Today I am distracted, or at least I’m pretending to be. Did two high-stress things — saw the dentist to repair the wisdom tooth I broke on Sunday evening (popcorn, if you must know), and then I paid my Minnesota sales tax online.
That, I figure, ought to give me an excuse to be lazy. (In fact, both worked out better than I feared.) Back when I was a school kid, there were days when the teacher would roll a projector into the room and show us some educational film, usually a generation old. Innocent that I was, I figured this was part of some highly strategized educational plan. Nowadays, I’m given to understand that it often meant the teacher wasn’t feeling up to it, and just needed to coast.
In the same way, when I post a YouTube video, it’s not unlikely that I’m loafing.
Last night, in my book review, I referred to Old Norse (Viking) words that have made their way into English. I thought there must be a video or two on that subject.
The selections weren’t as good as I hoped. There were a few, but they were either very short, or hosted by annoying young hipsters whom I hated on sight (or both). Jackson Crawford, who can usually be counted on for interesting stuff on Old Norse, had nothing.
But there is this, posted above. The Lord’s Prayer in Modern English, Old English, Old Norse, and modern Icelandic.
‘We did a project on it when I was at primary school. The Vicious Vikings. Although most of the settlements’ names are quite innocuous. Applethwaite, Brackenthwaite, Crosthwaite – quite often you can work it out.’
DS Leyton looks rather bemused.
‘So, what – did they speak English?’
DS Jones giggles as though she thinks he must be joking. But then she responds. ‘No – we speak Old Norse.’
It’s one of the charms of Bruce Beckham’s Inspector Skelgill novels (for me) that there are occasional allusions to the history of the Cumberland region where Skelgill operates. In the passage above, our detectives, Skelgill, DS Jones (female) and DS Leyton (male) are talking about local farm names, which often contain the element “thwaite,” which is related to the Norwegian word “tvedt.” Both mean “field.”
But that’s not what Murder at the Meet, the latest Skelgill novel, is mainly about. More than 20 years ago, a young wife and mother named Mary Wilson disappeared during the annual Shepherd’s Meet. As it happens, that was the same year a teenager named Dan Skelgill won the Fell Runners’ race, setting a long-standing record. At the time, the police employed brand-new technology, DNA testing, matching it to the one discovered piece of evidence, to try to identify her attacker or abductor (assuming she didn’t just run off). But without success.
Now Mary’s bones have been found, by archaeologists in a local cave. Skelgill and his team start interviewing surviving witnesses and family members, and discover – as you would expect – a number of old secrets and personal grudges. And all the while Skelgill does his own eccentric thing – applying his knowledge of local geography, biology and weather, along with the sensibilities of a fisherman.
It’s all enjoyable and familiar for the Skelgill fan. I did
think this effort was a little unfair to the reader, as we were denied the information
that finally unlocks the puzzle until after the climax – and so we didn’t know
what all the urgency was about. That reduced the suspense for me.
But that aside, Murder at the Meet was an enjoyable read, and is recommended.
Many people under the influence of science, and particularly neuro-nonsense, will say the sacred is an old concept, it’s just a hangover, but you can easily see that’s not so, because everyone has a sense of desecration: there are things everybody values which, when they are spoiled, are not just moved or destroyed, they are desecrated. Something that is vital not just to you but the world. People have this sense when they see their towns pulled apart and concrete blocks put in the middle of them. You only have to look at Aberdeen to see what happens to a beautiful place when the desecrators get their hands on it.
Conservative author Roger Scruton died last week. He is being remembered by many as a generous, thoughtful man who said stuff.
Politician Daniel Hannan said, “Roger Scruton changed the course of my life. He addressed my school’s philosophy society when I was 16, speaking so compellingly about Wittgenstein and language that, when he finished, no one wanted to ask the first question. So, more to fill an awkward silence than anything else, I stuck my hand up and asked him what he saw as the role of a conservative thinker. ‘The role of a conservative thinker,’ he replied, in his charmingly diffident manner, ‘is to reassure the people that their prejudices are true.’
I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds.
We used to have a tradition of posting “Friday Night Fights” here, showing videos of Viking reenactors going at it with blunt blades. Some of them were friends of mine; occasionally I was involved. We haven’t done that for a while, but I’ve decided to share this clip I found. It involves two fighters doing Macbeth’s death scene from Shakespeare’s play, while fighting with period swords and armor.
It’s not as good as I’d like it to be, and not only because the acting sucks. Macbeth wears a mixture of mail and lamellar (small plates) armor, and lamellar is not generally approved by serious reenactment groups nowadays. Macduff wears some kind of pelt, which is pretty much a Hollywood costuming thing, and they both wear greaves, which are also a faux pas among reenactors.
