Here’s a book you may have overlooked. What Orwell Didn’t Know: Propaganda and the New Face of American Politics, edited by András Szántó. It’s an essay anthology from people who believe the “state of public discourse in our country, especially the language used by politicians and journalists, [is] ‘divorcing itself from reality at an alarming rate.’ [They] ‘were especially concerned about the waning power — or inclination — of the press to bring political rhetoric in line with fact,’ believing that the line between debate and propaganda had become dangerously obscured.” The fact that George Soros funded the book may mean it’s a waste of paper, that is, a collection of thoughts from those who would take the speck out of our eyes will nurturing the log in their own. But on the surface, I agree with their premise. Political discourse and those “debates” they keep pushing at us appear to be pretty lightweight.
M.W. Smith: A Light in the Darkness
Michael W. Smith has prepared a third Christmas album, and an article on this ends this way:
But despite his success in gospel, Smith worries he’s not doing enough to influence mainstream culture. When he was reaching the pop charts in the ’90s, he said, he loved it because he felt like he was “a light bulb in a dark room.”
“I think about it a lot. ‘What am I doing with my life, and am I doing the right thing?'” Smith says.
He pauses a moment and adds, “I do feel like the success I’ve had has given me a platform to try to let people know what’s really important in life. If you’re not feeding the poor, not looking out for the troubled kid on the block, not giving yourself away, you’ve totally missed it.”
I suspect Smith either held back a bit or made some statements which were not quoted, because giving yourself away must be a part of living out the Gospel or we will be missing it, as he says. That cup of water must be offered in the name of Christ, not the name of decency or America. It is God living among us that brings peace on earth, not simply pulling together.
Snowfall
The speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains gray and thin.
Read more of “Midwinter” by John Townsend Trowbridge
Idle, seasonal thought
How long do you think it’ll be before some expert announces that the smell of fresh-cut pine boughs causes cancer?
Terry Pratchett Optimistic in Face of Disease
Will hands off the news that author Terry Pratchett has been diagnosed with a type of Alzheimers. He encourages fans to remain optimistic and plans to keep all current commitments.
Writers Union to Deal Directly with Studios
“Faced with the indefinite suspension of negotiations, the union representing striking Hollywood writers told its members Saturday it would try to deal directly with Hollywood studios and production companies, bypassing the umbrella organization that has been representing them,” reports John Rogers of the Associated Press. Specifically, David Letterman’s show plans to make a deal that will put new shows back on the air.
Chronicle of the plague week
Yeah, I’m feeling a little better. Compared to the last couple days. Compared to waterboarding. Compared to sitting through a re-run of Family Affair. I put in another full day at work, but I have all the energy and zest for life of… well, of a middle-aged, depressive Norwegian. Normal, in other words. Normal with a deep desire for sleep, a bad cough, and a voice south of James Earl Jones’.
I like the deep voice. One of the many dreams life has denied me, like the dream of being six feet tall, was the dream of singing bass. I got as far down as baritone, but people usually assume I’m a tenor. I don’t want to be thought of as a tenor. I want to be thought of as a bass—a sea-bottom bass with an extra Y chromosome.
The pleasure is reduced by the fact that only about half of my words actually get out. I alternate between no voice of all and a bass rumble: “(Croak) name is (croak) Walker.”
Now I shall crawl away to the sofa.
A Christmas Tradition
Hugh Duncan has a good podcast on A Charlie Brown Christmas.
Book drawing
Our friend Roy Jacobson, at Writing, Clear and Simple, is offering a copy of the soon-to-be-released book, Elements of Internet Style in a drawing. Roy is a contributor to the book, and it looks like just the thing for you young folks who understand all this interwebs stuff. Go over and take a chance.
Book review: Hot Springs, by Stephen Hunter
Sorry about my silence last night. Wednesday is the day one of my assistants comes in to work at noon, so I took that opportunity to drag myself home and lie down in bed. Later on, for a change of pace, I lay down on the sofa. It seemed such a good program that I chose not to mess it up with blogging or Christmas card writing.
I think I’m a little better today, sort of. Perhaps. I seemed to have more steam to get me through the afternoon, but I think I’ve been spewing toxic aerosol more today than yesterday. Still, I think I’m making my way toward the end of Kubler-Ross’s Seven Stages of the Cold:
1. Tickle.
2. A little sore, but it was probably that hot soup I ate.
3. Oh man, this is serious. What’s in the medicine cabinet?
4. I really feel like staying home from work. Am I sick enough to take a day off?
5. I’m not well enough to go to work, but I’m well enough to drive to the drug store for Sudafed and Ibuprofen. And chocolate, of course (got to keep my strength up).
6. I could go back to work, but I’d be spreading germs to all my co-workers.
7. How come there’s nothing in the fridge?
I read another Swagger book from Stephen Hunter—Hot Springs. It’s a doozy. This is another Earl Swagger story (I think there are actually more Earl books than Bob Lee books, though I’m too lazy to tally them up). It begins in the aftermath of World War II, with Earl getting the Congressional Medal of Honor from President Truman, and then heading home with his new wife. In spite of his hero status, all that awaits him is a job in a sawmill (where, we are informed, everybody loses a hand or an arm eventually). He can’t understand why he’s so miserable, hitting the bottle so hard, but it becomes clear that in his deepest heart he misses the war. The war was his drug. He never expected, or intended, to come home at all.
Then he’s approached by two men. One is an ambitious politician, the newly elected District Attorney in Hot Springs, Arkansas. The other is a legendary former FBI agent, generally considered the greatest pistol shot in the country. They have a job offer for Earl, one more interesting than saw mill work.
The district attorney wants to clean up Hot Springs, which (we learn) is in that time what Las Vegas will be later on. In fact Bugsy Siegel, who will later establish the casino industry in Vegas, is in Hot Springs just at this time, checking out the possibilities.
The plan is to form a flying squad of young men, kind of like Eliot Ness’ Untouchables, but trained the Marine way by Earl Swagger. They will be turned into hard, keen fighting men, experts in all kinds of firearms. Using military tactics, they will shut down vice in the city.
In spite of his wife’s fears, Earl takes the job. What follows is a story of courage and betrayal, and a trip into Earl’s darkest heart.
Because he knows Hot Springs, though he won’t admit it to anyone. He knows Hot Springs because his father, a feared lawman, respected Baptist churchman and brutal, child-beating hypocrite (fortunately, Hunter provides a couple decent Christian characters for balance, so I wasn’t offended), had business in Hot Springs of his own, on a regular basis, before his death.
I hardly need say that in the end Earl Swagger does what has to be done, by thunder, and does it so nobly you just want to build a statue to him.
One of Hunter’s best, I think.