Breathless, by Dean Koontz

Breathless

Say what you like about Dean Koontz; he isn’t afraid to experiment and mix it up. Breathless is part spiritual thriller, part science fiction. It’s a book with a clear message, one many readers won’t like. It’s also a very sweet story, and I enjoyed it and was moved by it. For reference, the same spirit that animates the Odd Thomas books is at work here.

Koontz jumps between several characters and story lines, before bringing them together, if not in one place, at least around one theme. A wonderful thing has happened in our world. Each witness to that event responds for the good or the evil, depending on the capacities of their souls.

Because of the multiplicity of story lines, it’s hard to give a synopsis, but the central story involves a man named Grady Adams, who along with his dog Merlin (gratefully, the dog is not a supernatural being this time out) observes the Event while on an evening walk in the woods. Soon he notices strange creatures watching his house. Meanwhile, his friend Camillia Rivers, a veterinarian, is trying to find an explanation for a strange “seizure” experienced by a number of domestic animals, which not only doesn’t seem to have done them any harm, but has done them good.

And nearby a sociopathic murderer is preparing for the collapse of society by building himself a secure compound on a mountain farm.

It all comes together in the end.

If you’re a Koontz fan and a religious believer, you’ll probably enjoy Breathless. If you don’t get the whole religion thing, you may find it offputting.

I don’t recall any very rough language. No sex, and the violence happens early on and is not explicit.

Not Koontz’ best, but recommended, for those with eyes to see.

The Warm Sincerity of Polish Carols

Carols are buried deep in Polish hearts and may reveal a distinctive beauty in Polish poetry. Cynthia Haven makes this connection when writing about the “Slavic Choral Concert Christmas in Kraków” at the Historic Hillside Club in Berkeley, California, quoting that great poet Czesław Miłosz on the charm and freshness of Polish carols. You can hear a snatch of them on this CD site.

Thanks to Patrick Kurp for this link and his additions to the topic and poem quotations.

Snowmageddon 2010, report from the frontier

If you’re not interested in Snow Stories, you may skip what follows.

Here’s a picture of the view from my house on Saturday:

It snowed. A lot.

I bought my snow blower last year so that I wouldn’t have to spend half a day shoveling snow.

I spent half of Sunday blowing snow.

If I’d have had to shovel it, I’d probably still be at it out there.

Seventeen inches, I’m told. The fifth highest snow accumulation in a single event since records have been kept in Minnesota.

The logistics of my snow blowing system are complex, and high snow levels only complicate them.

Because much of my driveway is sandwiched between my house and my neighbor’s (with little or no yard as a buffer), there are stretches where I have to throw the snow either in front of me, where I haven’t cleared it yet, or behind me.

After a normal snowfall, I usually throw that snow into the “to do” area, so I don’t have to go over the same ground twice.

But after a heavy fall, where the snow is, say, five inches higher than the intake on my snow blower (as was the case Sunday morning), the only sane choice is to throw that snow into the “already done” area. Because the snow ahead of me was already higher than my machine was designed for.

So once I’d done it all once, I had to go over it again, to clean up the backblow.

But once it was done, I surveyed my work in the sunlight and found it good.

And then went inside and lay down.

"In the Bleak Midwinter"

This Christmas Carol by Christina Rossetti, performed by Sissel, seems a good choice as I approach a weekend when YET ANOTHER snowstorm is portended. It’s supposed to start coming down heavily late tonight, and continue tomorrow–pretty much all day. Indications suggest I’ll finally be able to get to snowblowing on Sunday morning, which may interfere with church.

At least I ought to have plenty of time to work on Christmas cards without distraction.

Have a good weekend!

England no longer deserves its history

Glastonbury Thorn

The Glastonbury Thorn before the infamy



Big—and shocking—news in the world of legend and fantasy today. The Glastonbury Thorn, which according to legend was planted by Joseph of Arimathea himself, has been cut down by vandals. Various motives have been suggested. The second most shocking thing in the article, to me, is that apparently the tree enjoyed no legal protection whatever, and even if those responsible are identified, nothing is likely to happen to them.

Who knew the only legal act left in hyper-regulated England is to destroy a national treasure?

The legend of the thorn is that Joseph of Arimathea (identified as the uncle of Jesus) was a tin merchant who voyaged frequently to England (bringing Jesus with him once; hence the hymn “England’s Mountains Green”). While there he thrust his thorn staff into the earth one day, and it budded like Aaron’s rod and took root. For centuries it was revered by pilgrims to Glastonbury (a famous Arthurian site), until Oliver Cromwell’s men chopped it down. But the roots were saved, and nurtured by the faithful. The tree which stood there till now was cultivated from one of those roots. One hopes the same sort of thing can be done again.

What’s intriguing is that the Glastonbury thorn is indeed an exotic. It’s not a native English tree. It’s been identified as a Middle Eastern variety.

We Have Seen the Culture, And It Is Us

Jonathan D. Fitzgerald has an article criticizing Pastor Mark Discoll called “Disengage Culture.” He makes a good point about what culture is and how it’s odd for Christians to talk about engaging it, as if it were something outside of us. An interesting discussion has come up in the comments.

The Edge, by Dick Francis

The Edge

A few days back I mentioned a book I was reading that was so languid that I had trouble staying with it. The Edge, I shall now reveal, is that book.

Train stories are an interesting genre. In books and movies, a railroad train can provide the stage for high drama—derailments, dynamiting, bridge collapses, mysterious strangers all packed into a limited space, engines racing against the clock.

In real life, most rail journeys are pretty dull. Aside from enjoying the scenery—which depends heavily on where you’re traveling—the passenger has to pretty much bring, or make, his own entertainment. It’s nice not to have to drive, but driving at least gives you something to occupy your mind.

Sadly, The Edge is more like a real train journey than a movie one. Great stretches of prose pass by the coach window, all of it moving the story forward, but at a glacial pace. The climax, like the distant Rockies, looms forever (it seems) in the distance. Points of interest are far between.

The hero is Tor Kelsey, a special agent for the British Jockey Club. Independently wealthy, he could afford to live a life of leisure, but he was raised to do useful things and keep busy. In his professional capacity he’s developed a facility for being overlooked, for fading into crowds in order to observe unobserved.

As the book opens, he’s trailing a suspect, a man who probably murdered a jockey on the orders of a shady horse owner named Filmer, who recently got off on a charge of blackmail. The strong arm man, unfortunately, drops dead of a heart attack, leaving Kelsey without a good line on Filmer.

Then word comes that Filmer plans to join a much-publicized race event in Canada. Called the Great Transcontinental Mystery Race Train, the exclusive excursion will send major race horse owners from Montreal to Vancouver, in a special luxury train featuring, for their added pleasure, a scripted mystery play. It appears that one or two of the travelers are about to be further victims of Filmer’s schemes, so Kelsey is delegated to join the crew as a waiter and actor, while keeping an eye on Filmer.

Which he does. Unfortunately, Filmer does almost nothing except ingratiate himself with the other owners for most of the book, which dampens the excitement. There’s finally some real action when they get to the Rockies, but even that seems to me underdeveloped, considering the possibilities. Many characters (I had a hard time keeping track of them) interact, mostly without a lot of drama.

Francis is a genial author, and Tor Kelsey an appealing character. But I found myself wondering, for many, many pages, why I should care what happened next.