Star Wars: Skeleton Crew, the latest TV series from a once-beloved franchise, ended this week. It is a space pirate adventure that many compared to Treasure Island, because of a mythical planet loaded with treasure and Jude Law’s character being named (among other things) Captain John Silvo. I watched the show with my oldest daughter, who noticed Silvo’s character arc resembles Long John Silver.
I said when I posted a review of the series’ first half that it wasn’t very Star-Warsy, because nothing essential to the story is essential to the core story of Star Wars; but the second half improved on that front. It would be a big spoiler (perhaps the biggest) to give the strongest bit of evidence on this point, but I could note the introduction of a light saber in episode 5 and an important part of Star Wars history comes into play by the end.
We enjoyed it. The children, who are each roughly 13 years old, mature during the adventure–not much, but noticeably. Silvo is the most interesting, because he’s a charismatic pirate of uncertain motivation. Is he a complete villain or is he just greedy or insecure? Will he do right by the kids at the end?
It’s a good show, not a deep one. It didn’t have syrupy morals found along the way and it had a few moments of … peril. But the final episode leaned hard on the logic of a show made for younger audiences. Again, I don’t want to give big spoilers, but I will note that Dr. Doofenshmirtz has repeatedly taught us the value of not building self-destruct switches into your villainous weapons and that applies to other mechanics as well.
Reports says Skeleton Crew hasn’t drawn many viewers, and the critics I listen to blame previous shows for wasting any hopes the fans may still have. A good show, they say, won’t draw anyone back. It needs to be blockbuster. And a TV show probably can’t get there. Maybe later viewing numbers will improve its reception, but the current outlook is that Disney doesn’t know how to tell great stories.
Deathhbed of Hans Christian Anderson, artist unknown.
Today was Sverdrup Forum Day. Our annual Georg Sverdrup Society meeting for students of our seminary, and others interested, in which papers are read and discussion encouraged.
I usually read an extract from one of my translations of Sverdrup’s works, but this year somebody else did that duty, and I was asked to do opening devotions instead.
I’ve written before about my phobia concerning praying in public. But I wrote it all out ahead of time, and read it from my printed text. That was not a problem.
I ran short, time-wise, but not by accident. I knew, from experience, that these shebangs tend to run long. Nobody complained about my brevity, and the forum, as it happened, ended almost precisely on schedule.
[Insert here labored metaphor about the concept of brevity and its application to life.]
As I’ve told you, I just finished translating a literary biography.
A question occurred to me – “Is there such a thing as a genuinely good biography that isn’t sad?”
I once read (I think) a quotation by Oscar Wilde (can’t find it online, so maybe it’s one of those made-up things. Still good): “Tragedy is comedy plus time.”
In other words, you can make any comedy a tragedy by just leaving the curtain up. In the end, everybody dies, just like in Hamlet.
You’ve got two choices in a death. It can be too soon, or too late. There never seems to be a perfect time.
Most of us look forward to a long life. But that often means a slow decline as health problems increase, and friends die, and the world gradually turns alien and dangerous around us.
I just wrote a novel where two main characters die Viking deaths.
There’s something to be said for that.
Does this mean I’m ready to go now, while I’m still ambulatory and not wearing a diaper?
As anticipated, today was a decompression day for me, adjusting to civilian life again, as it were.
I read. I paid my bills (a usual Thursday task), took out the garbage. Went to the grocery store. Forgot my shopping list. Bought from memory. Came home and discovered — to my considerable shock — that I had bought everything I need. This has never happened before, in my whole long life.
The Norwegian video above, with English subtitles, offers a little tour of the church at Stiklestad in Norway. The Battle of Stiklestad (spoiler alert) forms the final big climax for my upcoming novel, The Baldur Game.
The Baldur Game is coming soon. I refuse to give up hope for that.
Today is a stellar day, a frabjous day – a day I shall much note and long remember.
My endless book translation job is done, done, done. Barring touch-up requests, assuming there are any, it’s over. All but the invoicing. The book was more than 500 pages long, and it wasn’t large print. Footnotes were involved as well.
