“Author Bret Lott strives to write with the integrity of Christ“, in which I learn the author is taller than me.
The Mood Will Pass
From P.G. Wodehouse’s The Code of the Woosters:
“Yes, sir. It is certainly a somewhat unfortunate state of affairs.”
I gave him one of my looks.
“Jeeves,” I said, “don’t try me too high. Not at a moment like this. Somewhat unfortunate, forsooth! Who was it you were telling me about the other day, on whose head all the sorrows of the world had come?”
“The Mona Lisa, sir.”
“Well, if I met the Mona Lisa at this moment, I would shake her by the hand and assure her that I knew just how she felt. You see before you, Jeeves, a toad beneath the harrow.”
“Yes, sir. The trousers perhaps a quarter of an inch higher, sir. One aims at the carelessly graceful break over the instep. It is a matter of the nicest adjustment.”
“Like that?”
“Admirable, sir.”
I sighed.
“There are moments, Jeeves, who one asks oneself, ‘Do trousers matter?'”
“The mood will pass, sir.”
Waking Lazarus, by T. L. Hines
First of all, thanks to Phil for sending me this book.
Waking Lazarus is the story of a man who calls himself Ron Gress, a school janitor in the town of Red Lodge, Montana. He lives alone, and is socially isolated, partly by his own choice (although, as we learn later, he has a young son in town, living with his mother, with whom Ron had a one-night stand a few years ago) and partly by plain fear.
His isolation is mostly a result of the fact that he is not, in fact, Ron Gress. His real name is Jude Allman, and he used to be famous. He used to be known as The Boy Who Died Three Times. Three times he fell victim to fatal accidents, and three times he came back to life, to the confusion of doctors. He was on television and radio, and he wrote a book. The trouble was, everything he told the world about what he’d learned “on the other side” was a lie. He got sick of the lying, and so disappeared and took on a new identity.
But he can’t hide forever. There’s a mysterious woman in town who recognizes him and knows too much about his past. And there’s a serial killer loose, a predator of children. Jude will soon find himself forced to choose between his anonymity and his son’s life. In order to unmask the murderer Jude will have to face up to his own past, and his own grudge against God.
As someone who suffers from a shyness disorder myself, I was extremely impressed by the author’s portrayal of what it’s like to live with that kind of social phobia. As a matter of fact, I found the book somewhat uncomfortable at times and had to put it down for a while. I don’t think normal people will have the same difficulty.
I believe that any reader familiar with Dean Koontz will realize almost immediately that author T. L. Hines is plowing much the same ground here. I think he does it creditably. His characters and dialogue are very good. The plotting could be stronger, and there are some holes. But if you like the sort of thing Dean Koontz does, but would prefer something without obscene language, something with less violence on stage, T. L. Hines will probably please you very much. He pleased me, and I’m glad I have a second book of his to read, thanks again to Phil.
‘Successful, Versatile’ Donald Westlake Has Died
Author Donald Westlake, 75, who wrote mystery and crime fiction under his own name and that of Richard Stark, Tucker Coe, Samuel Holt and Edwin West, has passed away. The report states that he began writing under pseudonyms because the reading public and publishing companies wouldn’t take his novels as fast as they came to him.
Sarah Weinman has a long list of tributes and reviews for a man she calls, “the incomparable writer of a great many fine crime novels.” Terry Teachout appears to think so too. He reviewed Westlake’s What’s So Funny? in 2007, comparing the author to Wodehouse.
It always surprises me to find out that there are people who don’t know Westlake’s crime novels, most of which are comic and all of which are intensely pleasurable. I’ve been reading him since 1967, which makes me not so much a fan as an addict, and though I’ve liked some of his books more than others, I can’t think of a single one that has failed to divert me, which is a pretty amazing track record.
Inspiration for the New Year
Humpty Dumpty sat on a Wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a Great Fall.
Humpty Dumpty wasn’t so Humpty Dumpty.
