First Post

I've decided to establish a blog to complement my fledgling website: www.geocities.com/dualphilology. Like how I used the correct version of "complement"? It's a collection of literary impressions, and I created it because I thought the Internet was curiously lacking in this area. I read a book, and then I write about it. I've been doing so for like a year and a half now, and I've amassed quite a cache of musings. A singular vocabulary, too.

Lorna Doone by R.D. Blackmore

While written in the late nineteenth century, Lorna Doone encompasses more than a decade of the 1600s in rural England. John Ridd is a farmer's son who, after a chance encounter with a young Lorna, becomes utterly enthralled with the girl and spends years pursuing her. She is ostensibly a member of the Doone clan, a family of terrors responsible for, among others, the death of John's father. Nevertheless, John purposes to persist in his wooing.

Carver Doone, who would have Lorna marry him, barricades her in her home without food for days. John rescues her and establishes her in his home. It is eventually revealed that Lorna is, in fact, a daughter of nobility who was raised by the Doones after they murdered her family, in order to gain her inheritance by marriage when she came of age. John foils all that. He leads a rebellion against the Doones, overthrowing their reign of the countryside, and he marries Lorna.

The book is rather lengthy, but I relished the comprehensiveness. In the beginning, I found John slightly distasteful, his continual self-deprecation and false modesty making a poor hero for a romantic adventure, but as I read further I discovered the humor in it all and engaged myself wholeheartedly in the story. Because it was so long, the book involved many, many plot twists, some of which were inevitably improbable. Still, I suppose it comes with the literary territory.

That Lorna was held in such a high position of impeccability did bother me a bit. Her beauty is her primary virtue, and John spends pages and pages extolling her hair, her eyes, and her figure. When he is not praising Lorna's unparalled, unimpeachable gorgeousness, John drones on about her tender-heartedness, her unflagging faithfulness, her modesty, her magnanimity—basically, her inability to do wrong. This, of course, forms an unattainable level of feminine perfection that can only be anathema to myself. I am a flawed individual, and so prefer to read about flawed individuals, especially as I have never met anyone who was anything but.

I can see how it fits into the comedy motif, though. For, of course, no one is perfect, and that John actually thinks Lorna is can only be played for laughs. While the novel had many humorous components, it had its share of poignant moments as well. Indeed, it was altogether a decent book. That it is rather obscure despitre its relatively recent inception may be due to the flaws I found in it. But Lorna Doone is essentially a good story, and a worthy work.

Murder in the Cathedral by T.S. Eliot

I like T.S. Eliot. He's a poet I can almost understand. by attempting to infuse his literary works with elements of spirituality, he espouses a cause to which I am sympathetic. Here, he dramatizes the murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, in December 1170. Eliot holds a deep respect for Becket, essentially canonizing the man in literary form.

As it is a play, the sound of the words is what takes center stage. From alliteration, to rhyme, to rhythm, to parallel construction, Eliot employs them all, creating the fundamentally poetic prose that is his signature. Soaked with profundity and implication, the play emphasizes Becket's momentous stand against his king in favor of his God. "I have been a loyal subject to my king. Saving my order, I am at his command," Becket declares to his would-be murderers, four knights who have cornered him in the cathedral.

Becket's inner conflicts are integral parts of the story. The first occurs before the period the play covers. He adopts an outlook of spiritual-mindedness upon assuming the position of Archbishop, which alienates his sensual friend the King and begins their schism. Within the time-frame of the play, Becket is visited by four tempters who attempt to capitalize on his weaknesses and dissuade him from holding fast to his convictions. He withstands them. "The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason."

But Eliot's, and Becket's, misplaced Catholic beliefs impose themselves intermittently. Becket calls upon some saints to pray for him, and his congregation almost idolizese him, bemoaning his eventual death while thanking God for another saint to whom they could pray. Still, Becket proclaims he is "[a] Christian, saved by the blood of Christ," and it may be safe to assume that they were both believers.

