Fiction, Reviews

‘Revenge at Sea,’ by Brian O’Sullivan

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As you know if you’re a regular here, I have no qualms about trashcanning a book after reading a couple of pages, if it fails to please me. This practice is made easier by the fact that I get a lot of books free or extremely cheap, through Kindle offers. The world is full of shabby, overoptimistic self-published books, and I’d rather not stomp on the author’s dreams by panning their book when I could just keep mum.

But occasionally a slightly more promising book shows up and keeps me reading long enough, before disillusioning me, that I don’t want to lose my sunk time cost without even being able to do a review. So I read that book through, and then I trash it here.

That is the story with Revenge at Sea, by Brian O’Sullivan.

What made me increasingly hate this book, as I slogged through it, was not only that the prose was bloated and bad (it started fair and deteriorated as it went along. This is not unusual. It’s common – and not actually a bad idea – to do a lot of polishing at the start, when you’re trying to hook the reader). It wasn’t just that the dialogue was stilted and not half as clever as it thought itself.

My main complaint was that our hero/narrator was an idiot.

The aforementioned hero/narrator is Quint Adler, a reporter for a minor newspaper in California’s Bay area. Supposedly, he is highly talented (this is dubious based on his prose) but has never gotten his big break. One night, while in a hospital after an injury, he overhears a suspicious conversation between his roommate and a companion. It sounds like they committed a major crime. He snaps a picture of the guy’s information sheet and, after being released from the hospital, goes to check the guy’s home out. He finds the man dead, but does not inform the police. Instead, he sees it as his opportunity. If he can figure out what the guy was involved in, he can write the Big Story that might supercharge his career.

Gee, what could possibly go wrong?

Over the course of the next few weeks, Quint will lie to the cops, get some people killed (gruesomely), be framed for murder, and at last have a showdown with his nemesis on a yacht on the open sea. (The final climax is one of the least plausible I’ve ever encountered in a novel.)

Quint spends time in jail during this story. It doesn’t occur to the author to describe Quint’s feelings about being locked up. There is zero description of the jail experience. He knows people he’s talked to have killed by mobsters, but fails to make the connection that he might be in danger too.

Like I said, an idiot.

The author also misuses words, like “taciturn” when he seems to want “covert.”

This is, in short, a badly written book that I labored to finish.

The author shows signs of talent, but he needs a good editor. At least 1/3 of his verbiage could have been cut, and it would have only improved the experience.

Not recommended.

Blogs, Socials

Podcast People

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From last June, my appearance on the “All Over the Place” podcast has just been posted on YouTube.

Eric and Jim used to be regulars on the old “Freedonia” blog, which was one of my favorite hangouts on the internet. It’s been gone for a while now, alas. It was nice to get together with them and have some facetime.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Paddington Mystery,’ by John Rhode

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The world of mystery fiction, as you’re probably aware, is divided (broadly speaking) into the subgenres of “Cozy” (think Miss Marple) and “Hard-Boiled” (think Mike Hammer). But nothing in life is ever that simple. Hard-boiled has devolved over recent decades (mostly) into the Thriller genre, and that’s all we’ll say about that today. But sub-genres exist within Cozy . I had never heard of the “Humdrum” subgenre before I looked up John Rhode (a pseudonym for Cecil Street), author of The Paddington Mystery. At first I thought the descriptor “humdrum” a little dismissive, but gradually I came to understand the point.

The central character in The Paddington Mystery, set in 1925, is Harold Merefield, a young London gentleman. Harold grew up as a close friend to Dr Lancelot Priestley, a retired mathematician and amateur detective. He was even close to being engaged to Priestley’s daughter April. But then he came into money and decided to sample the high life. He joined a shady gentleman’s club and even wrote a scandalous novel – which sold well.

One night Harold he comes home drunk to his apartment in the early hours to find a dead man, soaking wet, in his bed. The police suspect him at first, but let him go when the medical examiner declares the death due to natural causes. Nevertheless, the mystery remains. Who was the old man? How did he get into Harold’s apartment in the first place?

Harold is suddenly concerned about his reputation, and the only person he can think of to approach for help is Dr Priestley. Dr Priestly, it turns out, is still kindly disposed, and he welcomes the mystery as a chance to exercise his powers of logical deduction.

