Fiction, Reviews

‘Envy the Night,’ by Michael Koryta

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“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Frank said, “You know what he does. You know what he is. So how the h*ll do you love him so clean?”

“Hon,” she said, “whoever said anything about it being clean?”

Frank Temple III, hero of Envy the Night, by Michael Koryta, is the son of a former hero, a decorated US marshal who disgraced himself and his family when he was revealed to have become a killer-for-hire. He killed himself, leaving his son – who had adored him, and whom he had trained in the martial arts – disillusioned and rootless in the world.

Frank III kept possession of the cabin in the north woods of Wisconsin that held some of his favorite memories of his dad, though he never visits. His father’s old friend Ezra also maintains the nearby island cabin belonging to Devin Matteson, the colleague who corrupted and betrayed Frank’s father. They left Devin alone, but they have an agreement – if Devin ever tries to come back, they’ll kill him.

Now Frank has gotten the word – Devin is on his way. So Frank is headed to Wisconsin, to a showdown with Devin, and with the truth of his father’s life and death, and to his own destiny.

You want to learn how to write mystery thrillers? Read Michael Koryta. Reading Envy the Night, I marveled at the way every story element – prose, characters, dialogue, plot – all worked together to produce a perfect payoff. I find no fault with this book (except for Koryta’s idiosyncratic approach to paragraphing, which seems to be a lost cause).

Highly recommended.

Music, Poetry

‘Solveig’s Song’

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It’s Friday and I have neither a book to review nor a useful thought in my head. Therefore, I shall post a Sissel song.

(And there was great rejoicing.)

Yesterday, I might mention, was my birthday – and one of the big milestone ones. I won’t say which one, of course. Suffice it to say that I’ve outlived 3 of my grandparents, and one of my parents. The meditations this fact arouses in me are not, generally, comforting.

I pondered what kind of song would be suitable to commemorate my oldness and fullness of days. Nothing really commended itself, so I finally figured, well, just post a Sissel piece. What haven’t I done yet?

And I realized I’d never posted “Solveig’s Song.”

(I think. Checking would be too much trouble.)

Even if you’re not Norwegian (unlikely as that is), you’ve probably heard this melody somewhere before. It’s one of the classics from Edvard Grieg – part of the incidental music he wrote for Henrik Ibsen’s controversial, experimental play, “Peer Gynt.”

I will confess – I’ve never read “Peer Gynt.” It appeals to me more than most of Ibsen’s works (I’m not a fan), but from all I hear, it’s a “challenging” and obscure work, about a man who seems to be – like Ibsen himself – obstinately difficult and antisocial. He kidnaps a bride from her wedding, abandons her, and then is joined by Solveig (the Solveig of the song), the daughter of Haugean pietists (my people). He runs away from her too, in order to spend his life in foreign parts, seeking wealth, which he loses in the end. In the last act, he returns to Solveig, who has remained faithful to him, and tells him that he has committed no sin. Then she (probably) dies (the script isn’t clear).

Anyway, “Solveig’s Song” is a solo earlier in the play, in which Solveig expresses her faithful (I might say stupid) love. I suppose Solveig is meant to represent the mercy of God in some way, though (lumpkin that I am) I don’t really see it.

But Sissel sure sings it beautifully.

Have a good weekend.

Religion, Uncategorized

In defense of young men

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Photo credit: Drew Dizzy Graham. Unsplash license.

Should I comment on the Sydney Sweeney controversy? Let’s see – I’m an aging, lifelong celibate male with a shyness disorder. Obviously well qualified to opine on issues of sexuality.

First of all, I shall declare myself entirely on the side of American Eagle. I salute a return to traditional, sex-exploiting advertising. People (even women) like to look at beautiful women, and beautiful women sell product. I’ve missed that crass commercialism. Not only is it good for business, it makes the world (I think) a happier place.

Many Christians, I’ve noticed, strongly disagree. They caution against the display of sexiness, arguing that it incites men to lust in their hearts.

I’ve agonized over that issue all my life. Now that it’s pretty much an academic one for me, I want to say this publicly (many will disagree, I’m sure): When Jesus said that lust in a man’s heart was equivalent to adultery, I don’t think simply seeing an attractive woman and being sexually interested, was what he had in mind. I think Jesus was speaking in hyperbolic terms here, to demonstrate to us our complete inability to be clean before God. He certainly wanted us to curb our lust, but I don’t think He intended to demand asexuality of men, except for when they’re alone with their wives. (I think the sin is in actually contemplating an adulterous act.)

