‘Lost On a Page,’ by David E. Sharp

[In case you’ve been wondering how my left eye is doing, post-surgery (cataract), I woke up this morning with clearer vision that I’d had when I went to bed. I believe it’s now better than it was then – but such things are hard to judge when the progress is slow. My retina surgeon led me to believe I’ll have permanent diminished sight, but the cataract guy thought he could restore it substantially. I await the final resolution of this contest of expertise.]

I knew this one was going to be strange, but it looked like it could be fun. And I guess it was, more or less. David E. Sharp’s Lost on a Page is a literary fantasy, in which characters from different genres interact, fighting and making alliances in a struggle against their own authors.

We meet Joe Slade as a hardboiled private eye in a typical urban nighttime setting, when he gets lured into chasing a strange group of people. They lead him into a library (or bookstore, I forget which), and somewhere in a maze of shelves they pass through a portal into a library in another world. There his new acquaintances reveal themselves to be an elf, a dwarf, and a wizardess. They reveal their discovery that they are characters in fictional fantasy stories, and they have decided to invade the World Where Books Are Made, to get revenge on their author for all the awful things he’s put them through. They’ve read Joe’s stories, and consider him just the ally they need for this violent job.

As they jump from fictional universe to fictional universe, they’ll find themselves in a Regency romance, a space travel story, and a zombie apocalypse novel. They’ll learn that there are things that the rules of fiction won’t permit them to do, and that different powers work differently in different worlds. And, of course, love with blossom.

Lost On a Page was a creative and original book, and amusing in places. I enjoyed the author’s self-mockery as the characters complained about their working conditions. However, I think the author also bit off more than he could chew. The book was awfully complicated, with settings and rules changing from scenario to scenario. And the author’s vocabulary wasn’t up to his challenges. For instance, when they jumped into the Regency romance, he tried to adopt the literary style of such books, with unhappy results: “Any afficionado would lecture this was a wine to be savored slowly and to which one should pay great homage.”

I finished the book, but it annoyed me. You might like it, though, especially if you’re a Jasper Fforde fan.

Post-cataract patriotic stuff

Here I am, in spite of my augurings yesterday, having risen from a bed of pain just to craft a blog post for you. And you alone. (I think that’s about the total size of our readership.)

I’m happy to report that, in spite of my warnings, I do have the ability to read a computer screen, and am capable of posting in a languid, invalid fashion. (I heard that! Somebody said, “How will that be any different?”)

I can report, since I know you’ve been holding your breath about it, that my cataract surgery went just fine. Everything looks good. I did not acquire immediate clear vision in my affected eye; they tell me that’ll probably take two or three days in my case. But everything seems to be squared away, ship shape and Bristol fashion. Thank you for your prayers.

Tomorrow is Independence Day. Hence, I post above the classic movie performance of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” by that noted Norwegian-American actor, James Cagney. (Seriously. His mother’s father was a Norwegian sea captain.)

Have a free and brave Fourth!

‘The Kingdom of Cain,’ by Andrew Klavan, further thoughts

[Blogger’s note: I may or may not be able to post tomorrow. I’ll be having cataract surgery, and experience suggests I may not be able to read a computer screen for the rest of the day. Thank you for understanding.]

But philosophers, for their misfortune, are not the only people in the world. Genuinely mad and frantic people are all around them and do them the worst turn of all: they take them at their word.

I make it a practice to read Andrew Klavan’s non-fiction books at least twice. (And there’s more than a good chance I’ll get the audiobook of The Kingdom of Cain to listen to while I drive to Minot for Høstfest this fall.) So I sat down with it again yesterday, and found it just as compelling as on the first reading. Klavan offers new insights on good, evil, and art. And sometimes – I flatter myself – we think on parallel lines.

When I first reviewed The Kingdom of Cain, I mentioned two famous murders Klavan describes, which have gone on to inspire numerous works of imagination – the case of Ed Gein (who inspired “Psycho” and string of slasher movies), and the case of the original murderer, Cain.

But I neglected to cite one murder he spends considerable time on, one which – though pretty sordid in its own right – has had a remarkably prestigious literary progeny. That is the case of Pierre Francois Lacenaire, a pretentious Parisian thief who, with an accomplice, murdered a con man and his bedridden mother in 1834, to steal money that wasn’t there. It was far from the perfect crime – the two murderers were quickly arrested by the “stupid” police and put on trial for their lives.

