‘The Eighth Circle,’ by Stanley Ellin

“Perish the thought,” Ruth said. The tapping of her high heels made a quick obligato to his footsteps as they moved off down the street, and he observed, she walked careful inches apart from him. “Perish radar. Perish everything that does away with witches and warlocks and wonders. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” she singsonged cheerfully, picking her way across a stretch of broken pavement, and then let out a small yelp. “Oh, poor mother! But that wasn’t my fault, was it? There are more cracks than pavement here.”

I have an idea I may have read this book already, many years ago, because one scene in it had stuck in my mind over time – though it’s possible someone else could have written a similar scene in another book. But the name of the author, Stanley Ellin, seemed familiar to me. So I bought The Eighth Circle. And I’m very glad I did. I have a new author for my short shelf of favorites.

The hero of The Eighth Circle (published 1958) is Murray Kirk, proprietor of a high-end New York detective agency. Their approach is pure business – no toughs, no guns, no rough stuff. Just the discreet gathering of sordid information. Murray is a cynic; he’s seen enough private dirt to be convinced that everybody’s corrupt. There is no idealism left in Murray Kirk.

So when a lawyer friend approaches him with a case involving a policeman accused of corruption, Murray isn’t interested at first. Until he catches sight of the lawyer’s beautiful sister, who’s engaged to the accused cop. Murray is suddenly head over heels in love, and he has a plan – take the job, but undercut the case. Prove the cop’s guilt. Then the girl will throw him over, and Murray will be there to comfort her.

But in the event, worldly, disillusioned Murray Kirk has a few things to learn about life and the human heart after all.

The Eighth Circle (the reference is to the eighth circle of Hell, where liars, flatterers, and grifters find their doom) is not only an interesting mystery story, but a very fine novel in its own right. The prose resonates, the characters are complex, and the dialogue sparkles. The ending even surprised me. Reading this book was an unalloyed pleasure, and I recommend it to one and all.

I’m embarrassed I wasn’t better aware of Stanley Ellin – particularly if (as is likely) I’d read this book before. He’s highly regarded by critics, and I’ll be reading more of him.

Friday music: ‘Aura Lea’

If it’s Friday and I don’t have a completed book to review, I turn to music. I’ve done a lot of Norwegian songs, but I’m running out of ones that are familiar to me (and I have surprisingly little to say about the ones that aren’t familiar to me). So I’m edging into traditional American songs. I don’t think the kids learn them anymore. Stephen Foster’s too racist, and anything written before the 1960s is pretty much assumed to be the same sort of thing.

I don’t think you can really find much fault with Aura Lea, though. A lovely, sentimental song full of longing and nostalgia, and the name “Aura Lea” sings particularly well. It offers a great opportunity for a singer to really open his throat on the long vowel and let go from the diaphragm. Elvis Presley sang the melody, with different lyrics, as “Love Me Tender” in 1956 (I’m old enough to remember when that one was new). “LMT” sings all right too, but I prefer the original.

The lyrics were written by W. W. Fosdick (1825-1862), an American lawyer who had some success as a poet in his day. The melody came from George Rodway Poulton (1828-1867), an English-born American. Neither of the two is remembered today for anything else, except that Poulton was tarred and feathered in 1864 for having an affair with a young student. Wikipedia, my source, does not say whether this trauma contributed to his early death three years later. Fosdick, you’ll note, was already dead by then, without assistance as far as I know.

But the song had, as they say in show business, “legs.” It was published in 1861, right about when the Civil War began. Soldiers on both sides took comfort from its unabashed sentiment, and sang it around their campfires. Minstrel shows featured it. The U.S. Military Academy came up with a song called “Army Blue” to the same tune, and made it a graduating class song.

Aura Lea is lyrical and sentimental and idealized. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with those things, as well as they’re done well.

(I see that I’ve posted about this song before. Ah well. Have a good weekend.)