The intellectual presentation of a religious protagonist is altogether encouraging. Such a treatment seems, in a manner, to bolster Christianity's legitimacy. Here an author is no longer decrying the state of affairs and positing existence as meaningless as he formerly did. Rather, he is celebrating the truth that he has found and rejoicing in one of the heroes of his faith. With this play, he invites us to join him.

In fact, that may be Eliot's larger purpose. The nameless "Chorus" plays the part of the audience to the drama that unfolds, mirroring the actual audience and reacting as, I am sure, Eliot would have us as spectators react. In the concluding speech, the Chorus cries: "Forgive us, O Lord, we acknowledge ourselves as type of the common man...whofear the hand...the fire...the fist...less than we fear the love of God."

Writing about Literature by B. Bernard Cohen

What an absolutely liberating book. I just started reading and could not stop. Mr. Cohen was a college professor, and he wrote this to assist students in composing effective essays of literary criticism. He discusses the basic theory of it all, and examines practical examples. He comes off a bit pretentiously sometimes, and I am not entirely sure if his credentials are sufficient for such an overarching treatise; but then, my credentials are not such that I was pass judgment on him, and so I have decided his is an authority to which I can legitimately defer.

"The elusiveness of any literary text can be one of its chief virtues," Cohen writes. "...[M]any literary works are so expansive and suggestive that they are subject to many interpretations." He insists that the student's interpretation of a given work can be just as valid as a professional literary critic's, if it is coherent, well thought out, and supported by textual evidence. Cohen gives examples of both effectively and poorly written essays and excerpts, citing strategies that can help one craft successful analyses.

Much of his advice is common sense, stuff I intuited years ago but which is comforting to hear coming from an expert. He is also quite realistic. "...[A] beginner cannot be expected to deliver revolutionary pronouncements," but he can draw his own conclusions. This was an incredibly gratifying statement for me, for to know that a professor accepts the limited capacities of his students relieves me of a scholarly burden.

Fascinatingly, Cohen mentions that "one has to realize that an author is not always aware of everything he puts into his story or poem," though one has to be careful not to read too much into a given work. From whence comes the basis for this view I do not know, though I think it may be Freudian in origin- and therefore now illegitimate?- because of the author's many references to psychology and its effects on literature in the 20th century. Nevertheless, it must be one that has pervaded literary criticism for some time now, and it certainly explains much.

Like The Britannica Book of English Usage, this manual answered many of the standing questions I never thought I could quell. It also provided me with excellent ideas on how to go about a literary analysis. Most of all, it strengthened my confidence in my ability to write. Mr. Cohen broke it all down in a manner I completely understood, giving my an unobstructed view of the path towards decent work.

The Britannica Book of English Usage

I've always had lingering questions about minor aspects of language, and this book went a far way in quelling some of my concerns. I know I did not absorb all of the excellent information it held, but it will make a splendid reference guide. I underlined most of the important stuff anyways.

I laughed right from the beginning. During a discussion of the origins of our language, I found this gem: "Among the great languages, French closely rivals English in perversity." Of course, it is speaking of arbitrary spelling conventions. But the delineation of the genesis of English was entirely absorbing, as were the sections on grammar, punctuation, and writing.

The grammar tutorial gave me names for many conventions I did not know how to label, and clarified some issues upon which I was fuzzy. It underscored the importance of maintaining an active voice whenever possible, praised the "Oxford comma" (the optional one that can go before "and" in a list), and insisted on hyphenating compound adjectives, all matters of usage that I recently employed, tentatively but, thankfully correctly, when editing another's essays.

The introduction to the pronunciation guide featured this comment: "...there is no accentless pronunciation any more than there is a flavorless coffee or an odorless perfume." This effectually obliterated any delusions I'd ever had about "talking straight," as I've always termed my own accent, which is comparable to the "Network Standard" held as an example in this book.