But for Lacenaire, this development provided the one thing he’d always wanted – celebrity. He was a handsome man, and now he assumed the role of Byronic hero. He was, according to himself, a genius chained down by poverty and the injustices of society. He had struck back against the universe like some Titan out of Greek mythology. The public ate it up. Ladies loved him. Lacenaire went to the guillotine, but he went a famous man.

Lacenaire, Klavan says, was treading in the footsteps of the Marquis de Sade, whom he considers the only really self-consistent atheist philosopher. If there is no God, Sade reasoned, there is nothing in the world but power. Since one can’t be certain that other people even exist, and since one can’t feel anyone else’s pain, the only moral course is to increase one’s own personal power. Greater power gives one the scope to increase one’s pleasure, the only good we can know. One ought to do everything one can to increase one’s power, so one can force others to serve one’s pleasure. Any talk of love or compassion is unscientific sentiment, the excuse of the weak and cowardly.

Fyodor Dostoevsky recognized this logic – and rejected it. He had suffered imprisonment, had almost been executed, and had found God in suffering. So he wrote Crime and Punishment, one of the world’s great novels, based on Lacenaire’s crime, but refuting its logic.

But Friederich Nietzsche recognized the argument, too. And he agreed that God was dead – that we had killed God. Therefore, we now faced the terrible duty of becoming gods ourselves, so that we could forge a new, stronger morality.

Nietzsche despised antisemites. But his sister, who became his literary executor, was a violent hater of Jews. She worked to popularize her late brother’s writings among the rising Nazi Party.

And we know what fruit that bore.

That sequence is just part of the whole narrative of The Kingdom of Cain. The book is not only an essay on art, but a work of theodicy – an effort to explain how there can be evil if God is good. The answer to that, Klavan argues, will not be found in reason, but in art. Because art speaks in a more compelling language, offering not arguments, but a loving Face, for those with eyes to see.

Anyway, The Kingdom of Cain is a great book. It may prove a classic. It has my highest recommendation.

‘An Honest Man,’ by Michael Koryta

“The past wasn’t all a lie, and the future isn’t all hopeless,” he went on. “That’s the way people on that island feel now, like they’re in one camp or the other. Either everything was bad or everything will be bad, right?”

It’s pretty rare for me to embrace a book whose message I’m not sure I like. But such is the power of Michael Koryta’s An Honest Man. (I reviewed another book called An Honest Man the other day. This was the result of a confusion on my part, when I was attempting to buy this one.) It’s a beautiful book that will linger with the reader.

Israel Pike went to prison some years back for killing his own father in a fit of rage. Now he’s paroled and back in his home, the moribund community of Salvation Point Island off the Maine coast. He has almost no friends there, not even his uncle, the assistant sheriff, who in fact hates him and is trying to find an excuse to send him back to prison.

One morning Israel sees a yacht drifting offshore, and rows out to check on it. Inside he finds the bodies of seven men, all shot to death. Naturally, Israel’s uncle points to him as the most likely suspect, but he can’t pin it on him.

But there are things Israel isn’t telling the police. He has secrets, and he knows more than he’s telling. But then, the whole community is hiding its own wicked secrets.

Meanwhile, a young boy named Lyman Rankin is living on a smaller, nearby island with his alcoholic, abusive father. When Lyman discovers a wounded young woman hiding in an abandoned house nearby, he puts himself at risk to help her and keep her secret. A bond develops between the two, even as his father grows increasingly suspicious and brutal.

An Honest Man is not only an exciting and well-constructed thriller. It’s also a heartbreakingly beautiful story about truth and beauty. It moved me deeply.

It also troubled me. One theme of this story seemed to be that lying is not only permissible, but admirable, in the right situation. (I’d like to hear the author debate Jordan Peterson, who says lies invariably come back to bite you.)

On the other hand, another theme seems to be that big, widespread, agreed-upon lies are wicked and must be brought to light.

In any case, An Honest Man was an amazing book to read. I give it the highest recommendation. Cautions for all you’d expect.