Dale Nelson, retired professor of English at Mayville State University, North Dakota, is a good friend of mine and one of the more frequent commenters on this blog. He is also a presence in the world of Inklings and fantastic fiction scholarship.
The Norwegian word for “busy” is “travelt,” which always makes me thing of a crowded road. Which is pretty much what I feel like right now. I have a) my “novel writing” work, which currently means formatting books for paperback, b), the magazine I’m editing for the Valdres Samband, the ethnic organization that hired me for this purpose, c) my translation work on the Sigrid Undset biography, and d) the monthly newsletter for my Sons of Norway lodge (which won’t take long but should have been finished by now).
This morning it rained. The first rain we’ve had around here in months. It’s been raining all day, except for when it snowed (alas for the trick-or-treaters!). When I was done with my novel writing this morning, I happened to look outside and found that the first four of my cartons of orphaned books had arrived from Nordskog (see last night’s story). I have an idea the mail carrier was unhappy about being made to carry those heavy cartons, because he left them on the very outside edge of the porch, where the drip from the awning would pour straight down on them.
Some of the cartons were soaking wet; all were damp. I brought them in immediately and freed the books from the cartons. They’re air drying in my living room now, as are the cartons.
Most of the books are fine. A few have covers curled. But I’m getting these things for pennies on the dollar, and don’t expect to outlive the supply anyway.
Ten more cartons arrived this afternoon (perfectly dry, I’m happy to say). Also I finally got my paperback copies of The Elder King from Amazon. I’d been looking forward to that – photo above.
And… I got a surprise. Some moron – and there’s no moron but me on this job – accidentally put the wrong title in the page headers. All the right-hand pages in this edition say at the top that the book is Hailstone Mountain, which it is not.
I wouldn’t have this problem if I’d done the prudent thing and ordered a review copy for myself before releasing it. But I lack the patience. Now I have this.
It’s easily fixed. I’ll republish it tomorrow. Which means the book will be briefly unavailable. The few copies already sold will go down in history as errata, no doubt to become sought-after collectors’ items.
The hits just keep on coming – as many people must have said in the radio business, but I don’t think I ever did, back when I was in the game.
I am forging my way through my Viking books, and can herewith announce that the paperback version of King of Rogaland is now obtainable from Amazon.com. This completes the whole set (sort of, details below), except for the final book, The Baldur Game, which still awaits its cover art.
And then there are the first two books, which present complications of their own.
West Oversea, Book 3 of the series, is in an odd limbo at this juncture. Nordskog, its publisher, is – sadly – going out of business. They have kindly returned all rights to me, and are selling me their entire stock of paperbacks at a steep discount. That’s about 20 cartons at last count. I’ll have my little house packed with them, I guess, which is (I think) the final stage of deterioration in a self-published author’s life cycle. I’m working now at formatting the book for an Amazon version of my own. I think selling this stock of Nordskog paperbacks through Amazon would create a distribution challenge for which I’m not equipped. So I’ll just create a fresh one, and sell my Nordskog volumes at Viking events. I expect they should last me another 40 years or so.
And then there’s The Year of the Warrior. I’m currently getting the paper version printed by a private printer, but I’m going to try to get that one out through Amazon too. I think it’ll be cheaper, but the juxtaposition of Baen’s electronic version with my paperback will, I have no doubt, raise unanticipated problems.
We suffer for our art in many ways. This is not one of the worst. Yet.
Death comes while you are struggling with your application or lack of application of the Judeo-Christian ethic. While you work out the equation which says, If I don’t kill him, he will kill me, so even if I have been taught not to kill, this is an exception—while you are working that out, he is blowing chunks of bone out of your skull. The quick and the dead is an ancient allusion. They were quick and I was quick and lucky.
I always knew it was coming. Even when this book first came out (and I read it back then) I had to expect that when John D. MacDonald gave his hero Travis McGee the girl of his dreams, a big, healthy, well-balanced woman who seemed to be made for him, he would have to kill her off in the next book. (The author is the true villain of every story.) And so it was. The Green Ripper is the darkest and saddest of the Travis McGee series, and incidentally a harbinger of what future detective fiction would be.