‘Gangster,’ by Dan Willis

I saw a new book in Dan Willis’s Arcane Casebook series, and recalled that I hadn’t read one in a while. So I bought Gangster. I enjoyed it, until I was reminded why I’d stopped reading the books.

Alex Lockerby, hero of 11 previous novels, is a “runemaster” working in an alternate universe version of New York City, where magic works. Alex designs elaborate runic patterns that do various kinds of magical jobs for people. He’s so successful that some of the most powerful people in the city are his clients, and he’s dating the most feared sorceress in the world.

At the start of Gangster, Dan is framed for the murder of a friend who is a reformed gangster. His influential associates get him released on bail, but he has to figure out who has laid such an elaborate plan to frame him, and why.

Also, somebody is doing duplication magic, turning small bills of currency into large ones. Alex is baffled, because this is a trick he didn’t think was possible, and anybody with such potent magic shouldn’t need to be counterfeiting money. Occasional character Bill Donovan, soon to create the OSS for the government, is hanging around the edges of that mystery.

I’ve tried to figure out why I enjoy Dan Willis’s magical mysteries more than Jim Butcher’s, and I really can’t explain it. I just do.

But – and I’d forgotten this – author Willis has adopted the literary stratagem of ending each book with a cliffhanger. As I’ve frequently told you, I hate cliffhangers. I consider them a breach of the author-reader contract. I’ll admit the major mysteries in this book were explained, but the cases weren’t properly closed. And a new mystery was introduced on the last page, to lure us on to the next book.

Well, I’m not biting. I’m onto you, Dan Willis. If I follow this new thread, it will just lead to another cliffhanger. No sale.

Otherwise, the book was pretty good.

Very like a straight line


Photo credit: Wolfgang Hasselmann wolfgang_hasselmann
. Unsplash license.

Had a nice day today, but it stretched long, which is why I’m posting late. The board of the Georg Sverdrup Society, whose journal I edit, met in Mankato, Minnesota. And then we were treated to a tour of the archives and museum of the Evangelical Lutheran Synod, on the campus of Bethany Lutheran College in that same town.

There’s probably a lesson in the fact that our different church bodies are the offspring of two opposing sides in 19th Century controversies among Norwegian Lutherans in the U.S., and yet we find ourselves today, if not allies, at least amiable rivals. The ELS is a legacy group out of the old Norwegian Synod, the most conservative and rigidly orthodox of the Norwegian immigrant church bodies. My group, the Association of Free Lutheran Congregations, comes from what was then the liberal, free-wheeling, revivalist Lutheran Free Church. Our spiritual forefathers were bitter enemies who anathematized one another in fiery sermons and editorials. Now we find much to unite us.

That observation is, I suppose, the wrong way to introduce my topic tonight. Because I want to talk about objective truth. Eternal verities that must not be compromised.

Yesterday I described my delight at the new, sharp sight I’m enjoying in my left eye since my cataract surgery, less than a week ago as I write. My drive to Mankato today was along one of my favorite scenic routes in my state, Highway 169 along the Minnesota River valley, through Le Sueur, St. Peter, and Mankato. The skies were clear and colors were bright, and I felt ten years younger than I had a week ago.

But, as I mentioned, I do now have minor retina damage that slightly warps everything I see through that eye. Straight lines no longer look straight to me.

The lesson modern thought would have me learn from this experience is that I should abandon the whole idea of straight lines. Since I can’t see them anymore, obviously they don’t exist for me. We all live in our own reality, and my reality no longer includes straight lines.

I say phooey. I can remember straight lines. I can listen to the testimony of reliable people who talk to me about them. I can study geometry if I care to, and learn all about parallels and right angles and so on.

It’s like that bloody elephant in the famous secular parable. One blind man touches its flank and thinks an elephant is very like a wall. Another touches the trunk, and decides an elephant is very like a snake. And so on. Moderns take all this to mean that elephants don’t exist as such, but are something different for each person.

