Mr. Overstreet tells us about a friend who taught photojournalism to Haitian teenagers last year and produced a book of their photos with them. Buying that book now will both encourage those young people and send $10 to earthquake relief efforts.
Robert Crais interview
Thanks to Aitchmark, for sending me the link to this National Review “Between the Covers” interview by John J. Miller, with author Robert Crais (whom I’ve reviewed frequently here). He discusses his new novel, The First Rule.
Overstreet Book Contest
Jeffrey Overstreet has a contest promoting his new book, Raven’s Ladder. The first two books, Auralia’s Colors and Cyndere’s Midnight, are quite good.
Rachel Motte reviews Introverts in the Church
Over at Evangelical Outpost, Rachel Motte reviews a book called Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture. Looks fascinating, and (in my humble opinion) it’s long overdue.
I probably don’t need to mention that this is an issue of considerable interest to me (though to call myself an introvert is a gross understatement). I’ve heard of churches where every single member is required, as a condition of membership, to do house-to-house visitation. It seems to me that that kind of one-size-fits-all Christianity is entirely false to the true nature of the church. As the apostle Paul says in 1 Corinthians 12:14-20, “Now the body is not made up of one part but of many. If the foot should say, ‘Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,’ it would not for that reason cease to be part of the body…. But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. If they were all one part, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, but one body.”
A church, as I understand it, isn’t meant to look at its membership and say, “Where can we find people to do this and this and this?” It shouldn’t try to shoehorn members into pre-defined roles. Instead, the leadership ought to understand that God has already given them the parts He intends, for the sort of ministry He has in mind. They should get to know their fellow members, and prayerfully try to set each one to work doing what God has gifted him (or her) to do.
That’s not to say that a certain amount of personal growth isn’t necessary, or that people can’t learn to do things they’ve never thought of before. But I think many churches are in the position of the man who looks at himself in a mirror, decides he’s too short, and resolutely sets about finding a way to be taller. God (one assumes) made him the height he is for a reason.
As I mention in my comment to Rachel’s review, I attended a church years back (in Florida) whose pastor was also an introvert. He preached extremely well, and many people came to listen to him. But he himself admitted that he was poor at the one-on-one aspects of the ministry. He was blessed with an understanding board of elders, who were willing to back him up by finding others, both assistant pastors and laity, to take much of that burden off him. That church was dynamic and growing, one of the most exciting churches I’ve ever been involved in.
Android Karenina from Quirk Books
It’s the 100th year anniversary of Tolstoy’s death, so Quirk Books plans to revamp one of his great novels with robots and stuff.
“The Poet’s Parnassus”
Among my Christmas gifts was a used volume called, Old Time Punishments, by William Andrews, a reprint of a book originally published in 1890.
In a chapter provocatively titled, “Punishing Authors,” I find this passage:
Authors and publishers were often nailed by the ears to the pillory, and when ready to be set at liberty the ears would frequently be cut off, and left on the post of the pillory. A farce called “The Patron,” by Foote, contains allusions to the practice. Puff advises Dactyl to write a satire. To the suggestion replies Dactyl: “Yes, and so get cropped for libel.” Puff answers him: “Cropped! aye, and the luckiest thing that could happen to you! Why, I would not give twopence for an author who is afraid of his ears! Writing — writing is, as I may say, Mr. Dactyl, a sort of warfare, and none can be victor that can be least afraid of a scar. Why, zooks, sir! I never got salt to my porridge till I was mounted at the Royal Exchange; and that was the making of me. Then my name made a noise in the world. Talk of forked hills and Helicon! Romance and fabulous stuff, the true Castalian stream is a shower of eggs, and a pillory the poet’s Parnassus.”
"The Poet's Parnassus"
Among my Christmas gifts was a used volume called, Old Time Punishments, by William Andrews, a reprint of a book originally published in 1890.
In a chapter provocatively titled, “Punishing Authors,” I find this passage:
Authors and publishers were often nailed by the ears to the pillory, and when ready to be set at liberty the ears would frequently be cut off, and left on the post of the pillory. A farce called “The Patron,” by Foote, contains allusions to the practice. Puff advises Dactyl to write a satire. To the suggestion replies Dactyl: “Yes, and so get cropped for libel.” Puff answers him: “Cropped! aye, and the luckiest thing that could happen to you! Why, I would not give twopence for an author who is afraid of his ears! Writing — writing is, as I may say, Mr. Dactyl, a sort of warfare, and none can be victor that can be least afraid of a scar. Why, zooks, sir! I never got salt to my porridge till I was mounted at the Royal Exchange; and that was the making of me. Then my name made a noise in the world. Talk of forked hills and Helicon! Romance and fabulous stuff, the true Castalian stream is a shower of eggs, and a pillory the poet’s Parnassus.”
The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, by Michael Chabon
Michael Chabon is a brilliant writer, and The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is a masterful, scintillating book. It’s lyrical as a poem, funny as a Shecky Greene monologue, and engaging as a crossword puzzle. It’s the kind of book that makes lesser authors (like me) want to throw their laptops through the window and take up careers in online marketing.
And yet I don’t recommend it.