Besides the excellent advice and illuminating lists of allusions and foreign phrases, the writing section included a gratifying paragraph on Christianity. Speaking of Christianity's ascendancy over Greco-Roman myth, the book stated, "One of the reasons for the ultimate triumph of Christianity...was the fact that...it dealt with the...spiritual needs of the time in a more rational manner than did its rivals." The text is carefully equivocating, to be sure, but it essentially states that Christianity has elements of rationality. Score one for the home team.

There is so much more to this volume. It is a reference book, but I found it exceeedingly readable. On the whole, I seem to be in line with standard usage, and I am sure whatever I am lacking can be easily remedied. I'll end with this quote: "Our language derives much of its force and speed from its hard consonants and crisp word endings. To ignore these qualities with...an exaggerated drawl is to insult the magnificence of our English tongue."

Chesapeake by James Michener

I can't remember the last time it took me an entire month to get through a single book. Possibly Tom Jones. Anyways, Chesapeake is the history of the Chesapeake Bay area from the 1500s to the 1970s. Needless to say, this is an incredibly long time span, and it accounts for the extreme length of the novel. Beginning with Native Americans and progressing to the first settlers, Michener's plot focuses mainly on three men and their descendants, though he intermitttently narrates the stories of others whose lives are intertwined with the primary characters, even digressing to follow a family of geese during their migration.

The characters are surprisingly varied, considering the sheer number of them. Michener's foremost virtue may be his ability to achieve myriad perspectives and personalities in an agreeable facsimile of real life, all the while weaving his narratives into a cohesive whole. Social issues, from racial equality to religious freedom to the environment, are explored through the actions and experiences of the citizens. Michener often champions his cause by way of the Quakers, for whom he seemed to have a profound respect. The carrying of the plot through the lineage of families provokes reflection on the nature of legacies, the pervasiveness of the "sins of the fathers," and the brevity and insignificance of the individual in light of history.

When one 20th century descendant of a founding Chesapeake family said to another, "I do a little genealogy" and mentioned she'd found that their families had been connected in the past, and I had just read some nine hundred pages describing the illustrious intrigues of their forebears that these modern-day people would never know about, I stopped. I myself, by virtue of being alive, am descended from just as many people whose stories I will never hear. I don't even know the respective occupations of all my grandparents. Forget the intimate details of their lives, or anyone preceding them. What a wealth of knowledge I will never be privy to.

Chesapeake was ultimately about the land. Though its inhabitants are central to the story, each character is brought on the stage only briefly, as if the person himself were not as important as the part he played in forming the society of the Chesapeake Bay area.

Utopia by Thomas More

Scholars are divided on this book, and so am I. Some say More is actually espousing an ideal way of life, while others insist it is all moral allegory. I'm afraid I cannot tell. More was a devout Catholic, and rather intolerant of other religions, and so the vague communal faith of the Utopians seems entirely imcompatible with his beliefs. But for what, then, did he write the book.

The Utopia is an island in some inscrutable place. Its inhabitants are housed, fed, clothed, and employed by the government. In return, they work diligently eight hours a day. They're moderately well-educated, and encouraged to attend instructional lectures in their spare time. Gold and jewels are despised and used for chamberpots and such, and no one seems to mind not owning anything because they want for nothing necessary. Church attendance is compulsory, but the service is inter-faith, for various beliefs abound, their only common thread being a monotheism.

For, the whole of the societal structure depends upon the individual's belief in a benevolent higher power. As More readily admits, no man would work toward the good of the whole his entire life if he didn't have any spiritual incentive, any afterlife impetus. As long as the Utopians believe that their cooperation is in their best interests, they will continue to do their respective shares.

The state holds a terrible amount of power in Utopia. Travel is restricted; marriage is regulated. Every aspect of the citizens' lives is dependent upon the government. Though each is guaranteed food, shelter, and steady work, the arrangement is neither desirable nor feasible. At the end of the day, it is all no less that state-controlled slavery. Freedom, even an impoverished freedom, as Frederick Douglass said, is surely better than this.