But the actual point of the parable is that they’re all wrong. What those blind men need to do is to get together and pool their information. After some frank consultation, they’ll probably be able to construct a pretty reasonable description of a whole elephant. If not, they can ask somebody who can see.

I was (semi) blind, but now I see

I think I’m in a position to close the book on my cataract ordeal now. For this particular eye, at least. The other will be clouding up in its own time, they assure me.

But I woke this morning to the stunning realization that the vision in that much-abused left eye is crystal clear now. Good as it was even before I tore my retina, back before the cataract grew. Possibly better. Which is delightful.

Except for one small detail, a rather bizarre one.

My vision is warped.

The guy who operated on my retina told me I’d probably never get perfectly clear vision again. The retina, after all, is kind of like a mirror. Break a mirror and glue it back together, and it’ll never quite be the same.

So I was expecting my sight on that side to be a little fuzzy. But it’s not. It’s just warped.

If I look at a straight line, even the line of words in this sentence on the screen, it’s a little… wavy. Just a little.

It doesn’t really interfere with anything. In fact, it’s kind of amusing, like having my own personal funhouse wherever I go.

If I were a sniper, I suppose, it might interfere with my daily life. But I can get by just fine with a little bend in my perception. There are many people around who can testify that my view of the world has always been a little skewed.

Bottom line (it’s a crooked line, but on the bottom): my vision is clear and bright, and I’m extremely grateful to God and modern ophthalmological science. My grandmother had cataract surgery back in the 1960s, and she had to spend weeks in a bed, with sandbags holding her head immobile. Then she had to wear coke-bottle glasses the rest of her life.

‘How It Happened,’ by Michael Koryta

As Barrett cast off from the dock and motored away from Port Hope, farther out into the bay, toward the open sea, the morning sun was winning the fight with the fog and the breeze had come to its aid, pushing back the fog in long gusts like strokes of a whisk broom.

This Michael Koryta guy is some kind of writer. I haven’t found a dud from his hand yet. How It Happened is a splendid narrative about an imperfect man struggling to find the truth.

Rob Barrett is an FBI agent. He’s young in terms of experience, but has a reputation as an expert on interrogations. He’s sent to the town of Port Hope, Maine, to try to break a missing persons case, because he spent some time there during his troubled youth.

The two missing are a young couple, Jackie Pelletier and Ian Kelly. Jackie is the only daughter of a widowed fisherman, and the light of his life. Ian is the son of a prominent local citizen with political pull – which is why the FBI has been called in.

Rob does what he does, and finds a young woman, Kimmy Crepeaux, who admits to participating in the killing of the two young people, and is eaten up with guilt. She names the murderer as a local handyman with an immaculate reputation – though Rob knows him better than most people and considers him a plausible suspect. But Kimmy is a junky and a loser, a person with no credibility. Nevertheless, Rob gets the police busy searching for the bodies where Kimmy said they’d be – and they are not there. Instead, they show up at last 200 miles away. Rob is disgraced, and exiled to “FBI Siberia” in Montana.

But he can’t give it up. There’s more to the case, he’s certain, and he goes back to Port Hope on his own time, determined to discover what really happened. His informants tell him he’s thinking too small, that the case is way bigger than he suspects. Will he be able to handle the truth once he finds it?

I was impressed with the writing in How It Happened. I was impressed with the characters, the dialogue, and the plot. I was impressed by the depth of the author’s compassion. I enjoyed the book more than I can say.

Highly recommended. Cautions for the usual.

‘Lost On a Page,’ by David E. Sharp

[In case you’ve been wondering how my left eye is doing, post-surgery (cataract), I woke up this morning with clearer vision that I’d had when I went to bed. I believe it’s now better than it was then – but such things are hard to judge when the progress is slow. My retina surgeon led me to believe I’ll have permanent diminished sight, but the cataract guy thought he could restore it substantially. I await the final resolution of this contest of expertise.]