The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is a hard-boiled police novel, set in an alternate universe in which the state of Israel failed in 1948. The homeless Jews were (grudgingly) offered a home in the Alaska panhandle, around Sitka. There they have lived for almost 60 years (the book is set in 2007), but next year the mandate runs out, and the land is scheduled to be returned to the Tlinkit Indians (that’s pronounced “Clinkit,” by the way. You probably didn’t know that. I know it because I spent a summer in the Shumagin Islands, long ago).
It’s in this climate of insecurity and futility that police detective Meyer Landsman is taken to view the body of a gunshot victim in the seedy hotel where he’s lived since his divorce. The body turns out to be that of a once-famous young man, a chess prodigy, rabbi’s son and miracle worker who many thought would be the Messiah. Depressed, self-destructive, alcoholic, Det. Landsman sets about solving the mystery, sometimes helped and sometimes hindered by his half-Tlinkit partner and his ex-wife, who is now his boss.
Be warned—the rest of this review includes spoilers. Not spoilers about the plot, but about the meaning of the book. Of course, I may have misunderstood the meaning altogether, as ordinary chess players in this novel are baffled by the moves of the great masters. But I’ll tell you what I got out of it, for whatever that’s worth.
The lesson of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is that the real danger in the world comes from the devout, whatever their religion. Chabon has cleverly, in his alternate universe, created a world without Islamic terrorism (because we all know there’d be no Islamic terrorism if there were no Israel). But there is terrorism nevertheless, coming out of those famously vicious groups, orthodox Jews and Christian evangelicals.
This book, it appears to me, is the heart-cry of the assimilated, secular, self-hating Jew. When the Muslim terrorist says it’s all the Jews’ fault, Chabon (it would appear) hangs his head and says, “It’s true. But it’s not my fault. It’s the fault of those black hats. They’re just crazy.”
So the book saddened me. I should also mention that I read it to the end, though—something which I rarely do with books that offend me deeply. This one was just too good to put down, even when I thought it morally perverse and dangerous.
Cautions for language apply—not only obscenity and cursing, but actual blasphemy. Also a lot of jokes about Jews that no Gentile could get away with.
Read at your own risk.
The Yiddish Policemen's Union, by Michael Chabon
Michael Chabon is a brilliant writer, and The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is a masterful, scintillating book. It’s lyrical as a poem, funny as a Shecky Greene monologue, and engaging as a crossword puzzle. It’s the kind of book that makes lesser authors (like me) want to throw their laptops through the window and take up careers in online marketing.
And yet I don’t recommend it.
The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is a hard-boiled police novel, set in an alternate universe in which the state of Israel failed in 1948. The homeless Jews were (grudgingly) offered a home in the Alaska panhandle, around Sitka. There they have lived for almost 60 years (the book is set in 2007), but next year the mandate runs out, and the land is scheduled to be returned to the Tlinkit Indians (that’s pronounced “Clinkit,” by the way. You probably didn’t know that. I know it because I spent a summer in the Shumagin Islands, long ago).
It’s in this climate of insecurity and futility that police detective Meyer Landsman is taken to view the body of a gunshot victim in the seedy hotel where he’s lived since his divorce. The body turns out to be that of a once-famous young man, a chess prodigy, rabbi’s son and miracle worker who many thought would be the Messiah. Depressed, self-destructive, alcoholic, Det. Landsman sets about solving the mystery, sometimes helped and sometimes hindered by his half-Tlinkit partner and his ex-wife, who is now his boss.
Be warned—the rest of this review includes spoilers. Not spoilers about the plot, but about the meaning of the book. Of course, I may have misunderstood the meaning altogether, as ordinary chess players in this novel are baffled by the moves of the great masters. But I’ll tell you what I got out of it, for whatever that’s worth.
The lesson of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is that the real danger in the world comes from the devout, whatever their religion. Chabon has cleverly, in his alternate universe, created a world without Islamic terrorism (because we all know there’d be no Islamic terrorism if there were no Israel). But there is terrorism nevertheless, coming out of those famously vicious groups, orthodox Jews and Christian evangelicals.
This book, it appears to me, is the heart-cry of the assimilated, secular, self-hating Jew. When the Muslim terrorist says it’s all the Jews’ fault, Chabon (it would appear) hangs his head and says, “It’s true. But it’s not my fault. It’s the fault of those black hats. They’re just crazy.”
So the book saddened me. I should also mention that I read it to the end, though—something which I rarely do with books that offend me deeply. This one was just too good to put down, even when I thought it morally perverse and dangerous.
Cautions for language apply—not only obscenity and cursing, but actual blasphemy. Also a lot of jokes about Jews that no Gentile could get away with.
Read at your own risk.
“Why Faith Is Not a Private Matter”
Brit Hume suggested on air that Tiger Woods seek the Lord Jesus Christ for answers to his current problems, and people started talking. Selwyn Duke says the religious and the political are closely tied and always have been, so certain folk can reevaluate their offense to religious or specifically Christian evangelism when political evangelism goes on all the time. He writes, “I mean, could you imagine, let’s say, Jay Bookman stating, ‘You know, I like universal health care, but, hey, dude, whatever works for you’?”