I’ve spent a lot of time lately with my novel Troll Valley. The audiobook version is being evaluated by the Amazon ACX people, and I’m almost ready to release a paperback version too. This is my most autobiographical book, despite the fact that almost none of the events in it bear any relation to my own experience. It’s autobiographical in terms of the Haugean, pietist community in which I grew up. I hope the book expresses, to some extent, how much I appreciate that heritage, but also the problems I discern in it.

One of those problems, I think, is the guilt it lays on boys and young men, the impression conveyed that just being a functioning male is somehow a shameful thing. Sadly, that view of manhood finds support in our time among the feminists, who say the same sort of thing, even more emphatically.

I have never solved the problem of “lusting in the heart” in my own life. In my youth, as an interested non-player, I was an outlier – a weirdo. But in more recent times – to my horror – I see young men rising around me everywhere who seem just like me. Sometimes they’re called Incels. Basement dwellers. There are probably other nicknames for them I haven’t heard yet, but they all describe much the same thing – unfinished young men who are too terrified to find a mate in a world that seems determined to portray them as subhuman losers. I am, in a sense, a father to those young men; I am their avatar.

I think the church needs to offer something to those young men. Something stronger than what we’ve got. Something a little more dangerous. Something edgy.

But I don’t know what that is. I certainly never found it in my own life.

The ideal solution, I think, would be arranged marriages. Historically, arranged marriages have an excellent track record. However, I don’t think the young people would go for it. Also, it’s probably illegal.

But we need something new. I want to see young men swaggering like Kirk Douglas. Grinning at women like Burt Lancaster. Sweeping the girls off their feet like Clark Gable.

I think – personally – that (generally speaking) that would please God, who made Sydney Sweeney beautiful, not without reason.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Silent Hour,’ by Michael Koryta

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“I’ve got to live with that,” he said, “and all I can do, the only way I know to cope with it, is by looking for atonement. Because while his blood might be on my hands, I didn’t kill him—and if I can see that whoever did kill him is punished? Perry, that’s the closest thing I’ve got to redemption.”

The Lincoln Perry detective series by Michael Koryta comes to an end with The Silent Hour – though the conclusion is open-ended, and I imagine there could be more coming down the line.

The great pleasure in these books, I think, is the plotting – these are the kinds of stories where you think you have the solutions, and then further mysteries open up, like petals in a flower, till you finally reach the shocking heart of things. In this case – and I may be being pretentious here – I thought I saw the same thing going on, on a subtextual level, making this a meta-mystery.

Lincoln Perry has had a rough time in his most recent big cases. He got his partner shot and nearly killed. He got his girlfriend into danger. He isn’t much interested when a quiet man named Parker Harrison comes to him – repeatedly – asking him to look into a twelve-year-old mystery. A couple named Cantrell had run a rehabilitation program for ex-convicts – one of whom was Harrison himself. Twelve years ago they disappeared. Harrison wants to find out what happened to them.

Lincoln isn’t much interested in the case – even less so when he learns that the missing wife was sister to one of Cleveland’s chief crime lords. But Harrison gets through to him at last. He agrees to look into it.

Before too long, someone Lincoln likes is dead. Lincoln goes sour, not only on the case, but on the very idea of being a private investigator. Should he just pack it in? Is the game worth the candle?

The question is an existential one – why do we feel the need to solve mysteries? To learn the truth? At what cost? Is it worth people’s lives?

I wish there were more Lincoln Perry novels to read after The Silent Hour. As it is, I’ll go on to other Michael Koryta novels, as well as his Scott Carson books.

I wish he’d work out his paragraph protocols, though. The breaks in the text are unnecessarily confusing.

Fiction, Reviews

‘A Welcome Grave,’ by Michael Koryta

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I’ve reached Book 3 in Michael Koryta’s Lincoln Perry detective series, A Welcome Grave. Lincoln, our hero, has a girlfriend whom he loves, but he also has a past. Once he was engaged to a woman, but she broke it off, later marrying an older, millionaire lawyer. Lincoln responded in character – he punched the guy in the face, ending his own police career.

Now, years later, that man is dead – tortured to death. Lincoln gets a call from the widow, who wants him to locate her stepson, who ran off some time ago and has a substantial inheritance coming. Lincoln isn’t happy about the job, but feels obligated to take it. He finds the young man, too – but he’s not prepared for his shocking reaction. Nor is he prepared for the local cop who decides that Lincoln Perry will be the chief suspect in the father’s murder case. Suspicions are increased as clue after clue pops up to frame him, neatly orchestrated. Lincoln will have to work fast, and be very smart, to keep out of jail. And then the stakes will be raised yet again.