I knew this one was going to be strange, but it looked like it could be fun. And I guess it was, more or less. David E. Sharp’s Lost on a Page is a literary fantasy, in which characters from different genres interact, fighting and making alliances in a struggle against their own authors.

We meet Joe Slade as a hardboiled private eye in a typical urban nighttime setting, when he gets lured into chasing a strange group of people. They lead him into a library (or bookstore, I forget which), and somewhere in a maze of shelves they pass through a portal into a library in another world. There his new acquaintances reveal themselves to be an elf, a dwarf, and a wizardess. They reveal their discovery that they are characters in fictional fantasy stories, and they have decided to invade the World Where Books Are Made, to get revenge on their author for all the awful things he’s put them through. They’ve read Joe’s stories, and consider him just the ally they need for this violent job.

As they jump from fictional universe to fictional universe, they’ll find themselves in a Regency romance, a space travel story, and a zombie apocalypse novel. They’ll learn that there are things that the rules of fiction won’t permit them to do, and that different powers work differently in different worlds. And, of course, love with blossom.

Lost On a Page was a creative and original book, and amusing in places. I enjoyed the author’s self-mockery as the characters complained about their working conditions. However, I think the author also bit off more than he could chew. The book was awfully complicated, with settings and rules changing from scenario to scenario. And the author’s vocabulary wasn’t up to his challenges. For instance, when they jumped into the Regency romance, he tried to adopt the literary style of such books, with unhappy results: “Any afficionado would lecture this was a wine to be savored slowly and to which one should pay great homage.”

I finished the book, but it annoyed me. You might like it, though, especially if you’re a Jasper Fforde fan.

Post-cataract patriotic stuff

Here I am, in spite of my augurings yesterday, having risen from a bed of pain just to craft a blog post for you. And you alone. (I think that’s about the total size of our readership.)

I’m happy to report that, in spite of my warnings, I do have the ability to read a computer screen, and am capable of posting in a languid, invalid fashion. (I heard that! Somebody said, “How will that be any different?”)

I can report, since I know you’ve been holding your breath about it, that my cataract surgery went just fine. Everything looks good. I did not acquire immediate clear vision in my affected eye; they tell me that’ll probably take two or three days in my case. But everything seems to be squared away, ship shape and Bristol fashion. Thank you for your prayers.

Tomorrow is Independence Day. Hence, I post above the classic movie performance of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” by that noted Norwegian-American actor, James Cagney. (Seriously. His mother’s father was a Norwegian sea captain.)

Have a free and brave Fourth!

‘The Kingdom of Cain,’ by Andrew Klavan, further thoughts

[Blogger’s note: I may or may not be able to post tomorrow. I’ll be having cataract surgery, and experience suggests I may not be able to read a computer screen for the rest of the day. Thank you for understanding.]

But philosophers, for their misfortune, are not the only people in the world. Genuinely mad and frantic people are all around them and do them the worst turn of all: they take them at their word.

I make it a practice to read Andrew Klavan’s non-fiction books at least twice. (And there’s more than a good chance I’ll get the audiobook of The Kingdom of Cain to listen to while I drive to Minot for Høstfest this fall.) So I sat down with it again yesterday, and found it just as compelling as on the first reading. Klavan offers new insights on good, evil, and art. And sometimes – I flatter myself – we think on parallel lines.

When I first reviewed The Kingdom of Cain, I mentioned two famous murders Klavan describes, which have gone on to inspire numerous works of imagination – the case of Ed Gein (who inspired “Psycho” and string of slasher movies), and the case of the original murderer, Cain.

But I neglected to cite one murder he spends considerable time on, one which – though pretty sordid in its own right – has had a remarkably prestigious literary progeny. That is the case of Pierre Francois Lacenaire, a pretentious Parisian thief who, with an accomplice, murdered a con man and his bedridden mother in 1834, to steal money that wasn’t there. It was far from the perfect crime – the two murderers were quickly arrested by the “stupid” police and put on trial for their lives.

