Scoop by Evelyn Waugh

Believe or not, but Evelyn was a man. A rather dashing young man in his youth, from what I could see of his portrait on the back cover. He was also a satirist, often compared to P.G. Wodehouse. Indeed, I found palpable similarities in their manners of style and the characterizations of early-20th-century Britons. Moreover, I think I enjoyed Scoop to the same degree that I enjoyed Leave it to Psmith- mildly, but not profoundly.

William Boot is mistakenly sent as a news correspondent to Ishmaelia, wherever that is. He bumbles through the news reporting process, and the corruption and inaccurate methods of the journalism business are revealed through his naivete. Boot encounters ambassadors, government officials, Ishmaelian citizens, travelers abroad, and fellow reporters, all of whom exhibit a degeneracy that contrasts severely with Boot's own innocence. It is a world of deceit, dishonesty, and acting solely in one's own interest.

The voice of the early 20th century author often falls curiously on my ears. His characters somehow seem puerile, childish, undeveloped, and shallow. Waugh's are a case of such. He tells my something about his character, say, that the German expatriate woman is alluring, but I cannot believe it. In my mind's eye, she appears as scarce more than a little girl. Waugh's descriptions are sparse, and he relies more often on telling rather than showing. This, added to the imbecilic dialogue employed for satire but perceived, albeit unwillingly, by me as inadequate, makes for an unsatisfactory rendering of life.

But satire, I suppose, is not the place for complex character development. Caricatures are a much more effective manner of conveying ridicule. Still, I do love a good in-depth psychological analysis. But perhaps I am too demanding.

My overarching impression of this book is that its satire was once incisive, biting, and accurate, but the things it mocks have since fallen into obscurity. Waugh is lauded all over for said satire, and so I can only assume it was once more pungent than it is now. But such is the nature of humor. Its merits are transient, often confined to one period of history, unable to transcend the limits of chronology. Bummer.

Caravans by James Michener

The setting was Afghanistan, 1946. A young American, Mark Miller, is stationed there at his country's embassy. He is given the responsibility to discover what happened to a Pennsylvania woman who had married an Afghan man and disappeared. This mission takes him all over the foreign country, and Miller learns of the past, present, and future of Afghanistan as he finds the woman and learns the same of her.

Mark Miller was an excellent character. A Nordic Jew in a Muslim country just after World War II, he had all kinds of splendid issues to work out. He was an able and congenial first-person narrator, a terrific person through whom to experience Afghanistan.

Ellen Jaspar, the Pennsylvanian, was less agreeable. She ran off with the Afghani because she considered the Afghan life as polarized as possible from the apparently vapid one her parents lived and desired for her. But her Afghan husband, notwithstanding his skin color and second wife, turns out to be just as conventional and progress-minded as Ellen's father. So, she runs off with a tribe of nomads, believing theirs to be a life of true freedom and fulfillment. However, even her nomad lover aspires to a position of land-holding power and political clout. Ellen seems to be a queen without a country.

That is where we leave her, too. She is escorted away by the American embassy agents, and that is that. Mark could see the logical fallacies in her philosophy, but he still harbored affection for her. Fine. I suppose that's his prerogative.

Michener's writing was lucid, crystal clear, riveting prose. I thought it superb.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy O'Toole

This book was recommended to me with something to the effect of, "It's like everyone's favorite book but they never remember it. It's a comedy. You'd like it." Intrigued, I checked it out. It was funny, truly funny. There was some objectionable content, but altogether I enjoyed the book.

Ignatius O'Reilly, a large, unkempt man with flashing yellow-blue eyes, lives with his mother in New Orleans. He is rather intelligent but unable to function adequately in society. He desires a monarchy and a return to the ideals of medieval Catholicism. He is a hypochondriac with an abrasive, haughty demeanor, unwilling to work steadily or, in fact, do much more than scribble paeans to history on yellow writing tablets. His mother pressures him to earn something to offset their bills, so he novel is structured loosely around his succession of jobs. It also features the incredible characters of the New Orleans scene that he meets as he wanders aimlessly through the narrative. Eventually he reaches some plane of character development.