Gretel Tuckerman, Trav’s new woman, has taken a job at a property development and health spa near Fort Lauderdale. One day she notices a stranger on the grounds, and recognizes him from a brief encounter years ago in California. A couple days later she is dead, apparently the victim of a rare disease carried by an insect bite.
But before long, a stricken McGee and his friend Meyer get a visit from some government agents with questions. Thanks to Meyer’s security clearance, they get to ask a few questions of their own. It appears there’s a terrorist network within the US, connected to a secretive religious cult in California. It was Gretel’s misfortune to recognize one of its members, and apparently they murdered her by clandestine means.
This is where McGee goes underground. He assumes a new identity, that of a working fisherman with a drinking problem, headed to California to find his daughter, whom he believes joined the cult. He will find the cult. He will join them. Get to know them. Make friends.
And he will get terrible revenge.
Here, I believe, we see the genesis of the detective thriller as we know it today – the Jack Reacher and Gray Man books and others in the same vein, some better, some not so good. Most Travis McGee books are about the mystery, the problem, with a generous helping of violence thrown in. Today, most detective series are primarily about the violence, with just enough of a mystery to hold the plot together.
As an old fogy, I generally find the older way more enjoyable. And as far as I recall, MacDonald never again went as far into ultra-violence as he did in this story. It’s not that I judge The Green Ripper a bad novel, it’s just that the combination of grief and vengeance makes it a downer.
Also, Meyer, supposedly a genius, makes a lot of economic predictions in this book that haven’t played out well in the real world. On the other hand, we have here an object lesson about avoiding religious groups run by women.
So, not my favorite Travis McGee. But it’s a great series.
I like and respect the English author Anthony Horowitz, but I’m less than in love with his Hawthorne and Horowitz books. The premise seems to be an interesting twist on the old Holmes & Watson formula – Hawthorne is a former police detective who has persuaded Horowitz, as an author, to accompany him on private investigations and write about them, with the profits divided. Horowitz shoehorns the stories (apparently) into his actual life circumstances. The Sentence is Death takes place, ostensibly, during the period when Horowitz was a writer for the Foyle’s War TV series.
In this story, the police have asked Hawthorne to consult on a murder investigation. A celebrity divorce lawyer has been murdered in his kitchen, bludgeoned with an expensive bottle of wine. Of course, the victim does not lack for enemies who might have wanted him dead, but there is also a broader range of suspects, some related to a caving accident he was involved in years back. Oddly enough, one of the other survivors of that accident died under mysterious circumstances within a few days of the murder. Also, why did somebody paint a number on the kitchen wall?
There’s nothing wrong with the writing The Sentence Is Death, nor with the characters or the plotting. It’s just that author Horowitz has labored to create a Sherlock Holmes-style character who seems to embody most of Holmes’ annoying characteristics and none of his charm. Hawthorne is surly, secretive, and thoughtless. He himself becomes part of the ongoing mystery, as Horowitz tries to figure out who this guy is and where he came from – a project with which Hawthorne cooperates not at all. Frankly, I do not like Hawthorne, and find him bad company.
Also, I must admit I figured out whodunnit this time. This is not because of my genius as a detective, but because I’ve gotten to where I can (sometimes) recognize the tricks authors use to divert our attention from serious suspects.
Still, The Sentence is Death is a well-done book. My reservations are all personal. So you should discount for that.
This classic hymn comes from the London Baptist minister Edward Mote (1797-1874). It was first published in 1836 under the title, “The immutable Basis of a Sinner’s hope.” The tune in the video above is not familiar to me, but I assume it’s traditional in some circles. It’s not the most common tune, which was written for the hymn in 1863.
“The Rock, his work is perfect, for all his ways are justice. A God of faithfulness and without iniquity, just and upright is he.” (Deuteronomy 32:4 ESV)
1 My hope is built on nothing less Than Jesus’ Blood and Righteousness; No merit of my own I claim, But wholly lean on Jesus’ Name.
Refrain On Christ, the solid rock, I stand; All other ground is sinking sand.