But for Lacenaire, this development provided the one thing he’d always wanted – celebrity. He was a handsome man, and now he assumed the role of Byronic hero. He was, according to himself, a genius chained down by poverty and the injustices of society. He had struck back against the universe like some Titan out of Greek mythology. The public ate it up. Ladies loved him. Lacenaire went to the guillotine, but he went a famous man.

Lacenaire, Klavan says, was treading in the footsteps of the Marquis de Sade, whom he considers the only really self-consistent atheist philosopher. If there is no God, Sade reasoned, there is nothing in the world but power. Since one can’t be certain that other people even exist, and since one can’t feel anyone else’s pain, the only moral course is to increase one’s own personal power. Greater power gives one the scope to increase one’s pleasure, the only good we can know. One ought to do everything one can to increase one’s power, so one can force others to serve one’s pleasure. Any talk of love or compassion is unscientific sentiment, the excuse of the weak and cowardly.

Fyodor Dostoevsky recognized this logic – and rejected it. He had suffered imprisonment, had almost been executed, and had found God in suffering. So he wrote Crime and Punishment, one of the world’s great novels, based on Lacenaire’s crime, but refuting its logic.

But Friederich Nietzsche recognized the argument, too. And he agreed that God was dead – that we had killed God. Therefore, we now faced the terrible duty of becoming gods ourselves, so that we could forge a new, stronger morality.

Nietzsche despised antisemites. But his sister, who became his literary executor, was a violent hater of Jews. She worked to popularize her late brother’s writings among the rising Nazi Party.

And we know what fruit that bore.

That sequence is just part of the whole narrative of The Kingdom of Cain. The book is not only an essay on art, but a work of theodicy – an effort to explain how there can be evil if God is good. The answer to that, Klavan argues, will not be found in reason, but in art. Because art speaks in a more compelling language, offering not arguments, but a loving Face, for those with eyes to see.

Anyway, The Kingdom of Cain is a great book. It may prove a classic. It has my highest recommendation.

‘An Honest Man,’ by Michael Koryta

“The past wasn’t all a lie, and the future isn’t all hopeless,” he went on. “That’s the way people on that island feel now, like they’re in one camp or the other. Either everything was bad or everything will be bad, right?”

It’s pretty rare for me to embrace a book whose message I’m not sure I like. But such is the power of Michael Koryta’s An Honest Man. (I reviewed another book called An Honest Man the other day. This was the result of a confusion on my part, when I was attempting to buy this one.) It’s a beautiful book that will linger with the reader.

Israel Pike went to prison some years back for killing his own father in a fit of rage. Now he’s paroled and back in his home, the moribund community of Salvation Point Island off the Maine coast. He has almost no friends there, not even his uncle, the assistant sheriff, who in fact hates him and is trying to find an excuse to send him back to prison.

One morning Israel sees a yacht drifting offshore, and rows out to check on it. Inside he finds the bodies of seven men, all shot to death. Naturally, Israel’s uncle points to him as the most likely suspect, but he can’t pin it on him.

But there are things Israel isn’t telling the police. He has secrets, and he knows more than he’s telling. But then, the whole community is hiding its own wicked secrets.

Meanwhile, a young boy named Lyman Rankin is living on a smaller, nearby island with his alcoholic, abusive father. When Lyman discovers a wounded young woman hiding in an abandoned house nearby, he puts himself at risk to help her and keep her secret. A bond develops between the two, even as his father grows increasingly suspicious and brutal.

An Honest Man is not only an exciting and well-constructed thriller. It’s also a heartbreakingly beautiful story about truth and beauty. It moved me deeply.

It also troubled me. One theme of this story seemed to be that lying is not only permissible, but admirable, in the right situation. (I’d like to hear the author debate Jordan Peterson, who says lies invariably come back to bite you.)

On the other hand, another theme seems to be that big, widespread, agreed-upon lies are wicked and must be brought to light.

In any case, An Honest Man was an amazing book to read. I give it the highest recommendation. Cautions for all you’d expect.