The fight isn’t bad – it’s quite good in places, certainly
better than what you’ll see in movies. Though I’m not sure what it’s about when
they both lose their shields and then reclaim them. Still, it’s interesting
from a combat point of view.
Why this video? Well, I’ve had Macbeth on my mind lately. I’m
strongly inclined to include him in my next Erling book. He was about 17 at the
time the story starts, and there’s no reason he couldn’t have been in Norway then.
His Scottish Highland home was definitely part of Erling’s world. I have an
idea that throwing him into the story might enhance some of the themes I’m
developing.
But I haven’t decided yet how to portray him – as a budding
villain, as Shakespeare paints him, or as a virtuous and pious young man, which
the actual historical record would indicate.
We’ll see. The story will tell me how it wants me to treat
him.
There’s a lot of good to be said about Christ Collett’s new stand-alone mystery, The Truth About Murder. But I also found it somewhat aggravating.
First of all, full marks for originality in giving us a new
kind of investigative hero – Stefan Greaves is a lawyer in the (fictional, I
presume) middle English town of Charnford. From the beginning, it’s clear that
Stefan suffers from some kind of disability, but author Collett (annoyingly, in
my view) puts off naming it until nearly half-way through the book. I’ll risk spoiling
it by telling you that he has cerebral palsy. To reduce associated muscle
tension, he smokes pot regularly. Because social interactions are difficult (he
has trouble being understood when he talks) he sees an “escort” regularly.
Stefan gets a visit from a local nurse, who is concerned
about mortality rates in the neonatal ward where she works. Not long afterward
she disappears, and when her body is found in the river, the verdict is suicide
– though her daughter insists she was a Catholic and would never do that.
Investigating the disappearance and death is Mick Fraser, a local cop. Mick is concerned about his partner, whose time has been monopolized by their commander lately. He’s been secretive, and Mick begins to suspect him of corruption. In fact, it’s far worse than that…
As the plot thickens (rather slowly I thought, and with too
much reliance on coincidence) Stefan and Mick are drawn together to uncover a
sinister and heinous plot that threatens the whole country.
I never fell in love with The Truth About Murder, or with Stefan Greaves as a character. (He shares, with many fictional detectives, a gift for having attractive women throw themselves at him constantly, in spite of his disability. I complain of this trope often in my reviews, and if you think that means I’m jealous… well, I am.)
However, the book’s themes pleased me greatly. Without spoiling
it for the reader, I’ll just say that it involved controversial issues of
medical ethics. Author Collett seems to be unaware of (or is avoiding) the fact
that the evil in view here is more associated with the Left than the Right in
our time. But that may be a strategic choice intended not to alienate readers.
I don’t know Collett’s politics, but if he’s conservative I salute his
strategy, and if he’s liberal I salute his moral sense.
I can’t give The Truth About Murder my highest recommendation, but it’s worth reading. There’s a suggestion that this might be the start of a new series. I’m not wholly enthusiastic about that prospect.
Hard as it might be to believe, I’m still lacking a finished book to review tonight. I’m finding my current read a little slow, I guess – though it’s gaining interest as I proceed. It’ll probably be ready tomorrow.
What else to talk about? Today lacked the pulse-pounding social
interactions of yesterday. I watched the last half of a movie I’m fond of last
night, though. I can gas about that.
5 Card Stud (1968) is not a great movie, but I find it endlessly entertaining, and generally watch it whenever it shows up. Its attractions are many.
Dean Martin in the lead. Dino was the archetypal Italian-American and seems an odd choice as a western star. But he loved westerns, and excelled in roles where he could play breezy, wisecracking types. By all accounts he was a nice guy too, and faithful to his wife, at least for a long time. Similarly, he joked about drinking a lot, but didn’t actually… until the time came when he did. Here he plays Van Morgan, a gambler who tries to stop fellow card players from lynching a cheater, but fails. Later the participants in the game start being murdered, one by one.
Robert Mitchum plays Rev. Jonathan Rudd, a mysterious
preacher who comes to town and starts tweaking the surviving players’
consciences. Mitchum, I was interested to learn a while back, was half
Norwegian. His mother was Norwegian.
It’s odd when I think back, but I can recall as a young boy
thinking that Dean Martin and Robert Mitchum were the same guy. I guess tall,
dark guys like that weren’t very common in my world and they all looked alike
to me.
