Rumors of Death

Obit Magazine has a piece on premature obituaries. Some of the stories are not comical, but this one on Bertrand Russell is.

Most victims of premature obituaries can blame slipshod reporting for the foul ups, but the mistakes ar at least, honest ones. Philosopher Bertrand Russell contended with more sinister behavior. In 1920, after surviving a nasty bout of pneumonia while in China, Japanese correspondents pestered Russell’s future wife, Dora Black, with requests to interview the convalescing philosopher. “At last she became a little curt with them, so they caused the Japanese newspapers to say that I was dead,” recalled Russell in his autobiography.

But the renowned pacifist exacted his revenge. When his health improved a bit, Russell stopped in Japan for a lecture. Local journalists again demanded interviews. Russell replied by having Dora pass out printed announcements: “Since Mr. Russell is dead, he cannot be interviewed.”

First-person eschatology

It’s raining. It’s gloomy and grim and chilly out, with a Seattlesque drizzle coming down.

I love it.

I fully expect to have a blizzard before the month is over, though. That’s just the kind of dame March is.

I’m reading a very good mystery right now (I’ll tell you about it when I’m done), and as I thought it over, driving home, I was hit with the question, “What exactly is supposed to be going on in a first-person-narrative novel?”

I’m not asking about what’s going on in the plot of the story. I’m asking, how am I supposed to understand the narrator in relation to me as a reader?

I mean, think about it. You’ve got this (imaginary) person, who usually makes no claims to being a writer, who is nevertheless pouring out this carefully constructed, professionally polished (or so one hopes) narrative. In the narrator’s own alternate universe, how did this manuscript come to be? Continue reading First-person eschatology

The Friday Fight: Office War

This is remarkable. I used to work with a man who frequently tempted me to buy a Nerf gun or three. He just begged to be shot. I’m thankful I’ve never worked in an environment like this. Fifty people in a cube farm? That could be difficult. I don’t blame the first guy for snapping.

You want more Viking news? You’ve come to the right place!

More Viking news tonight. I know this is a book blog, but by thunder I write books about Vikings.

Does Phil write books about coffee? No, he does not. And yet he blogs about coffee.

So I blog about Vikings. Not because I think you want to read about Vikings, but simply in order to bug Phil.

Because it’s really fun to see how coffee drinkers twitch when they’re bugged.

Anyway, my favorite photoblog, Haugelandet.net in Norway, just posted a link to a spanking new web site devoted to the history center at Avaldsnes, Karmøy island.

Avaldsnes, Karmøy island, Norway, is (as you doubtless recall) the home community of my great-grandfather Walker. It was also, for many centuries, a Norwegian royal farm, and is the site of several stirring events in the sagas.

Since the last time I’ve been to Avaldsnes, they’ve opened this history center, concentrating on the importance of that area in the Viking Age, most especially in King Harald Finehair’s (or Fairhair’s) enterprise of beginning the unification of Norway as a single country.

The site is offered in Norwegian and English, although the English section isn’t yet completed. However, if you go to the “News” section, you can read about the big project they’re planning, to build the longest (114 feet) Viking ship replica in the world. Its name is to be “The Dragon Harald Fairhair.”

They plan to have the ship finished and ready for its maiden voyage by May, 2013, at which time they hope to sail it to Paris. (Paris? They hate Vikings in Paris. France is probably the most Viking-unfriendly country in Europe, from all I hear. Ah well. Not up to me.)

Now, if I can just succeed in becoming world-famous as a Viking novelist by 2013, maybe they’ll want me to go along. I’ll only be 62—prime of my life.

It would be physically miserable and also dangerous. But I’d do it in a minute.

Heck, if I died on a Viking ship, I’d go out thinking, “Wow, it doesn’t get any cooler than this…”

Change I don’t want to believe in

One of my mental hobbies, one I’ve been carrying on for years, is to close one eye, peer along the line of recent social trends, and to predict, on that basis, what will come in the future. I built much of Wolf Time on that exercise and, although things have certainly happened since I wrote that book that I didn’t expect, I don’t think any of the things I actually predicted have failed to appear, either as political causes or actual laws (one exception would be the re-legalization of smoking, but that was a metaphor for Something Else. And no, I won’t tell you what).

So I thought that tonight I’d just save us all a lot of time, and pre-transcribe the arguments I expect to hear, not too far down the line, for a number of further changes to law and the social order. Continue reading Change I don’t want to believe in

What Makes the Irish So Good?

Why are the Irish such good writers? Don’t even try to argue that they aren’t. The green of envy is not the shade we’re looking for.

In related news, Seamus Heaney wins the £40,000 David Cohen prize for literary achievement.

Here’s another Irish post. Now will you put that shelaligh down?

Here’s the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem with a great Irish song that you may have heard a piece of on Hugh Hewitt this evening.

I used to do that. Not Irish music, but standing behind mikes with several friends, some of whom were playing guitars, singing for the crowd. Not in a famous way, but it was a good time in my life. Couldn’t do it anymore. My voice is gone.

I’m not sure when or how I got interested in Irish music, but it grew on me, like a potato fungus. I believe my interest in the music is what provoked me to make the narrator of my Viking books an Irishman. It was, I think, one of the few excellent choices I’ve made in my career. Father Ailill brings the novels to life in a way that would be impossible without him.

Having spent so much time “in an Irishman’s skin,” often listening to Irish music while writing, I’ve actually had moments when I found myself thinking reflexively that I was Irish. Which I’m not. Except for the (strong) likelihood that some of my ancestors were Irish slaves brought home to Norway by Vikings.

For you real Irish, have a good day, and

“May those that love us, love us.

And those that love us not, may the Lord turn their hearts.

And if He turn not their hearts, may he turn their ankles,

So we’ll know them by their limping.”

The Irish in New York

The New York State Writer’s Institute has a YouTube playlist of Irish poets, authors, and playwrights talking about their books, writing, and Ireland. I’ve listened only through Fintan O’Toole’s segment so far. It’s pretty interesting. The volume varies a bit, so you may want earphones.

Watching for Details

Dublin poet Eamon Grennan sends us this poem about poetry, which I will only excerpt here:

“I was watching a robin fly after a finch—the smaller

chirping with excitement, the bigger, its breast blazing, silent

in light-winged earnest chase—when, out of nowhere . . .