The untoward content is mainly found in Ignatius' fearful asexuality. Also, he encounters a group of homosexuals, but that was more funny than anything. Ignatius, devout Catholic that he is, screams, "Perverts!" as he is dragged by two lesbians from a house of partying gays.

I actually liked Ignatius. He spoke proper college English while those around him spewed Louisiana drawls. He was supercilious and eccentrically intellectual. But he was also essentially disgusting, so I could not embrace him wholeheartedly.

But the book was funny. The dialogue was tight and effective. The narrative was at times self-conscious, but mostly masterful and apt. It did poke fun at backwater hicks, after all.

Praise of Folly by Erasmus

I've always meant to crack open the great works of the ancients. Well, perhaps Erasmus doesn't qualify for an outright ancient, as he was at the forefront of the Renaissance. Still, he predates Shakespeare by about one hundred years, which is fairly old by my account.

Modern translation is a double-edged sword. Any translating alters the voice of the original author, but without it I for one would be unable to read many books in the first place. But despite the inevitably stilted rendering, I was able to catch Erasmus' drift. Praise of Folly is a satire, the title itself a play on Eramsus' friend Thomas More's name involving the Greek word for folly, "moria."

Erasmus plays the devil's advocate and voices the personification of Folly. Folly, dear girl, gives a lengthy oration enumerating her merits and detailing the many places in mythology and the Bible in which she is celebrated. In the introduction, Erasmus, in quite a reasoned, scholarly manner, defends his decision to write light-hearted fare. Apparently he anitcipated criticism. But Erasmus' supposedly recreational treatise is beautifully constructed and executed with an unprecedented degree of complexity. This is said to be Erasmus' most universal, enduring work, which just proves the Arthur Conan Doyle principle- sometimes the stuff one writes for fun will be remembered long after one's most favored work has faded into obscurity.

Erasmus dips into all sorts of ancient influences to prove his farcical thesis, that Folly is to be praised above all other gods. He mentions Plato and Socrates and also draws from lesser-known, at least to me, sources. He uses Bible verses too, and twists them in a bit of scholarly solipsism to fit his premise. He then uses contemporary evidence, pointing out folly in every facet of life, making the case for its necessity to human beings to function normally.

I really like Erasmus. He came about right at the commencement of the age of the printed word, and was one of the first people in history to be able to disseminate information en masse. He totally took advantage of this, translating a new, more accurate version of the New Testament. He advocated a return to the study of the works of the early church fathers, rather than that of the scholars of the Middle Ages. He was at the forefront of the Reformation, bringing leverage and perspective to the discussion. He was an intelligent Christian. I'm a big fan of Erasmus.

Leave it to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse

Leave it to Psmith more or less ended my Wodehouse honeymoon. I am sorry to say I was not completely enthralled with this book. It was a worthy effort, but sadly not of the calibre that I have come to expect of Wodehouse.

Psmith (the "p" is silent, of course) quits his job as fishmonger and advertises for a new position. He, by a series of fortunate coincidences, becomes wrapped up in the affairs of Blandings Castle, a country estate with more than its fair share of eccentrics. Mr. Keeble, who lives there, wants to procure some money for his impoverished stepdaughter, but his new wife won't let him touch anything. So, his nephew devises a plan that involves stealing a pricey neckalce from the wife, selling it for the money, and buying her a new one. Psmith, and a pretty girl hired to catalogue the library, join with them.

Hilarities ensue. Except that they're not really that hilarious. The story relies too much on coincidence and hyperbolic personalities. Psmith was an interesting guy, but though the book bears his name, the narrative does not dwell on him as much as it ought to have. Two minor characters, Americans, were downright annoying and a narrative waste of time. Professional criminals engaged to one another, they bantered banally and spoke gratingly. The girl ruled her fiance, and their relationship was sickeningly trite.

The caricature motif grows old quickly. No one in the real world is like any of these characters, and if someone happens to be, he certainly is not surrounded by others as outre as himself. And chance happenings are rare by definition. The ridiculous amount of coincidental events disappointed me. I would have hoped Wodehouse was creative enough to compose a plot with even just a fascimile of reality.