I once compared translating a book to demolishing a piano, passing each piece through a suspended iron ring, and then reassembling the instrument on the other side. My piano has been reconstituted (Norwegian to English, of course) and I like to think it’s still relatively in tune.
I am limited in what I can tell you about the book (I’ve said this before, but you may have missed it. It’s mathematically possible you might even be interested). It’s a literary biography. I’m doing the work for a scholar in another state. I believe my translation is only for the scholar’s use in a larger project, so I have no expectations of ever seeing it published.
Anyway, it’s done. I am working hard at the moment getting used to the now-alien concept of having free time.
Also, I wanted to mention that I finally (there was a delay) got some copies of the Amazon paperback edition of The Year of the Warrior. This enables me to share the picture above, a family photo of the whole series, except for the baby on the way.
The author Neil Gaiman has been in the news in recent months, though I myself, incisive social observer that I am, was unaware until recently, and learned about it through Facebook. It appears there are a number of plausible accusations against him of inappropriate and coercive sexual acts with women.
Of course he’s legally entitled to the assumption of innocence. I have nothing to say about that. He is not a Christian, so my criticism wouldn’t mean much.
But I personally have been against Gaiman a long time, for purely private and petty reasons.
Goes back to 2001, when the man published a book called American Gods (I won’t link to it, because I’m small-minded) which dealt with the Norse god Odin appearing in the modern world. It was a huge bestseller.
I, on the other hand, had had a book published by Baen Books, Wolf Time, in 1999. It dealt with the Norse god Odin in the modern world too. This book was highly spoken of by my friends.
I have ever since held the bitter opinion that American Gods smothered Wolf Time. That there was only room on the market for one book about Odin in the modern world, and Gaiman had opportunistically grabbed that spot.
This argument is weakened by the fact that my book actually came out two years earlier and had had plenty of time to get traction, if traction was to be had.
But in my perception, the books came out in the same time window. My perception, as is so often the case, was wrong.
Still, I held a grudge against Neil Gaiman.
This may be a major reason why I turned down the opportunity to meet him when I had a chance.
I have a friend, retired now, who was a limo driver in Minneapolis. He used to regale me with stories of the celebrities he’d driven (Garrison Keillor was reserved but thoughtful enough to buy him lunch. Prince was positively standoffish, and a bad tipper as well. Cheryl Teigs was sweet). One day he called me and asked if I’d ever heard of Neil Gaiman. He was driving Gaiman around that day (the author was living in Wisconsin at the time) and could introduce me.
Part of my reluctance was just not wishing to be a fan boy, especially since I’d only read American Gods of his works and hadn’t loved it. I figured it would involve just a quick handshake and hello during a signing.
Later I learned that my friend had actually gotten quite close to Gaiman, and watched his kid while he was doing his signing. I probably could have had a real conversation with the guy. Shmoozed with a genuine industry player. Networked.
Learning that, I figured I’d missed an opportunity.
I think I’m getting too old for thrillers. I find (somewhat to my horror) that I want more from my reading than explosions and gunfights and chases. Next thing I know I’ll be reading Trollope and Thackery. Shoot me now.
Anyway, Mark Greaney’s The Chaos Agent wasn’t actually that bad, compared to most of the competition. There were lots of fights and murders and our heroes took some damage, but it wasn’t the kind of unbelievable action where the hero suffers broken bones and a concussion, rips the IV tubes out of his arm, and stomps back out to carry on the fight and absorb yet more damage. This book was big and loud without being wholly unbelievable.
In fact, its believability is the most disturbing thing about it.
In The Chaos Agent, Greaney’s continuing hero, Court Gentry, the Gray Man, free-lance operative, is living under an assumed name with his girlfriend, defected Russian agent Zoya Zakharova, in Central America, determined to keep a low profile. But Zoya gets contacted by an old friend, a mentor to whom she owes a favor. He needs her help – a number of computer geniuses around the world have been assassinated recently, and he’s trying to get a Russian genius to safety. Court agrees to help with the operation, but it all goes sideways – they barely survive.