Original poetry from myself–no need to thank me. It’s so profound, I had to share it. Feel free to add to it in the comments.
I’m for Christmas
Yesterday Michael Medved played a recording on his show of a group of some sort singing a song called “Santa Claus Will Take You to Hell.” It put me in mind of anti-Christmas Christians I’ve encountered in the past.
I do not trust such people.
I remember one guy I met years back who was (I’m not making this up) an itinerant Bible teacher and vacuum cleaner salesman. He had inside information informing him that the Christmas tree is not a pretty, festive symbol of eternal life, but a Tammuz Tree, an idol devoted to the Babylonian god Tammuz (whose festival, oddly enough, was in the summer). Anyone putting a “Tammuz Tree” in their home was delivering their household over to Satan, he informed us.
He said that Easter was a heathen festival as well.
I have a lot of respect for the Puritans, whose contribution to our national development has been, I believe, undervalued for a few decades. But they had their blind spots. One was their rejection of Christmas, on the grounds that the Bible nowhere commands the celebration. The logic is simple—we’re only allowed to do what the Bible specifically permits. Thus the principle (which I’ve read as being a Puritan one; correct me if I’ve been misinformed): “Everything not forbidden is mandatory.”
We Pietists had the same problem. “When in doubt, forbid it.” It fostered an attitude toward life that made people reflexively fearful and reluctant to enjoy God’s gifts.
I think we need to remember that the Bible’s picture of Heaven is not an eternal Bible study, nor even an eternal church service.
It’s a party. A wedding feast. And not a Norwegian Lutheran wedding feast, but a Jewish one, where there would be wine and dancing.
I told the vacuum cleaner salesman, before I stormed off in a cloud of cowardice, “I don’t believe Christ came so that we would celebrate less.”
“Lo How a Rose”
Here’s another Sissel song for your Christmas delectation. It’s an old German hymn, but I’m not sure she’s singing it in German here. I’m not sure what language she’s singing. I don’t think it’s Norwegian. Pay no attention to the closed captioning, which is in Spanish and no help at all.
But it’s nice.
White House Returns NYTimes Fire
The Times said, “White House Philosophy Stoked Mortgage Bonfire.” The White House replies that the Times wrote the story they wanted to write, spot-quoting only those words that supported their prejudice.
Up From the Obsure
“When we look at [Dickens’] Christmas writings, darker currents glide beneath all the beaming and laughter.”
Don’t do me any favors
Once again, the eyes of the nation are fixed on Minnesota. Something strange, almost unprecedented, is going on here.
It’s cold out.
The rest of you know nothing of such things, so I thought I’d bring you up to date.
Tonight, as I was checking out at the grocery store, a guy at the end of the conveyer asked me, “Paper or plastic?”
In Minnesota (oddly, I can’t recall how it was in Florida) our major grocery chains all (by which I mean “both”) have “self-service” bagging. This was supposed to save us money back in my youth when it was introduced, but now it’s The Way Things Are Done, and anybody who suggests change is just a troublemaker. So I was confused to have somebody offer to bag my groceries for me. I told him plastic.
“Are you going to want a tip?” I asked, in my best Scrooge voice (and face), as he packed the sacks.
“No,” he said.
“Do you represent some organization?”
He gave the name of the youth group of a Lutheran church I wasn’t familiar with. By an odd coincidence, though, there was a table with a tip jar near the exit, and I felt obligated to drop a buck in as I left. (Which I could have technically avoided, since these people are supposed to ask first. “Would you like me to bag your groceries?” Not, “Paper or plastic?”)
I bet he’s a salesman. I bet he does well at it.
I bet he has no friends.
Anyway, I figure that, statistically, the church I gave the buck to is probably part of The Very Large Lutheran Body That Shall Remain Nameless.
So my money probably went to send the kids to a Transgender Sensitivity Camp or a Jihad Understanding Conference.
Humbug.