2 When long appears my toilsome race, I rest on His unchanging grace; In every rough and stormy gale My anchor holds within the veil. Refrain
3 His oath, His covenant and Blood Support me in the raging flood; When every earthly prop gives way, He then is all my hope and stay. Refrain
4 When the last trumpet’s voice shall sound, O may I then in Him be found, Robed in His righteousness alone, Faultless to stand before the throne. Refrain
Acton’s Joseph Holmes writes, “The film is visually mesmerizing and the acting is superb. . . Every liturgical and ritual observance is infused with weight and drama, from the prayers to the manner in which ballots for the new pope are submitted.”
But the leader of the conclave, Cardinal Lawrence, is burdened by doubt, at least, that’s what we’re told. He speaks of doubting God and the church but never doubts its politics.
“This lets the air out of much of the story’s drama. Because the film never shows the ‘conservative’ side, those struggling to retain the old ways, as being sympathetic in any way, we never get to see Lawrence struggle with the rightness of his own position. Ironically, he never doubts himself.”
World‘sColin Garbarino notes another kind of shallowness. “These churchmen have surprisingly little to say about the Bible’s teachings or church tradition during their debates. Even the conservatives seem more concerned with cultural tradition than doctrinal conviction.”
It’s been a while since I’ve posted any Sissel Kyrkjebø music. Here we have a Swedish hymn called “Day By Day.” (Not to be confused with the song “Day By Day” from the musical “Godspell.” Which is… a different song.) This is Sissel at the start of her career, when she was singing on Norwegian television.
It was written by Carolina (Lina) Sandell (1832-1903), a beloved Swedish hymn writer. Even we Norwegians loved her hymns. She started writing, we are told, in part to deal with her shock after watching the drowning death of her father. The Swedish evangelist Carl O. Rosenius featured many her hymns in his services, which increased their popularity.
The lyrics go (in English):
Day by day, God’s gracious love surrounds me As a balm to soothe my troubled heart. Countless cares and worries that confound me Fade away or quietly depart, For His heart is kind beyond all measure, And He comforts us as He knows best. Ev’ry day, with all its pain and pleasure, Mingles tears with peace and rest.
Day by day, the Lord is ever near me, Granting loving mercies for each hour, And my care He gladly bears, and cheers me With His counsel pure and holy pow’r. I’ll not fear for what may come tomorrow, Though the path ahead I cannot see. He assures that in all joy or sorrow, “As thy days, thy strength shall be.”
Help me rest in quiet consolation. Help me trust Thy promises, O Lord. When I’m faced with daily tribulation, Help me find the strength to live Thy word. Then, dear Lord, when toil and trouble find me, Hold me steadfast in Thy pow’rful hand. Day by day, Thy strength will bear me kindly Till I reach the promised land.
This, I might mention, is not the translation I’m familiar with. I blame the liberals.
Avaldsnes Church (my photo). The dark shape toward the left end of the nave is the last remaining standing stone. They call it “The Virgin Mary’s Sewing Needle.”
Tonight’s topic is one I’ve been thinking about ever since I began formatting my novels for paperback. The fact that I’ve forgotten about this topic every evening when the time came to compose a post probably says something about me personally – specifically about my reluctance to admit my mistakes.
Because my mistakes are my topic.
Specifically, my inconsistencies.
In my books.
Emerson (who knew something of suffering, since his parents named him Ralph Waldo) famously said, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” This has given great comfort, over a couple centuries, to many people looking for excuses.
Which brings us to me.
One thing (one of many) that has bedeviled me over the years, as I’ve worked on my Erling Saga, was a sneaking suspicion that I was describing things differently in different books. I have avoided this problem by assiduously refraining from re-reading them. But the process of formatting for paperback has forced me to read each of them, and I’ve discovered that my fears were justified.
Shall I share some of the inconsistencies? Will that depress others as much as it depresses me?
Be strong, and read on if you dare.
The character of King Olaf’s marshal, Bjorn (the sagas do not give us his father’s name; I had to make one up for him), is described as dark-haired on his first appearance. In King of Rogaland he is suddenly fair-haired and bald.