Individual ownership is one of the chief desires of man. As I heard a pastor recently say, "The early Christians did not preach Communism. Communism says, 'What's yours is mine.' Communalism says, 'What's mine is yours.' The early Christians practiced communalism." Philanthropy should be born of an intrinsic motivation to give, not by the state's insistence. The motive to do good, in fact, in completely eradicated when sin and virtue are determined by authority, when unquestioning compliance is all that is asked of the individual.

So why did More write this book? Perhaps, in the pre-Marx world, a communism seemed plausible. Or perhaps More was entirely aware of the shortcomings of his invented society, and intended it only as a backdrop upon which to present his carefully veiled critiques of his contemporary life. For my part, I hope for the latter.

The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli

Machiavelli actually served as an excellent converstion starter. I read the entirety of the book over the course of a few days, sitting in a coffee shop in Idyllwild. I was asked twice if I were reading The Prince for fun, once by an innocuously middle-aged man who said, "You don't see people reading Machiavelli very often," and once by a slightly formidable biker, replete with leather and tattoos, for whom a penchant for literature would not be one's primary inference.

I was also asked by a scruffy, long-haired local boy, if it was "cool."

"Yeah," I replied. "It's about how to gain politically in 16th century Italy." He just nodded.

That is essentially what the book is about, but much of it has more universal implications. Machiavelli proceeeds systematically, giving common-sense advice to any who would seek to achieve and maintain a position of power. He draws on ancient and contemporary sources to serve as examples, both of what to emulate, and of what to avoid.

I found myself agreeing with much of what he says, except for his exhortation to follow a path of immorality when it would further oneself politically. Of course, it makes sense to do so when one's sole goal is political gain, but it is folly to consider that one's chief end.

At any rate, Machiavelli had many points which are as applicable now as ever. He said that "knowing afar off...the evils that are brewing, they are easily cured," and he describes a times when the Romans declared war on Philip and Antiochus "for they knew war is not to be avoided" and they preferred to fight them in Greece rather than in their own country. Has anyone ever used Machiavelli to defend the Iraq War? Sounds like praise of the pre-emptive strike to me.

His wisdom can be applied to the personal life as well. "The first impression that one gets of a ruler and his brains is from seeing the men that he has about him." And, "there is no other way of guarding one's self against flattery than by letting men understans that they will not offend you by speaking the truth."

The Prince was terribly accessible and delightfully applicable. I probably won't be invading any countries any time soon, but if the occasion arises, I know whom to consult. There was a sufficient amount of everyday advice to make this book a profitable read even for a mere citizen.

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men by James Agee

The title of this book caught my eye one day in a thrift store in Idyllwild. It was so melodic and enigmatic, with a hint of bitter irony. I flipped the cover open and discovered the splendid black-and-white photographs that grace the beginning and complement the narrative. I decided the book was fully worth 50 cents based on these merits alone.

As it turns out, the book has its own intrinsic value. Agee was sent by the magazine he worked for to the South in 1936, to profile some farmers there. His resulting manuscript was far too long to be printed in a magazine. He was eventually able to acquire the publishing rights and find a publisher. What the book is, is hard to categorize. Agee details every element of the lives of three tenant farmer families- from the nature of their liveliehood, to the foods they eat, the houses they live in, and the clothes they wear. But more than this, he delves into the psychological aspects of the desperate poverty in which they exist.

Interspersed between the intricate descriptions and intimate discussions of the farmers' lives, are Agee's musings on the essential nature of existence in general. It is all a fascinating window into his philosophies and beliefs, and though the book purports to be about tenant farmers, it is truly about Agee. He has a fierce regard for humanity, and it pervades his work. He has a fixation on sexuality, and this too permeates his writing. It is not uncomfortably prominent, though.

Despite some objectionable metaphors and peculiar agnosticism, Agee's narrative held me fully spellbound. I actually enjoyed reading this book, and so I know it was due entirely to Agee's adept handling of the English language. His prose was truly masterful. The fact that I was held rapt from beginning to end is testament to this.