Soon the pair is hip-deep in a deep-cover US operation to find and eliminate the assassin. Only it’s not an ordinary assassin. It’s a coordinated operation by killer robots – drones and armed four-legged machines. What’s worse, the robots’ actions and reactions indicate they are not being controlled electronically, but are actually thinking for themselves. This is high level, untethered Artificial Intelligence, faster and more deadly than any human.
The Chaos Agent is really quite a thoughtful book, underneath all the fight scenes and heroics. Serious questions are asked about the implications of AI, what kind of controls we need – and what kind of controls may even be possible. It’s all pretty scary.
The Chaos Agent is a good book. A good entry in one of the best action series out there. Cautions for violence and language, I hardly need add.
My main complaint is the length. I don’t think a thriller needs to be this long. Keep it snappy, authors.
I didn’t realize Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was set at Christmastime when I picked it up several days ago, so reading it during the Christmas break was seasonal as well as enriching. It could be the poem for modern men today. It’s focus on chastity in the face of strong seduction would make modern readers heads spin.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight begins with a striking man walking into King Arthur’s court.
“For all men marvelled what it might mean That a horseman and his horse should have such a colour As to grow green as grass . . .”
He says he’s looking for sport, which is the feeling of everyone in the court already. Arthur loved hearing the exploits of his men. The green knight offered a challenge: Any man could strike him with a fierce blow if he would agree to seek him out in one year’s time to receive a blow in kind from him. Even though everyone thought such a challenge was madness, they also couldn’t refuse it.
“‘By heaven,’ then said Arthur, ‘What you ask is foolish, But as you firmly seek folly, find it you shall.'”
Sir Gawain, who is the greatest of Arthur’s knights (in the early tales) and his nephew, is the one to suggest to the king someone else accept the challenge in case it goes the way everyone suspects. No need to lose the king to a jolly green giant.
This is the part of the story you’ve likely heard. What follows is another regular year until All Saints Day when Gawain leaves to find the Green Chapel, because “Why falter I or fear? What should man do but dare?” He searched without any prospects until Christmastime. Then he prays and then comes across “the comeliest castle” that “shimmered and shone through the shining oaks.”
He stays there several nights enjoying great and chivalrous hospitality, and that’s when things get weird. The host and all of his men intend to spend the next day hunting, but he urges Gawain to continue resting at the castle, and he proposes this “bargain”: whatever gains they earn in the woods or in the castle will be exchanged. Gawain thinks it’s a great deal.
I found this bargain very strange. What could Gawain possibly achieve within the castle? Spoiler alert: It’s his good host’s wife!
Part three describes three temptations or seductions paired with the exploits of the hunting party. Readers and listeners are meant understand the hunting party illustrates the Gawain’s seduction. That’s the reason I say young men ought to read and talk about this poem. If a woman boldly invited you into adultery, how would you handle it? For Gawain, chivalric manners are high virtue, so he can’t just turn her away. In fact, he seems to agree with her proposal, “but Sir Gawain was on guard in a gracious manner.”
The text seems to say Gawain would not indulge this woman because he is his imminent death at the hand of the Green Knight (line 1285). Maybe that is one motivator, the other and primary one being Christian morality, and if it is factor, doesn’t that strike sparks against modern men who would likely argue the other way. Believing they were about to die, why not take the host’s wife?
One theme we can draw from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a common question that brings out bucket lists: If you knew you were going to die in a year, what would you do? The greatest knight in Camelot not only sought out the man he believed would kill him but also sought every virtue he could recognize.
Why would anyone choose to throw all morality in the bin because he believed he would die in a year? We’re all going to die–this winter or next, this decade or next. Does believing you can see your finish line approaching mean virtue no longer has value? Wouldn’t that argue that you believe virtue has no real value for you now, while your death is still hidden from you?
Tonight, another Sissel video. I knew the song well, but had not seen the video before — and it’s quite lovely.
“Soria Moria” comes from “Soria Moria Castle,” a Norwegian fairy tale in Asbjørnsen’s and Moe’s famous collection. I think it’s included in Dasent’s East o’ the Sun and West o’ the Moon, but I’m not entirely sure and too lazy to consult my copy (which is in the basement).
This particular song was, according to the liner notes on the original album (which were easier to find), written by Svein Gundersen and Stig Nielsen, and the music was first composed for a musical play called ‘Isfront.’