It was at that point that the story, I must admit, began to drag. At the beginning I was quite taken with The Paddington Mystery. I liked the characters, and the morality was purely bourgeois. I felt right at home.

But what made the book “humdrum” was that pages and pages were spent on exposition of the puzzle, as various characters explained the mystery, and Dr Priestly went on and on, explaining every step in his logical deductions. It did get tedious.

Especially because I figured out whodunnit fairly early in the process.

So, I must say, with regret, that I can’t entirely endorse The Paddington Mystery. On the plus side it was old-fashioned and non-objectionable, but it was also kind of… how shall I put it? Elementary.

Music

Sunday Singing: Till He Come!

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For January, we’re going to follow a theme of looking ahead to the Lord’s return. Today’s hymn was written by Edward Henry Bickersteth (1825-1906), at one time Vicar of Christ Church, Hampstead, London.

“Only hold fast what you have until I come” (Rev. 2:25 ESV)

1 “Till he come!” O let the words
linger on the trembling chords;
let the little while between
in their golden light be seen;
let us think how heav’n and home
lie beyond that “Till he come.”

2 When the weary ones we love
enter on their rest above,
seems the earth so poor and vast,
all our life-joy overcast?
Hush, be ev’ry murmur dumb:
it is only till he come.

3 Clouds and conflicts round us press:
would we have one sorrow less?
All the sharpness of the cross,
all that tells the world is loss,
death and darkness, and the tomb,
Only whisper “Till he come.”

4 See, the feast of love is spread,
drink the wine, and break the bread:
sweet memorials, till the Lord
call us round his heav’nly board;
some from earth, from glory some,
severed only till he come.

Authors, Blogs, Socials, Bookselling

So Am I as the Rich?

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Some people can tell you their favorites easily. They seek them out often. Their favorite shirts are the ones they wear all the time. Their favorite meals they eat several times a year, or if that’s too expensive, at least annually for a birthday. I’m the type who doesn’t wear his favorite shirt so that it will last longer. I wear lesser shirts that can wear out. A favorite I’ll don for special occasions. It’s not the same for meals. I would eat favorite foods often, but I like many different things. Sure, that cake you made for my birthday was delicious. You made it last year too, and it was great. Maybe this year we make a different delicious cake.

So, like the speaker in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 52, I don’t frequent my treasures often “for blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.”

“Blessèd are you whose worthiness gives scope,
  Being had, to triumph, being lacked, to hope.”

What links do we have today?

Shelby Steele: Author Shelby Steele and filmmaker Eli Steele discuss their ideas on power, race, and America with City Journal. “We have wealth; now we want innocence—that’s where power lies at the moment. So much of our politics and culture really come out of this struggle with innocence,” the author states. By innocence, he means the moral justification for authority and the exercise of power.

Book towns: Richard George William Pitt Booth MBE (1938-2019) said libraries couldn’t keep up with today’s publishing industry, and thus “the future of the book is in book towns,” such as the one he inspired in Hay-on-Wye, Wales. Bloggers Sophie Pearce and Sophie Nadeau both visited and took photos for their travel sites.

Ugly Buildings: “There is nothing so obvious that it cannot be denied.”

Spam: “The nostalgic valances that stem from that salty, pink block of luncheon meat go way back for some of us, not least because it represents a very specific experience: what it was like growing up in America with immigrant parents.”

Poets: Irish poet Maurice Scully died last year, “a true original in the world of Irish poetry, quietly and patiently doing things his own way for several decades.”

Photo: Newman’s Drug Store in New York, 1976. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Bad Weather Friend,’ by Dean Koontz

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She was about five feet eight, slim, with ink-black hair cut short and eyes as green as the plastic on certain Memorex high-density diskettes, which were still in use in those days.

One of the delights of being a Dean Koontz fan is the constant surprises. Far from writing the same book over and over (as some authors tend to do), Koontz keeps obsessively changing it up. Some of his books are terrifying. Some are suspenseful, some plaintive and melancholy. And sometimes he just likes to have fun. The Bad Weather Friend is Koontz in sheer fun mode.

When Benny Catspaw loses his job, gets dumped by his girlfriend, and has a bank loan turned down all in one day, it’s not even the worst day of his life so far. Benny has been through a lot, but he faces it all with his customary optimism and good humor. Benny is a nice guy.