The beauty of this book was its greatest merit. Agee's words mesmerized me in this sort of literary splendor. I've never had a reaction quite like this to a work of literature. Often for me the content obscures the quality of the writing, but this time the technique surpassed the subject, rendering it rather incidental. I felt as if I could say to Agee, "Okay, I can get with you on this one. I'll suspend my disbelief for you. I can dig it." It was an unparalled experience.

Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters and Seymour, An Introduction

I'll admit it; I'm a bit of a bibliophile. I was in a thrift store in Idyllwild and I saw this beautiful worn navy clothbound book with delicately ivory-aged pages and barely discernible gold lettering on the spine, and I impulsively emptied my wallet of its change. I try not to be so shallow, but sometimes my book-love gets the better of me. The typeset is gorgeous.

The text itself wasn't too bad, either. I did Catcher in the Rye, failing to be scandalized by the language and coming away from it merely with a strong sense of pity for Holden Caulfield. This book was rather different. Salinger crafted essentially a lengthy character study, the view of a man through the eyes of his brother. The first section introduces Buddy Glass, a young soldier on leave during World War II attending his brother Seymour's wedding. Seymour never shows at the ceremony, and Buddy finds himself in a traffic jam with unfamiliar wedding guests. They abandon their taxi in favor of Buddy's apartment, have a drink, and disperse. All throughout the story, Buddy reminisces and muses over his brother.

This strain is continued in the next section, the official "introduction" to Seymour. The Glass family had a history in entertainment, and all the children appeared regularly on a radio quiz show. They were rather precocious, with a penchant for languages. Seymour was in college at sixteen and teaching at twenty. He was a prolific poet and philosopher, with the typical Oriental sympathies of the mid-twentieth-century intellectual. He ended up eloping with the bride whom he stood up that same day, and he committed suicide six years later.

Buddy is in his forties as he narrates this second section. Hr adores his deceased brother to a point of excess. He considers him an unparalled poet and a foremost thinker of his generation. The reader, or this reader anyway, has little upon which to form an agreement with him. Buddy's rosy rememberances are nice and witty, but involve perhaps too much telling, and not enough showing. Interesting about their relationship, though, is the way Seymour would write notes to Buddy critiquing his writing. They were so very literate, these brothers. Prentiously, delightfully, literate.

Salinger tried very hard here to create a fascinating, memorable character or two, but the sum total left only the slightest impression on me. It was all just so inconclusive. Why is committing suicide so profound? What exactly were Seymour's beliefs, and upon what did he base them? Why did Salinger write this book? The quasi-philosophical meandering intellectualism begins to sound like so much white noise.

What to Eat by Marion Nestle

Marion Nestle was the nutritionist in Super Size Me who knew what a calorie is, so when I heard her on NPR promoting her new book, I knew I had to read it. What to Eat was as comprehensive as the title would require it to be, but my attention rarely flagged. Nestle's comfort with and command of language surprised me- the book was published in 2006, and my experience with contemporary prose thus far has been less than satisfactory- and buoyed me through to the end.

Nestle's admontion to focus on "fruits, vegetables, and whole grains" has become a mantra of sorts for me. In the book, she examines the various sections of the typical supermarket, and also the supermarket system as a whole. She exhorts the reader to eat food that is as minimally processed as possible. Addressing the usage of pesticides and hormones, she acknowledges that many people cannot afford organically grown products, and so considers buying organic a political rather than health-motivated choice.

Nestle traces the journeys our foods make, and emphasizes the advantages of buying locally grown products. She always bears in mind the cost to the consumer, and insists it is cost-effective to eat healthily. She weaves in anecdotes and personal experiences expertly, and mentions her own preferences often. She devotes a substantial section to hydrogenated oils, and underscores the detrimental effects of consuming such.

The book is altogether quite arresting, and exhaustive. Few areas affect us so broadly as that of the supermarket, and to have its contents delineated is fascinating. It is also comforting to have Nestle assert there are no "superfoods," and that as long as one gets adequate amounts of key nutrients and focusus on fruits, vegetables, and whole grains, there is nothing to worry about except calories. Low-carb, et al. diets work only because calories are restricted. There is no other way to lose weight.