But the big draw in 5 Card Stud is Inger Stevens, who plays a prostitute named Lily Langford. It has been my contention for many years that Inger was the most beautiful woman to show up on the public scene in my lifetime. (My friend Mark Goldblatt calls her the “ultimate shiksa.”) She was a Swedish immigrant, but had assimilated to the extent that she had to re-learn her accent when she got the title role in the TV series, The Farmer’s Daughter. An unhappy woman, they say, a little like Marilyn Monroe in forever searching for fulfillment in a man’s love and never finding it. She would die just two years later, in 1970, probably a suicide.
But what beauty! At once regal and impish.
Sadly, most of the films she did that show up on TV from time to time are ones I don’t want to watch. Not even Hang ‘em High, with Clint Eastwood, which is pretty good for the most part, but includes a multiple hanging scene that I, wimp that I am, just can’t handle.
Anyway, 5 Card Stud is a mystery without much actual mystery, and the acting is sometimes over the top. The dialogue can be weak too, though the script was written by Marguerite Roberts, who would write the great True Grit a few years down the line. (However, it should be noted that True Grit follows Charles Portis’s novel very closely, so not a lot of creativity was required. Anyway, Roberts was a Commie.)
But it’s a treat to watch Martin, Mitchum, and Stevens go through
their paces. And Dean sings the title song.
Nothing to review today. My reading has slowed in the last couple days, which is not all bad. I’m trying to reduce my book spending, due to the current cutbacks.
Which will be exacerbated by the plumber’s appointment I had
today. My kitchen faucet succumbed to the corrosive water we enjoy in
Robbinsdale, and had to be replaced. I got the cheapest model they offered, but
still… ouch.
Then out into the wide world and chill air, for a breathless visit to the drug store and the grocery store. Had my prescription filled at CVS. Later in the day, a somewhat pathetic e-mail showed up. Would I take a minute to fill out a form for them? Specifically, to indicate on a scale of one to ten how likely I am to recommend their enterprise to friends and family?
I don’t really want to fill it out. Because the truth would
be cruel. I am somewhere between zero and one on that scale. Not because I
dislike their stores. But because I can’t recall ever discussing drug store
choices with any friend or family member. For some reason it just doesn’t come
up. Maybe we’re atypical.
And in the back of my mind, the constant nagging voice of my inner publicist whispers: “This is what you should be doing, kid. If a big industry like CVS can send out plaintive appeals for affirmation, you can occasionally bug your fans about plugging your books and posting reviews on Amazon.”
Shut up, Nagging Publicist Voice. In these parts, we consider fishing for compliments a mark of weakness.
Then off to the grocery store. At checkout, the lady in
front of me in line noticed I’d bought a Marie Callender Honey-Roasted Turkey meal.
“Is that good?” she asked. “My husband and I eat a lot of that kind of meals,
but we’re looking for something less bland than what we’ve been having.”
I told her I like it quite a bit, and don’t find it bland at all. (“Of course I’m Norwegian,” I should have added.)
Oddly enough, I had a similar conversation some years ago, at the same store, with a guy who told me how much he enjoyed that very same frozen meal. I agreed with him, and we shared a moment of social harmony, then went our separate ways.
In my world, that’s how promotion ought to be done. Not by intrusive tub-thumping, but by people just recommending things they like to each other, in the natural course of things. Even, unlikely as it seems, drug stores.
So when you plug my books, pretend it’s just natural. Thank
you.
Jonathan Quinn and his team of international agents return in The Unknown, the 14th book in the series. Regular readers will know what to expect, and author Brett Battles delivers.
On a winter night in Austria, a very important scientist named Brunner is traveling under the protection of bodyguards provided by the Office, the private security firm our heroes work for. It should be a routine mission, but they are attacked, there is loss of life, and Brunner is expertly extracted by kidnappers. This is bad news for the Office, which has only recently reconstituted itself as a business, so their operational chief contacts Jonathan Quinn. Though ostensibly a Cleaner, a wiper of evidence after “wet” operations, Quinn has a well-earned reputation for effective and efficient field work. He summons his regular team, including his wife Orlando, his old partner Nate, and a couple East Asian friends. As a concession, they allow Kincaid, the failed bodyguard, to come along. He has something to prove.
They face well-organized, efficient, and well-financed
opponents, but Quinn always finds a way. This time out they are assisted in
particular by Jar, a minor character in previous books. Jar is a Thai computer
genius, a woman. She is obviously autistic, but is learning to deal with
illogical normals. She provides a surprisingly charming addition to the cast.
They also get unexpected – and suspicious – help from a source they neither understand nor trust, though it seems to be leading them in the right direction.
Like all the Jonathan Quinn books, The Unknown was fun. It wasn’t deathless literature, but it offered interesting interactions and a fast pace. Recommended.
