek scholar, but what struck me immediately was that the glory and honor of the nations had formerly been outside the Kingdom, and will now be brought into it.

To me that suggests cultural and intellectual glory and honor. The art and philosophy of Athens. The wisdom of China. The strength of Rome. The subtle delicacy of Japan. The courage and honor of Native Americans. The creativity of Africans. No beautiful thing will be lost – they’ll be taken as spoils by the true Kingdom and brought into the City, to the glory of God and for the delight of His elect.

It’s like a backwards missionary effort – even the old heathen things will be christened. As Chesterton wrote in “The Ballad of the White Horse”: “Because it is only Christian men, Guard even heathen things.”

I took that (perhaps in arrogance) as a possible benison on my Viking books.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Hound of the Baskervilles,’ by Arthur Conan Doyle

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A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a melancholy throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression on his face.

“Queer place, the moor!” said he.

“But what is it?”

“The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its prey. I’ve heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud.”

I looked round, with a chill fear in my heart, at the huge swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor behind us.

The origins of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s book, The Hound of the Baskervilles, are fairly well known. When Doyle returned from medical service in the Boer War in 1901, he had not written a Sherlock Holmes story since 1893, when he killed the detective off for good and all (or so he thought) in The Final Problem. Doyle was tired of writing detective stories. He found them formulaic and uninspiring. But the public was still hungry for more, and, after a tour of Dartmoor with a journalist friend, he hit on a fresh kind of Holmes adventure. Technically he didn’t resurrect his character at that time – he set the story back in 1889, before his “death.” He seems to have been inspired by the legend of Squire Richard Cabell of Brook Hall in Devon, who was remembered as “a monstrously evil man.”

As the story begins, Holmes and Watson are visited by Dr. James Mortimer, who tells them the story of his late friend Sir Charles Baskerville of Baskerville Hall in Devonshire, who died (apparently) of fright on his country estate one night. Mortimer says that he himself observed the footprint of “a gigantic hound” near the body – and Sir Charles had been living in fear of a legendary hellhound said to haunt his family on account of the wicked deeds of one of their ancestors.

Now, Mortimer says, the new heir, Sir Henry Baskerville, is coming from Canada. Although, as a man of science, he has a hard time believing in demons, he is uneasy about Sir Henry’s safety, and wishes Holmes to help protect him. Shortly after Sir Henry’s arrival, he receives a sinister warning letter made of words cut out of a newspaper and pasted on paper, and Holmes also observes him being followed by a bearded man in a cab.

Nevertheless, Holmes claims prior commitments that prevent his traveling to Devon for the moment. Instead he sends Dr. Watson, with instructions to keep him informed of developments by letter.

What follows is a rather delicious gothic mystery, complete with a bleak setting on the moors, the baying of an unseen hound, the presence of a fugitive murderer, and a mysterious figure observed watching from a hilltop in the nighttime. It all leads to a headlong, shocking climax.

The Hound of the Baskervilles was the first Holmes story I ever read (my Aunt Midge gave me a copy when I was in junior high), and it made me an immediate – and lifelong – Holmes fan. I find it hard to believe that Doyle – in spite of his expressed weariness with his character – did not have fun writing it. If he was looking for a fresh approach to telling detective tales, he found it.

I might also mention (and this impressed me) that way back in 1902, Doyle (perhaps because he was a physician) had the sense (unlike a thousand mystery writers who came after him) to realize that the right way to break down a locked door is to kick it in with the sole of your foot, not slam your shoulder into it.

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Born on the Fourth of July

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Today is not only the anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. It is also the birthday of one of our greatest presidents – the only president born on the Fourth – John Calvin Coolidge (1872-1933).

I recently heard a speech by a noted historian – I won’t say who – who took time out of a lecture on an entirely different topic to sneer at Calvin Coolidge. This raised my hackles. Coolidge is one of my favorite presidents. He did exactly what the Constitution requires of a president – as little as possible. He was a model statesman, a modern Cincinnatus (look him up).

He was also famous for being sparing with words, which makes him a model for writers too.

Above, a short and pithy speech from Silent Cal – about freedom and taxation.

And here’s the text of an Independence Day address by Coolidge. I find no fault with it. (Hat tip: Instapundit)

Happy Independence Day!

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My evil eye

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Photo credit HLS 44. Free to use under Unsplash License.

I know you’re aching to know how all my household crises are going. I’m happy to report that I got my new roof yesterday. (They taught me in radio broadcast to pronounce the double-o in roof like “brew,” not “look,” but I always feel a little pretentious doing it. Though I do do it.) It was a bit of a surprise, actually. I had understood the representative who’d last called me  to say that they were going to delay it a couple days, but there they were at 7:00 a.m., smack in the middle of my writing time. I’d wanted to warn my neighbors (with whom I share a driveway) about their arrival, but there was no time for that now. And they parked their dumpster trailer for the scraps right in that driveway.

The workers, however, labored rapidly and efficiently, and they cleaned up so well afterward that the yard looks better than before. And my new shingles are what they call “architectural,” which seems to mean they’re thicker. Quite nice looking, really.

My air conditioner, on the other hand, remains a dead soldier. I get a call from the HVAC company every few days, telling me they’re still waiting for the replacement compressor being sent by the home warranty company. That compressor is apparently a rare and precious item, and must be transported over the smoothest roads at a speed of no more than 30 mph.

I did get another thing accomplished, though, on Monday. I went to the Minnesota equivalent of the DMV, sat for an hour or so, and got my driver’s license renewed. Which brings us to the curious incident of the license photo.

By some strange providence, I do not share the common human complaint of taking bad document photos. It’s an irony that a man as unattractive as I am almost always takes a good picture. My old license photo was rather charming (if I do say so myself). I looked a little like Gabby Hayes in mid-chuckle.

But for some odd reason I found myself thinking about how to make the new photo better. I decided I wanted to look forceful. Stare directly into the lens. Be forthright. An alpha male. A Chad.

When I saw the final photo, though, I was a little shocked. The photo at the top of this post suggests its expression (just add 40 years, 50 pounds, and a gray beard).

I had no intention of looking angry. Just determined. But angry is what I got.

And it occurs to me to ask, “Does this contribute to my lifelong problem with making eye contact?”

I’ve long known that direct eye contact makes me uncomfortable. This is common in people on the autistic scale, even low on the scale (as I appear to be).

But if this is how I look when I do make eye contact, maybe I scare other people too. Maybe when I run away, they’re running as well.

It’s kind of like the mark of Cain. Troubling.