I was delighted overall. Nestle is an excellent writer, not some random person who sat down to write something. Moreover, she is primarily a nutritionist, not a professional writer. If only all authors by trade could write as well as she.

Evelina by Fanny Burney

Evelina is so old, Jane Austen considered it a classic.That is, in fact, why I actually read the book. What did the illustrious Austen read? What inspired her? I was curious. And now I know, more or less. Evelina is composed entirely of letters written by characters. The eponymous girl is a functional orphan, dismissed by her father before her birth and raised by a kind reverend after her father's death. When she is seventeen, a friend invites her to come to London, and the protective reverend reluctantly acquiesces.

Adventures ensue. Evelina has the misfortune to be considered by all outrageously beautiful, and so she draws all sorts of unwelcome attention. She gets some welcome attention, too, from one Lord Orville. Though he initially finds her insipid and silly, a deeper intimacy with her shows him she is actually quite sensible and upright, any misunderstanding having stemmed from her awkwardness and unfamiliarity with the ways of the eighteenth-century world.

But an interesting qualification comes into play. Evelina writes to the reverend detailed, detailed accounts of everything that transpires (how would we the readers have a story otherwise?), and he advises her as to the path of propriety whenever he can. When Evelina receives an immodest letter ostensibly from Lord Orville, the reverend minces no words in his degradation of the man, and Evelina's regard for him is rendered merely a rose-colored view of a charlatan.

But later on, it is revealed that the letter was forged, Lord Orville is returned to everyone's good graces, and the two marry. It is the intemittent change of opinion that intrigued me. Instead of remaining a paragon of virtue throughout the course of the novel, Orville momentarily becomes almost a villain. It was an excellent twist to the formulaic romance.

But how can I even speak of formula? I have so little experience in literature pre-nineteenth-century, and all my ideas of plot and style have been formed by later works. Evelina could have been wildly pioneering in the field. Perhaps, though, the archetypal romance form is an inherent one, present from the beginning. That would lend me more credibility upon which to pass judgment.

At any rate, Evelina was delightfully readable. I wasn't sure if the prose would be more Shakespearean than Austenian as far as my comprehension went, but my fears were unfounded. The story was exceeedingly decent, and full of excellent asides: "She is not, indeed, like most modern ladies, to be known in half-an-hour..." (Letter LXXV)

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.

Eats Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss

The title of this brief punctuation overview is the punchline of a joke, involving a panda and a gun, that highlights the importance of the aforementioned language conventions.. I identified easily with the author's convulsions at the sight of prominent punctuation errors, and sympathized with her reasons for writing this book. However, I did not personally benefit from it much, for I was aware of most every aspect of usage that she discussed.

Truss's perspective, though, was refreshing. She described perfectly the lonely, blighted existence of a grammar "stickler" and assured me that I am not alone. I also appreciated her clarification of language, and the English language especially, as not a rigid construction of hard, set rules, but as an ever-evolving system of communication. But of course, that is not to say that because the conventions of language are flexible and changeable, they can be ignored completely. Rather, punctuation is essential, and a common set of rules necessary, for discourse between the writer and the reader to take place.

Punctuation can alter meaning drastically, as Truss wittily exhibits. For instance, is the Bible verse:

"Verily I say unto you, today you will be with me in paradise"

or should it be:

"Verily I say unto you today, you will be with me in paradise"?

Terribly important points of doctrine hinge on that comma, whose position is indiscernable because the ancients had no punctuation. Soul sleep or instant entrance into heaven? Punctuation is crucial.

Truss hashes out the nuances of usage and concedes that in some instances, the correct way is a matter entirely of taste. That is a comfort to me, for I punctuate mainly by ear; that is, I use whatever sounds right when I am reading silently.

I think the possessive apostrophe is one of the majorly abused conventions, and also one of the most clear-cut ones to define. Misuse of apostrophes irks me as much as it did the author.