Closer to my heart are the standing stones at Augvaldsness (Avaldsnes) on Kormt (Karmøy) island. This, as I’ve explained more often than you care to recall, is the location of my great-grandfather’s home church. Only one of those standing stones still stands today, but originally there was an array of five. In one of the Erling books (I think it was The Elder King, but I’m already not sure) I said only two of those stones were standing at the time, and the others were just stumps. But in King of Rogaland, based on a reconstruction of the Viking Age farm from Norway, I put all five up again, adding a lame excuse that Ailill’s memory is vague, and he thinks the magic of the place has affected his perception.
And now I have to live with it.
Well, if Conan Doyle could live with forgetting where Dr. Watson got his wound in Afghanistan, I can probably live with these things. It’ll give future Walker scholars something to debate. Or laugh about.
How hard it is to avoid offending somebody! And however hard you try, people seem less inclined to use goodwill to their advantage, than unconsciously eager to set one goodwill against another. Inconceivable sterility of souls — what is the cause of it? Truly, man is always at immunity with himself — a secret sly kind of hostility. Tares, scattered no matter where, will almost certainly take root. Whereas the smallest seed of good needs more than ordinary good fortune, prodigious luck, not to be stifled.
Parisian author Georges Bernanos published Journal d’un Cure de Campagne (The Diary of a Country Priest)in 1936. It’s a quiet, at times devotional, novel about a young priest eager to serve his parish while his superiors on all sides tell him to calm down. The scant story consists mainly of a few lengthy conversations and a few more brief scenes, the climax of all of them coming in chapter 5 of 8.
A fictional diary has a natural dramatic resistance to overcome. It’s a secondhand account from a first-person narrator, so you know it isn’t happening as you are reading and the narrator makes it through to write it down. I found it helpful that the priest acknowledged this by confessing he couldn’t record his conversations exactly as they occurred, which was good because it meant he could write more of what he intended to say than what he spat out at the time.
The book begins with the unnamed priest describing his parish “like all the rest” and “bored stiff.” In almost every character, we can see a spiritual apathy, which he describes as a “cancerous growth” and “like the fermentation of a Christianity in decay.” Even his superior preach hope only “by force of habit.” Few of his congregation faithfully attend mass, and some have lifestyles that violate God’s moral laws, but they all believe they are Christians in good standing and should be treated as such. As one holy man put it, the priest of our book shouldn’t disturb them by spurring them to greater faithfulness. If they are bitter, conniving, or perverted, what of it? Why risk a scandal by calling them out?
But our priest does risk a scandal. As he spurs himself into visiting every house in the parish over a period of one-to-three months, he cannot refrain from saying what needs to be said. At least, I think that’s what we’re told he does. We don’t see much of that, and what he says in the larger recorded conversations doesn’t touch on the gospel (at least not clearly enough). Many good lines about our need for the Divine and the uselessness of life without the Father, but nothing about Christ’s atonement. As a soldier in the book says, the church has defined a secular space for the world and stepped away from it, leaving most people to wait on a curb and wonder what to do.
Our priest does record his desire to uphold church doctrine through catechizing children and pressing adults in matter of the faith. When someone from the community dies of suspected suicide, he’s the one who raises the question with an elder priest. The response he gets is that God is the only judge and what’s the use of saints if just men can die without some grace to justify them.
One of the best threads in this book is the priest’s wrestling with prayer, feeling completely worthless half of the time, and coming out of it after arguing about it with someone else. Have monks who spend most of their days in prayer confessed it was a waste of time? No. That communion has sustained them, because the Lord’s grace is tangible sustenance.
There are a few pages of distinctly Catholic flavor, which I imagine helps push this book into the favorite category for many readers.
There are no time markings in the narrative, so it’s hard to tell whether even a year passes between these covers. Whatever the amount of time, our priest suffers with a restricted diet for most of it, subsisting on bread and sour wine and painting a bold parallel to Christ. But in the final chapter, he appears to learn a profound lesson in grace from an unlikely source.