The Lincoln Perry books are simply very good. Well written and engaging. There’s plenty of action, but the emphasis is on the characters.

A Welcome Grave is highly recommended, with the usual cautions for grownup stuff.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Sorrow’s Anthem,’ by Michael Koryta

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I am finding, in Michael Koryta’s Lincoln Perry novels, a pleasure I haven’t enjoyed (at least to this extent) since I first read Andrew Klavan’s under-appreciated Weiss/Bishop novels – a series of free-standing stories that nevertheless form a larger, coherent narrative in which the main characters develop. Sorrow’s Anthem is the second book in the series.

Ed Gradduk and Lincoln Perry were best friends as boys. They lived in the same neighborhood, played together, made mischief together. But Lincoln grew up to be a cop, then a private investigator, while Ed got into trouble and went to prison. Worse than that, it was Lincoln who sent him down. He didn’t mean to – he offered him a chance to get off if he’d testify against his associates, but Ed kept mum and did his time.

But now he’s out and in trouble again, charged with murder and arson. Lincoln goes to look for him, and finds him. But Ed has something he wants to explain before Lincoln takes him in. Except that he’s dead before he can finish his story. Agonized by his guilt over failing his old friend, Lincoln sets about discovering Ed’s secret, and the reason why someone thought he had to die. He’ll find himself up against crooked cops, crooked politicians, and organized crime before he blows it all open.

Koryta writes a great story. He generally doesn’t produce the kind of memorable prose that makes Raymond Chandler or John D. MacDonald so quotable, but every line does its job and the final effect goes directly to the heart.

My only quibbles are first (as I’ve mentioned before) paragraph breaks are inconsistent and confusing. Prose of this quality deserves better page setup. Also, Koryta is one of those writers who thinks a semiautomatic pistol uses a “clip” rather than a magazine.

Doesn’t matter, though. These are great books, and Sorrow’s Anthem is a great (and memorable) read.

Uncategorized

Remembering Hulk Hogan… or at least his TV show

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There’s been a lot of talk lately about the death of Hulk Hogan, a recently born-again Christian, according to reports. He meant a lot to a certain generation of American kids, but they were younger than me, so I knew the man mostly from a 1993-94 TV show that lasted a single season. “Thunder In Paradise” has never made any lists as great entertainment. It was – almost jubilantly – a dumb show. But most people (most guys, anyway) agreed that it was a lot of fun.

The preposterous premise of “Thunder In Paradise” was that two former Navy Seals, played by Hogan and Chris Lemmon (Jack’s son) lived in a resort in Florida and worked brief, exciting mercenary jobs, with the help of their state-of-the-art speed boat, which boasted sophisticated weapons and CGI armor. Former model Carol Alt was on hand for eye candy, and Patrick Macnee (of The Avengers) himself showed up in the early episodes, for some reason. There was also a little girl in the cast, supposed to be Hogan’s ward, who needed rescuing from time to time.

The premise was ridiculous. The scripts were implausible. The acting (especially Hogan’s) nothing to boast about. But the scenery was beautiful, there were lots of girls in bikinis, and every episode offered shooting, running around, and stuff blowing up.

I had no illusions about “Thunder In Paradise,” but I watched it every week, and missed it when it was gone. I remember those days as the end of the fun times in entertainment. I could turn the TV on and not have to worry about receiving moral instruction about the sacredness of sodomy, or the peaceful nature of Islam.

Back then, you could produce a show purely for the enjoyment of men. Nobody agonized over the male gaze. Attraction between the sexes wasn’t considered problematic. We could all have fun – and I’m convinced that fun hasn’t increased in any way since entertainment got its consciousness raised.

Ah, well. That was back when I had dark hair, too.

R.I.P. Hulk Hogan.

(You can watch the whole series on YouTube).

Fiction, Reviews

‘His Last Lie,’ by Erik Therme

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Ryan Driscoll, point-of-view narrator of His Last Lie, by Erik Therme, is a young man in difficulties. He wants to get married to his live-in girlfriend, but has lost his job and is having trouble getting another one. He gets little support from his parents – his mother is distant and disengaged, and his father has never said a kind word to him in his life. Yet Ryan still does them favors, out of a sense of obligation.