Then he gets a message from a great-uncle he never knew he had. The old man says he is sending Benny a shipment, his inheritance. It will be alarming, he says, but Benny should not be afraid.

Benny will be afraid, though, when the shipment turns out to be a muscular giant with superhuman powers and a deep hatred for postmodern interior decoration. His name is Spike, he says, and he’s a “craggle.” Craggles are supernatural beings entrusted with the protection of the world’s nicest people, of whom Benny is one. Along with Harper Harper, a charming young woman training to be a private investigator, Spike listens to the story of Benny’s day, and concludes that there’s a conspiracy to destroy him. These conspirators must be hunted down and stopped (Spike never kills anyone). The three of them set out on the quest. Along the way, Benny will recall the strange course of his unusual life up to now, and will fall in love with Harper.

Dean Koontz is a practicing Roman Catholic, and many of his books shows traces of his faith. I can’t say that element is very apparent in The Bad Weather Friend. This story is all about “niceness,” which has (correctly) been denounced in countless pulpits as inferior to the righteousness God demands. I don’t think any conclusions should be drawn on that score. This is a fun book, not intended to be taken very seriously.

The Bad Weather Friend was a pleasure to read, and I wished it were longer. Highly recommended.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Written In Bone,’ by Simon Beckett

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It’s always a pleasure to read a book by a professional who knows his business (better than I do, to tell the truth). And yet a professional can carry his craft to the point of manipulation, and that can be annoying. That’s my take on Written In Bone, by Simon Beckett.

Dr. David Hunter is an English forensic scientist. He has a girlfriend he’s trying to build a relationship with, and he’s planning to spend some time with her when he gets an emergency call for help. A body has been found on the island of Runa in the Hebrides, and all the other crime scene investigators are tied up. Could he go and check it out? Shouldn’t take long, it’s probably nothing criminal. David agrees, raising doubts both in his girlfriend and himself about his commitment to the relationship.

When he arrives in the small, close-knit community, he goes to see the body, that of a woman, lying in a ruined cottage in the hills. It looks like an unusual, but most often innocent, phenomenon, “spontaneous human combustion,” which is actually the result of a wicking effect on clothed, burning corpses. But a closer examination of the skull proves this was no accident. The woman was murdered.

At that point, David ought to call in the professionals, but a sudden freak storm descends on the island and lasts several days, disrupting communications and making travel impossible. Meanwhile, more bodies start turning up…

Good characters. Good pacing. Good prose. Lots of rising tension. Written In Bone is plotted in a masterly fashion, and it kept me fascinated all through.

And then we got to the end, and (for this reader) the author kind of spoiled it.

This is one of those stories where you have a solution, and then you find out that solution is wrong. And then you find out the revised solution is wrong too. And finally there’s a twist that leads to a cliffhanger.

A cliffhanger.

That’s excessive, in my estimation. Aside from the fact that I don’t like cliffhangers (I consider them a cheat), when an author gets cute and keeps second-guessing solutions, it violates the principle of Occam’s Razor. Solutions that get too complicated grow decreasingly interesting.

So there it is. The writing is great. The resolutions were disappointing. For me, anyway.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Hills Be Shaken,’ by Michael Stewart

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When I encounter a poorly written Christian novel, I tend to assume it comes from an Evangelical Protestant author. As an Evangelical Protestant myself, it’s one of the things I have to live with. I instinctively expect better things from Roman Catholic writers, probably because I mostly read good ones (Undset, Buckley, etc.) Nevertheless, there are badly written Catholic novels, and Michael Stewart’s The Hills Be Shaken turned out to be one of those. Which isn’t to say the author doesn’t show some promise.

The premise is original and engaging. An act of terrorism destroys a large swathe of Manhattan, Kansas. Just before the explosion, police officer Sam McGuire stops a woman who’s jogging in the park, carrying (legally) a pistol and an AR-15. Though she seems to have no connection to the disaster, Sam can’t shake a feeling that something was off about her, and he studies his dash cam footage of the incident obsessively.

Immediately after the event, engineer Moses Haley was arrested by the FBI, simply because he happened to be taking a break on the roof of his workplace at the fatal hour. He was soon released, little guessing that he’d soon be recruited by that same agency. His new career will put pressure on his family life and demand courage of him he never knew he had.