There’s a couple of pretty amazing high notes in this number, along with some cool scenery.
I’m having an attack of obsession with my translation work tonight — coming up on a milestone and eager to get to it. So you’ll have to settle for a message from better writer than me — C. S. Lewis talking about the books of his friend, Charles Williams.
It does not hurt that he’s defending the precise kind of fiction I write. I think it’s fair to say that posterity has justified Lewis’ position.
Not a 50s Grill burger, but you get the idea. Photo credit: Anita Austvika. Unsplash license.
Your fears have been realized. I have nothing to write about tonight except for my day. Which makes it a post about nothing. And I’m no Seinfeld. My apologies in advance.
Today I ventured out into the world, after several days spent at home on purpose. I looked over the instructions for my recovery (from surgery for a detached retina, as you may recall) and discovered I shouldn’t have been driving at all these last couple weeks. Maybe not even now. But I feel like I’m ready – except for night driving, which I think I’ll avoid for a while, because of glare. (I drove at night once, and decided it was a very bad idea.)
But now I have 3D vision again. It’s a great relief.
What they did during surgery (among other things, I have no doubt) was to inject a bubble (nitrogen, if I recall correctly) into my eyeball so everything would be held in place while it healed up. At first that bubble covered most of my field of vision, which is why I took to wearing an eye patch a lot of the time. Having one working eye was preferable to looking through that annoying opaque bubble.
But the bubble is diminishing, as they promised. Now it’s perceptually about the size of my little fingernail, and it bobbles around at the bottom of my sight like a bubble in a carpenter’s level. Almost amusing. Almost.
But anyway, the rest of my field of vision is clear. Sadly, it’s not clear in the sense of clear vision – my sight is fuzzy in that eye, and will be for a while, I’m told.
But I’ve got stereoscopic vision again, and my accustomed peripheral vision. And that makes driving a lot better. And safer, for myself and (as the saying goes) others.
So I went out for lunch today.
I went to one of the best nearby places that’s survived the Great Sorting of the pandemic. It’s called 50s Grill, and its gimmick is that the waitresses wear poodle skirts and the walls are decorated with movie posters from the 1950s. And they play oldies over the speakers. And, just incidentally, the food is really good. Like you remember, if you’re old enough to remember the ‘50s. There’s no ashtrays or ambient cigarette smoke, but you can’t have everything.
I had the hamburger. They do a great hamburger at the 50s Grill, the best I know in this area.
Now I have to add a caveat here. There are all kinds of tastes in burgers, and I know I am not one of the majority.
Most Americans’ idea of a good burger involves cheese. It’s gotten to the point (and I complain about this a lot) that you have to specify if you don’t want cheese when you order. Many places just assume the cheese unless you inform them elsewise. (I suppose I should appreciate their intentions. They mean well. “You say you want a burger? Why don’t I enhance the experience for you, just out of the goodness of my heart!”)
But I don’t like cheese.
The American model nowadays tends to involve a lot of lettuce and tomato slices and pickles and sauces, etc. And, of course, that ubiquitous cheese. The whole Big Mac/Whopper scenario.
For me, a good burger is meat and bread. I’ll add ketchup on my own. Onions are good, because they enhance the meat flavor. (Sautéed is best, except that kind is hard to find. You can get sautéed at Hooters – don’t ask me how I know. But it’s embarrassing to go to Hooters. Especially when you’re an old man alone. Or so I’ve heard.)
Now I won’t say the 50s Grill burger is the kind of austere burger I just described. It in fact involves lettuce and tomatoes and pickles and a special sauce, plus the onions I tolerate. But I can pick off the tomatoes and pickles, or ask to have them “held,” as we say. And I’ll tolerate the lettuce, because I’m a magnanimous soul.
But the meat there is great, and – wait for this – they bake their own buns fresh every day.
The bun is an underappreciated element in a really fine burger.
Of course, such a meal (especially with dessert, which is a whole other rave review) eats up all the calories on my diet for the day.
It’s worth it. I’m sitting here in the evening, still full.
And that was my day. Except for all the translating. Which I can’t tell you about.