He’s just given his father a ride home when the old man shoots himself to death. All he leaves Ryan is a shoebox, which turns out to be full of money. Only it’s not for him. It’s for somebody named Jamie Norton, of whom Ryan has never heard. When he starts asking family and friends about this person, it starts him on a journey of confrontation and discovery, in which everything he ever believed about his life will be turned upside down.

I never entirely made up my mind about His Last Lie. The writing was quite good (in spite of the present tense narrative). My problem with it was that it was highly psychological, and I had trouble judging how realistic the portrayals were. It gets pretty extreme, and maybe implausible in some parts – though I’m not sure.

But all in all, I thought it was pretty good for a small, family mystery story. It certainly kept me guessing. I think I can recommend it, with cautions for language and very disturbing themes.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Tonight I Said Goodbye,’ by Michael Koryta

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I’ve been pretty impressed with the novelist Michael Koryta, and have enjoyed several of his novels now. Tonight I Said Goodbye is, apparently, his first published novel, and first in his Lincoln Perry detective series. As I read it, I thought – condescendingly – that this was well done, but fairly elementary stuff. I was pretty sure I knew how the plot was going to be resolved.

And all the time I was being taken in. What I thought was happening wasn’t what was happening at all – and the conclusion shocked me like ice water in the face. I was being played by a master.

Lincoln Perry, along with his partner, Joe Pritchard, runs a successful private detective agency in Cleveland, Ohio. They’re not much interested when old John Weston asks them to find his missing daughter-in-law and granddaughter. The case has been all over the media – Weston’s son Wayne (who was, as it happened, a private investigator himself) was found shot to death. The assumption is that he murdered his wife and child, hid the bodies, and then killed himself. John Weston is certain that’s not true. Finally, he goads Lincoln into taking the case.

Wayne Weston, as it turns out, was not as clean as his reputation would have it. He worked almost exclusively for a predatory local property developer, and the names of Russian gangsters keep popping up in the investigation. But it isn’t until Lincoln follows a clue to South Carolina that the case starts exploding around him, and the stakes soar into the sky like rockets.

Tonight I Said Goodbye was a classic detective novel, but better written than most and delightfully unpredictable. I recommend it highly, and look forward to reading the next book in the series.

My only real quibble is poor manuscript setup. For some reason, paragraphs often run together, which can confuse the reader when it happens in dialogue. But that’s probably not the author’s fault.

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In which I pretend to keep my dignity

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Culvers’ battered cod offerings. Credit: culvers.com

The tale of my weekend and Monday is not a cheery one, but I can’t think of another topic. I’ll try to keep it PG rated.

My two-day Waffle Festival was all I hoped it would be. I do a pretty fair Bisquick waffle, if I do say so myself. No doubt there are ways to improve my waffles, but these will do. Sunday, the Great Preparatory Fast, could have been worse. The preparation process that evening… the less said about that the better. It’s over; I’ll say that much. The old friend who served as my driver on Monday is very cheerful and patient, which was necessary because the procedure got delayed a full hour. When it was all over, I bought him lunch. Oh, the joys of solid food! Have you ever had the batter-fried cod dinner at Culvers’? Why does a hamburger place have the best cod in town? That’s one of the great cosmic mysteries. Or paradoxes, or something.

During the Sunday Fast, I searched for the movie “Sunburn” on YouTube, and discovered that it was available there. I was thinking of it, because I’d reviewed The Bind, the book it was based on, the other day. The studio, in its genius, took a hard-boiled, tragic yarn and tried to make it a light action comedy. I remember enjoying it when it came out, but that must have been mostly because of my massive crush on Farrah Fawcett. The movie follows the story’s plot more closely than I expected (though they moved the action from Miami Beach to Acapulco), merely changing the tone of things. But the dark ending had to go, so they substituted a conventional, improbable Hollywood gambit and ended the story on a (very false) light note. One of the worst final sequences I’ve ever seen in a movie.

Watching Farrah, the picture of youthful health and beauty, I couldn’t help thinking of her early death some years ago, the victim of a cancer which (I expect) could have been prevented by the very procedure I was just then dreading.

My great comfort, as I now contemplate the completed ordeal (the results were acceptable), is that at my age I’m unlikely to have to endure many more of these once-every-five-year procedures.

And the moral of the story is – waffles are good, and so is Culvers’ batter-fried cod. I wonder if cod is any good with waffles, the way people now rave about chicken and waffles. Someone should try it. Authentic Norwegian cuisine.