My reaction: First of all, I did finish the book. I don’t always do that. The plot was interesting enough (though far-fetched), and kept me interested. I liked the characters. The values were good.

But the writing was amateur hour. All the characters talked the same way, and they spoke like someone writing a book, not like real people talking. The religious passages were awkward, too long, and preachy. The action (as in so many novels nowadays) was more cinematic than realistic.

Also there was a long sequence involving action in a very high place, with an escalating danger of falling. I hate scenes like that for personal reasons, though it certainly kept my interest.

Anyway, The Hills Be Shaken was an admirable story, awkwardly told. But we might look for better things to come from the author.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Recital,’ by Gregg Hurwitz

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Occasionally a short story shows up on Amazon, and occasionally I’ll buy it, if it’s from an author I like. But I usually won’t waste a blog review on one.

But an Orphan X story by Gregg Hurwitz is another proposition altogether. The Recital is definitely worth a notice here.

As you may recall, Evan Smoak is Orphan X, a former assassin for a super-secret government agency, now (for all practical purposes) Batman. He has taken a young woman under his wing as a sort of foster daughter, the hacker Joey Morales. Joey is attending music school now, and she tells Evan she’d like him to come to her first recital along with a few of his friends, about the only people she knows in the world. Evan, whose whole life is focused on staying anonymous, has some difficulty wrapping his mind around the concept of a recital. She wants him to watch her training? Even more difficult is recruiting his friends to come along to the event – his friends being a nine-fingered illegal gun dealer, a retired cartel kingpin, and an uber-sexy female assassin. But Evan has acquired enough minimal empathy to understand this is important to Joey, so he goes to work on the problem.

It will involve trading some favors with people, not entirely legal stuff. And his friends won’t exactly fit in with the conservatory audience. But in their own ways they all care about Joey, and they’ll support her or die (maybe kill) trying.

I’m confident The Recital will be the most touching, endearing story about assassination, gunrunning, and personal security you’ll read all year.

Fiction, Reviews

Steelheart, a Superhero Thriller, by Brandon Sanderson

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“You’ve said it yourself—we can’t kill every Epic out there. The Reckoners are spinning in circles. The only hope we have, the only hope that humankind has, is to convince people that we can fight back. For that to happen, Steelheart has to fall by human hands.”

Ten years ago, an undefined cosmic entity called Calamity eradiated the Earth, causing some people to develop superpowers. These people were quickly labeled Epics and they began to claim territory for their own kingdoms. Some areas, in what became the Fractured States, were completely wasted as Epics fought over them, but Newcago, the city claimed by the title villain, Steelheart, was at least functioning under new management.

Epic powers range from standard (invincibility, premonition, illusion-making) to non-standard (the ability to fire a handgun without running out of ammo). Power sets and limits are discussed in detail throughout the book, as you might expect but also in a way that raises questions. More on that later.

Steelheart by Brandon Sanderson is a compelling sci-fi story. David Charleston, the young main character, witnesses the cataclysm that began Steelheart’s reign and becomes the sole survivor of the only time their invincible overlord has been injured. “I’ve seen Steelheart bleed,” he says at the beginning, and though he doesn’t know why this man who typically deflects all attacks was superficially wounded, he’s confident something in his memory will lead them to his fatal weakness.

This is the first of three books in The Reckoners series. It stands well as a single book, but with the open ending to one problem clearly to be addressed in book two (as can be seen in that book’s title), I’m eager to pick up the other books. But this one is not without problems.

I hesitate to much because maybe I’ve thought about this kind of sci-fi/fantasy too much and am in danger of complaining about reasonable choices I wouldn’t have made. For instance, Epic powers and weaknesses can be anything, and the heroes discuss how they defy scientific understanding. Thus, we have a character who can shoot a handgun indefinitely but not a rifle or any other weapon. That’s . . . silly. It reminds me of a guy in My Hero Academia who can use the lines on a street as weapons. Maybe the visual medium (manga) and the level of crazy at that point in the story makes such a power seem normal enough. It’s a long story with tons of power sets, so perhaps silly gets lost in diversity. In Steelheart, the handgun character is one of the first Epics we meet.

Plot tension and main characters are strong throughout. The conclusion is satisfactory, if somewhat forced.

Photo: Aaron Bean on Unsplash