I am glad I read this. It got me thinking deeply over my grammatical habits, and it reinforced for me the desperate importance of proper punctuation. The book was nicely concise, and I would recommend it heartily to the English language's habitual offenders.

Conversation: A History of a Declining Art by Stephen Miller

My first conclusion about this book came in the beginning chapters, where I was struck by the shortcomings of the author's style. Rather than a pleasant, accessible, conversational tone that would have been awfully appropriate for a book on conversation, Miller had a high school-essayish sort of approach, with an attempt to sound learned and proper coming off as more pretentious and amateurish than anything else. I, of course, live in mortal fear of falling to the same fate, but that is beside the point. I am not an elderly man positing myself as a witty, expert conversationalist.

Miller, in fact, came off rather snobbishly. I understand his righteous intellectual anger at the state of reasonable, rational discourse in America, but dismissing all Bible-believing Christians as unconversable was fairly harsh. Many of them might be unable to hold an intelligent conversation, but certainly not all of them, thank you very much.

Miller was often tedious, too often really. His haphazard history of conversation was not particularly enlightening, though his piece on Spartan society gave me something to think about. Apparently in Spartan society boys, from a young age, were consigned to the army and assigned an older "mentor," in a form of state-sanctioned pedophilia. Fascinating stuff. Anyways, the opinions of Hume, Johnson, Montaigne, et. al. on every subject, including each other, failed to excite much interest in me.

The modern history was nothing I did not know already. Kids instant message instead of talking face to face. Texting is destroying the language, whittling it down to nothing. Political rhetoric is emotionally charged, making it nearly impossible to reason out issues rationally. But I don't think the conversational landscape has any more weeds now than it ever did. Just because Miller's golden age - the 1700s in Britain - had a few intellectuals espousing the joys of discourse, it doesn't mean the society's state as a whole was rosy.

In a culmination of inadequacy, Miller ends on a dour note. One should never do so in such a book, even if it is justified. A pessimistic outlook is an insult to the reader, essentially telling him that even though he now has all this information and is as enlightened on the subject as the author, he is not capable of improving the general situation. Like, "This is the way the world is, and there is nothing you can do about it." My deepest desires are for arresting conversations, and I'm not giving up just because Stephen Miller is. Though they have been few and far between, I have had excellent conversations before, and I expect to have some more in the future. All hope is not lost.

Jeeves in the Springtime by P.G. Wodehouse

Coming up with original comments to make about books in a series that are so similar to one another is hard. Wodehouse just has a knack for not fixing what isn't broken. I had to check my pronunciation of his last name. It is "wood-house," as in Emma. Because I typically come across new authors over the Internet or in books, I don't always hear names, and I need to take care of my pronunications, for it could turn embarrassing. I was fortunate I never referred to Albert Camus and Marcel Proust before I learned how to pronounce them. They were French, though, so I suppose I have an excuse. My British pronunications are usually spot-on, though one does have to watch for the worcestershires and gloucesters and whatnot.

Anyways, I can make at least one new observance here. Jeeves in the Springtime was a collection of some of the first Jeeves and Wooster short stories. The characters seemed rather embryonic in form, at least compared to what I had read and seen beforehand. In the first story of the book, Wooster becomes acquainted with Jeeves, and they have a few fallings-out before Wooster acknowledges Jeeves' mental superiority. Herein lies the basis upon which the other stories are built.

In the eponymous story, Jeeves is engaged, disengaged, and re-engaged, in a Wooster-ish fashion that I found detracted from his normally aloof, unadulterated ethos. I prefer Jeeves to be the uninvolved, almost asexual manservant he appears to be in the later works. It adds to the delightfully confounding dichotomy of the superior man subservient to his inferior. It would seem that Jeeves has no other ends, that he desires to attain nothing else in life, but the satisfaction of his employer. It is this distinct irony that perpetuates the humor in these books.

So there you have it. Some quasi-intelligent musings on my gym literature. I couldn't do cardio without it.