The Confessions of Nat Turner by William Styron

A superb narrative, absorbing powers of description, penetrating psychological analyses of a worthy protagonist, even some disparagement of the South- Styron did a good job, apparently good enough to win a Pulitzer. The story begins and ends with the day of Nat Turner's execution, and in between Turner tells of how he ended up in a jail cell awaiting death.

Though a slave in the 1800s, Nat is capable of lucid English that surpasses the quality of the white illiterates,' for he was taught to read and write and cipher while growing up in a relatively kind master's household. This lends the account a surprising, gratifying intelligence not common to fictionalized slave narratives.

Nat's education infused him with deep religious convictions, and into his adulthood his knowledge of the Bible guides and sustains him. He fashions himself into a sort of slave reverend, and his comprehensive study and interpretation of the Old Testament prophets convinces him he is called to lead a slave rebellion, a purging of the whites, in a manner similar to that of the biblical heroes' own revolts. The horrendous effects of living a life that legally belongs to another man drives this introspective intellectual to bloodshed.

Nat carefully dissects his emotions and motives- from discovering, as a little boy, that the words on canisters represented what was inside, to being unable, even in the heat of the moment, to murder his master- and effectively traces the development of his rebellion from its roots to his execution. Styron's meticulous, evocative use of description complements his comprehensive presentation of Nat's inner dialogue. His images are present and confident without becoming painfully obvious or self-conscious. Achieving this alone is worth a Pulitzer. The palpability of his narrative raises concerns only when Styron dips into the more ignoble aspects of Southern life in the 1800s. The graphic nature of some of the Southerners' exploits is not so pleasant to experience. But of course, as is so often the case, that is the point.

Nat Turner's merciless extermination of scores of whites is morally complex. Spartacus-like, he vanquished his oppressors in an almost certainly futile bid for freedom. But what else could he have done in a society in which he could never have gained such no matter what he did? The murders are undoubtedly repugnant, but slavery just as much. The South's continual oppression of an entire race of people and their descendants was the catalyst for the suffering and inequality from which we still feel the effects today.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

This second time around, I feel like I actually got the book. The first time I read it, I was rather sidetracked by the content issues, but was able to access some sympathy for Holden Caulfield and his disillusionment. I impulsively bought my sister a copy for her birthday, and later decided I should reread it to find out what exactly compelled me to do so.

I was surprised to discover what an excellent character Holden Caulfield truly is. An English teacher of mine, whom I didn't particularly like (I had, through serendipitous events, two English classes at the time, and while one teacher adorned every essay I wrote for him with glowing inked praise, this other one rarely gave me perfect rubric scores and, though constructive I'm sure she tried to be, criticized my writing quite often), once dismissed him as "annoying" and "whiny," but I found his dissatisfaction with life and the status quo entirely understandable. He is veritably drowning in "phonies," as he terms them, poseurs attempting a facade of normal, sane existence who in fact alternate between degeneracy, immorality, deceit, narcissism, and greed. Holden, while by no means without faults, refuses to be party to their pretences.

He is actually a terribly compassionate, thinking boy. Holden reads, engagingly and well. Moreover, he mulls over books at length afterwards. He also feels deeply the discomfort of others, whether it be some dowdy tourist women, his poor roommate, or two traveling nuns. The mundane tragedies of daily life are not lost on him. They move him in a manner his unfeeling compatriots cannot or care not to comprehend. It's no wonder then, that such a sensitive boy would retreat from the pretension, the peeling veneer of geniality, the utter "phoniness" of the miniature universe of prep school.

Holden's attitude towards religion and, in an interesting parallel, girls also, is troubling, complex, and yet, approaching healthy. Of ministers Holden is wary, for their obviously put-on preaching voices make him doubt their sincerity. He fancies himself an atheist, but harbors a regard for Jesus. If someone could just sit him down and explain it all to him...

As for girls, Holden is controlled almost entirely by his physical inclinations. Still, he desires not to take advantage of them, and realizes that his most meaningful relationship with a girl involved almost no physical contact at all. Holden is altogether in transition, navigating, almost directionless, the end of adolescence towards adulthood. His deep pity for mankind keeps him afloat. He's missing, of course, a satisfactory answer for existence, and this might be the root of his inability to cope with the world around him.

I guess this is what I wanted my sister to experience- