Authors, Blogs, Socials, Publishing, The Press

The Dead White Male and the Sea

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Hemingway writing at the Dorchester Hotel in London, 1944. Photographer unknown, public domain. By way of Wikimedia Commons.

Via Instapundit, this story from PJ Media: “The Woke Bell Tolls for Ernest Hemingway.”

The UK’s Telegraph revealed Saturday that Penguin Random House, which publishes Hemingway’s novels and stories, has slapped them with “a trigger warning” due to “concerns about his ‘language’ and ‘attitudes.’” Hapless new Hemingway readers are also “alerted to the novelist’s ‘cultural representations.’”

I can imagine what Ernest Hemingway himself would say to all this, but I wouldn’t be able to publish it. The arrogant, self-infatuated, blinkered, miseducated woke dopes at Penguin Random House don’t seem to understand that the whole idea of reading Hemingway, or any other great writer, is to encounter “language,” “attitudes” and “cultural representations” that are not one’s own, and are not the same as the language, attitudes, and cultural representations of contemporary culture.

As you may recall if you’re a regular reader here, I don’t like Hemingway much. Though his writing style was undeniably influential, I’ve never cared for his stories, and never worked up the interest to read any of his books. I don’t like his politics, and all I know about his personality repels me.

But you know how you can tell I’m not on the Left? You can tell because I think his books ought to be published straight. Adults should be trusted to have the maturity to handle ideas, words and imagery that might trouble or offend them.

Somebody made a comment on Twitter the other day to the effect that our times aren’t much fun. I replied, “Shoot, Prohibition was more fun than this.”

I think we ought to declare a new Roaring 20s. Let’s have speakeasies, places where you can speak easily. Say anything you bloody want. Leave your electronic devices in a Faraday Cage at the door, so nobody can listen in, and engage in old-fashioned forbidden conversation. All ideas permitted. No punching allowed, though.

Which would admittedly cramp Hemingway’s style.

Reviews

Of brownstones and starships

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Lately I’ve been “doing” Nero Wolfe on YouTube. First the 1981 series starring William (“Cannon”) Conrad and Lee Horsely, and currently the 2001 series with Maury Chaykin and Timothy Hutton. But in the course of my fumbling about on the site I stumbled on the little-known video above. It’s a 1959 pilot for a half-hour NW series starring Kurt Kasznar and none other than a pre-Star Trek William Shatner. But more about that below.

I sought out the Conrad-Horsely series for sentimental reasons. The series was one of my favorites back when it came out. Critics complained that it violated some of the basic protocols of the ordered household author Rex Stout created. Though I’m fond of the original Wolfe books, I’m not as punctilious about them as I am about, say, Sherlock Holmes or Travis McGee. I thought Bill Conrad was just splendid as Nero Wolfe, and he had excellent chemistry with Horsely’s Archie. The set designers worked meticulously (and at considerable cost) to recreate Wolfe’s office. I particularly liked the big chair. Stout often mentions in the stories that Wolfe’s upholstered desk chair was specially built to support his great weight.

The only problem with that handsome chair was that it was physically too large for Bill Conrad, who kind of got lost in it. I suspect it was designed with Orson Welles, who was originally meant to play the role, in mind.

But after I’d watched that series’ one season of episodes, I moved on to the 2001 series. It’s very well done and very faithful to the original stories. Also extremely stylish and shot in period. Maury Chaykin as Wolfe is growing on me, though I still prefer Conrad. I’ve always seen Wolfe as a dark-haired man. Timothy Hutton seems a little lightly constructed for Archie, but the attitude is spot on.

But now, back to the 1959 pilot. I was surprised how good it was. Bill Shatner may be the best Archie Goodwin of them all. The role plays exactly to his strengths. And Kurt Kasznar (whom I believe I saw in person once, as Moriarty in a road production of William Gillette’s “Sherlock Holmes” play, but I may have him confused with someone else), has a good look for Wolfe and brings the additional value of an Austrian accent. Stout’s Wolfe was Montenegran by birth, but I think this is the only time anyone ever portrayed him with an accent (except for Sidney Greenstreet’s English tones). The plot is stripped-down, as is necessary for the half-hour format (not ideal for the material), and the office set lacks the rich detail of the later productions. But all in all it’s a commendable effort and pretty entertaining.

(It also features the actor Alexander Scourby [whose Bible narration you may have heard], whom I also saw in person once, in college, doing a reading of Walt Whitman. I had a chance to meet him but missed out, as is my custom in life.)

One wonders why it wasn’t accepted by the network. However, if that had happened, Bill Shatner might have still been busy when Gene Roddenberry went looking for an actor to play Captain Kirk a few years later. And the world would have missed out on a rich font of camp, parody, and Facebook memes.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Murder in the Fells,’ by Bruce Beckham

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Her face is big-boned like a Herdwick sheep and in the greenish-blue eyes rests an innate kindliness.

I’m not sure I’d have ever read the Inspector Skelgill novels if they’d been described to me first. An eccentric police detective whose main expertise is as a hunter and fisherman, who detects mostly by instinct and intuition rather than by reasoning, doesn’t sound like my cup of tea. And yet I find these books by Bruce Beckham fascinating, and they seem to get better and better as they go. They are set in the English county of Cumbria, up by the Scottish border.

In Murder in the Fells, a shepherd discovers a lost wallet in a fox’s “earth.” It contains an American woman’s passport. Probability indicates it belongs to a woman whose body was found near a waterfall in the fells, who has not been identified so far. Inquiries are begun to find out more about the woman.

Meanwhile, in a separate plot thread, we follow a woman named Dorothy T. Baum, another American who has traveled to Cumbria to meet a man, a professor of history, whom she met online and with whom she plans to move in. The reader soon realizes she’s the victim of a “catfishing” scheme, that she’s been lured to England to be fleeced of her money, then murdered. One suspects at first that this is the story of the dead woman – but it’s contemporaneous with Skelgill’s team’s investigation, and the dead woman’s name wasn’t Dorothy.

Tension builds as Dorothy survives a couple “accidents,” and Skelgill’s team becomes aware of her and begin trying to locate her in the tangle of mountain and valley paths that crisscross Cumbria.

And in the end, a big surprise. Very well done.

I liked Murder in the Fells very much. Enjoyed every page. It’s become a cliché for publicists to advertise every English mystery as “gripping.” But in this case it’s true.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Murder in the Air,’ by David Pearson

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The Galway Homicides is an Irish police procedural series I’m not familiar with. But in the usual way of such things I got the offer of a free book, and so I read it. I had the impression from the description that it starred a man/woman police detective team, but if that was true of the earlier volumes, it is so no more. The hero of Murder in the Air is Detective Inspector Maureen Lyons. Her former partner (and current “life partner” in the dreary contemporary parlance) is Inspector Mick Hays, who has been kicked upstairs to the administrative office of Superintendent and plays only a peripheral role in this story.

A Galway property developer named Gerald Fortune crashes his small plane in a West Ireland bog and is killed along with his 17-year-old daughter and a business associate. When it’s discovered that the engine was tampered with, the accident investigation becomes a murder case. Fortune was known as a ruthless competitor who profited from others’ failures, so there is no shortage of possible suspects. But the investigation turns in a surprising direction, and the real killer has an unexpected motive and turns out to have no scruples about hurting anyone – even the investigators’ own families.

The writing in Murder in the Air was fine – author David Pearson writes in a competent, professional manner. He has, however, the annoying habit (which seems to be increasingly common these days) of describing as few of his characters and possible – and when he does, it may be half way through the book. I presume he has reasons for this discourtesy to his readers, but I can’t imagine what they might be.

Being who I am, I was of course conscious of the sexual politics involved in the storytelling. This story takes place in one of those now-common fictional police stations where the personnel are evenly divided between men and women. Maybe that’s how it is in Ireland. Maybe affirmative action has forced those proportions on the famous Gardai. But it was at least good to see that Superintendent Mick Hays was on hand to take care of the rough stuff when called upon. We men are still good for lifting things and opening jar lids, it would appear, even in the age of Trans.

Anyway, Murder in the Air was okay. But I didn’t love it and feel no great impulse to read another in the series.

Music

Sunday Singing: Ancient of Days

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Today’s hymn was written by American William Croswell Doane (1832-1913), the first bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Albany, New York. He wrote this hymn for the bicentenary of the City of Albany, 1886.

1 Ancient of Days, who sittest throned in glory;
To Thee all knees are bent, all voices pray;
Thy love hath blest the wide world’s wondrous story
With light and life since Eden’s dawning day.

2 O Holy Father, who hast led Thy children
In all the ages, with the fire and cloud,
Through seas dry-shod, through weary wastes bewildering;
To Thee, in reverent love, our hearts are bowed.

3 O Holy Jesus, Prince of Peace, and Savior,
To Thee we owe the peace that still prevails,
Stilling the rude wills of men’s wild behavior,
And calming passion’s wild and stormy gales.

4 O Holy Ghost, the Lord and the Life-giver,
Thine is the quickening power that gives increase;
From Thee have flowed, as from a pleasant river,
Our plenty, wealth, prosperity, and peace.

5 O Triune God, with heart and voice adoring,
Praise we the goodness that doth crown our days;
Pray we, that Thou wilt hear us, still imploring
Thy love and favor, kept to us always.

Authors, Blogs, Socials, Fiction

The Heroes of Your Imagination

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People ask on social media to share gifs of the superhero they imagine themselves to be (when they aren’t fetching coffee for the office team or replying to emails from people who hadn’t read the original email). I don’t join the sharing, because I don’t daydream in previously defined types like this.

Sometimes I imagine catching a falling meteor and it setting my body ablaze, and maybe that’s the signal flare from an extraterrestrial being needing my help. Or I imagine I’m the one who can talk to either large, invisible beasts or poltergeist-like forces nearby, telling them no to tear up the door I’m walking through.

Lately, I’ve taken a different tack. I’ve imagined confronting the bad guys with their full names, telling them they’re on my list, and saying no one would die here except them. If they run, because maybe they shoot at me to no effect, I follow them, like the stalking killer of a horror movie. I’m not so much a superhero in this line of thought as a force of nature, literally an agent or ambassador for the office of Death. No power to use or abuse; only select authority dispassionately exercised.

That sounds like a boring character or a side character at best. But thinking on those lines got me thinking of the flipside, of someone who can heal anything. I’ve imagined putting a hand on the back of someone’s neck and getting an expanding, somewhat undefined sense of their nerves, tissues, and organs, recognizing broken parts or dead cells, and restoring them to life. Sometimes it hurts the healer, sometimes the patient. Sometimes emotional pain rushes out causing both to weep.

There may be a story with a character like that, but more likely it’s fruitless imagination.

Batman: Tim Burton’s Batman was released June 23, 1989. Michael Keaton donned the cowl in that film and again in the sequel, Batman Returns. He and Burton would have returned for a third film, but the studio didn’t like the results of the second well enough to allow it. Now that Keaton is Batman again in the recently released The Flash, Jesse Schedeen tells us what Burton had intended to do in a third film and what the DC Comics series Batman ’89 does to fill in the story.

BTW, it was Keaton who gave us the line, “I’m Batman,” when he was scripted to say, “I am the night,” according to All the Right Movies on Twitter.

Super Movies: What are the best superhero movies, in your opinion? ScreenRant has the original Superman with Christopher Reeve and Blade with Wesley Snipe at the top of their list.

Novels: Superhero novels aren’t big sellers, from what I can tell. I’ve heard writers say the boom in movie sales hasn’t translated into book sales. I heard another writer recommend against any new writer attempting to sell a superhero novel. FWIW, here’s a list of superhero novels that aren’t graphic novels.

Americans: Nabokov on “The Simplicity and Kindness of Americans” and insightful barbers.

Favorite Books: No doubt, you were asking yourself just the other day what would be Umberto Eco’s favorite books. His son, Stephano, provides few titles, including “one of the most beautiful in the world,” Francesco Colonna’s Hypnerotomachia Poliphili

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Writing

Adventures in saga writing

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Snorri Sturlusson dictates to an amanuensis, in a woodcut for “Heimskringla” by Christian Krogh.

You may find this hard to believe, admiring me as you do, but I’ve gotten lazy. I watched a video about sleep problems on YouTube recently, and it occurred to me that instead of lying in bed as I am wont to do in the morning, trying to get back to sleep (and generally failing), I should just get up and work on my novel. Maybe I would a) get to sleep more easily at night, and b) actually make progress on this Erling book. My work so far has been mostly thinking about it and plotting.

And what do you know? It worked. I’m sleeping better and I’m actually getting text written. I’ve made progress every day this week. Yesterday I wrote a big scene that even kind of gave me chills. One of the worst things about indolence is that you forget the rewards inherent in the labor.

It’s also a little embarrassing, like one of those times when you’re a kid when you’re trying to do something the way you think it should be done, and your parent says, “I think you should try it this way.” And you say no, because you know how you want to do it. And finally, in desperation, you try it their way, and it turns out they knew more than you did. Proving you’re not as grownup as you thought you were.

Even when you’re over 70 and your folks are dead.

Anyhow, I like how the book’s coming at this point. I was looking for a fantasy element to interweave in the plot, because historical fantasy is what I do, after all, and I think I found just the thing. It comes from northern folklore and feeds into a theme I wanted to explore in the book anyway. Creepy, and with just a touch of contemporary commentary.

In short, I feel like a writer again.

Publishing

Does Anyone Make Money in Publishing?

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Joel Miller sees a thread stretched between three men who died this month: publisher Richard Snyder, author Cormac McCarthy, and editor Robert Gottlieb.

He begins at a time when publishing wasn’t particularly professional.

“I’ve been a full-time professional writer for 28 years,” McCarthy said in 1989, “and I’ve never received a royalty check. That, I’ll betcha, is a record.” Possibly, but probably not. Publishers have always lost money betting on books. As William Jovanovich once said of his own kind, “The publisher can at once be regarded as a scoundrel by his authors and an idealist by his bankers. . . .”

Fiction, Reviews

‘Toe the Line,’ by Jack Probyn

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Jake Tanner was a somewhat different hero from the kind I’m used to in police procedural novels. In Toe the Line, he’s not a grizzled veteran but a fresh young detective constable, just transferred from London to Guildford in Surrey. He’s insecure and goes through the usual emotions familiar to us all when moving into new social and work situations. He’s told that things ought to be quiet; nothing much ever happens in Guildford.

But (of course) that prediction proves false. A ruthless gang of criminals bursts into a local jewelry store, intimidates staff and customers with guns, and cleans out the cash and jewels. Then they shoot a woman to death and kidnap the female manager.

As it happens, we soon learn, this is a gang Jake has faced before; he was responsible for their former leader going to prison. The robbers have a new approach to their work now, and a devious plan involving an exploding collar and their own escape from the country to a new life.

As the investigation ramps up, Jake’s special knowledge will put him in a position to make useful suggestions to his superiors. But he doesn’t know that the gang has eyes and ears within the police force. And even the other gang members don’t know all their new leader is planning…

I didn’t hate Toe the Line. It kept my interest. But it wasn’t very well written. The author is inclined to use words whose meaning he doesn’t understand – he says one character “sauntered” when he was actually in low spirits (you only saunter when you’re feeling self-assured). He has someone making “incredulous” demands. He speaks of a “plethora” of police cars at a crime scene.

A good-faith effort is made to go deep with the characters, to provide insight on psychology and family dynamics. But that effort was pretty ham-handed, attempting to rationalize behavior that often just doesn’t make much sense.

Another problem (for me) was fairly frequent references to the previous adventure Jake had with this gang. But we’re told very little about that story, and this one is the first novel in the Jake Tanner series. I consider this unfair to the reader. If the author wrote a previous novel that couldn’t be salvaged for publication, fair enough. But then give us some back story now.

Toe the Line, I must admit, kept my interest to the end. But it left me unsatisfied. There’s a partial cliffhanger at the end, promising continued conflict in future volumes. But I don’t think I’ll read any more.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Table 13,’ by Mike McCrary

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Everyone here looks like they strolled out of a skincare commercial or a steaming limited series about amazing people who aren’t you. Each more gorgeous than the next. All of them belong here. All look like they are more than Hank in every way. He knows he needs to stop thinking this way, but this is where his mind goes here in New York. The aching need to tell the city he’s sorry for wasting their time.

I liked Mike McCrary’s Someone Savage, so I took a chance on another of his books. I think this one is an earlier and less polished effort, but it still grabbed me. I rarely think about the relationship between the thriller genre and horror, but Table 13 has a lot of horror elements. It would also make a good movie.

Hank Quinn is a young man from Texas, working as a waiter in New York. He came to the big city to take his chance as a writer, but waiting on tables pays the bills, just about. He has to work under a psychopathic chef who abuses him, but it’s an expensive restaurant and the tips are good. Especially from his favorite customers, a couple named Gina and Nick. They’re beautiful, obviously rich, amusing, and just a little weird in some way. They always ask for Hank, they talk to him as to a friend, and they tip insanely.

Then one night the chef corners Hank in the men’s room and loses control. Hank is frightened for his safety, but Nick and Gina step in. What follows is utterly insane. Suddenly Hank’s old problems fade into insignificance as he finds himself the captive of two monomaniacs who want him to do crazy, criminal things, promising to hurt people he cares about if he won’t play along. Their plan is only gradually revealed, and the more Hank understands, the less sense it all makes.

Their one mistake is to underestimate the country boy from Texas.

The storytelling in Table 13 was good. I cared about Hank and was pulling for him. I worried about him, cared about what was coming at him next.

The writing was imperfect. There were problems with misplaced modifiers and occasional cliches.

The ending of the book was (for this reader) mixed. Good things were said about the value of masculinity (it seemed to me). But the final conclusion was… bizarre. The sort of thing I expect more from a horror story.

Still, not bad.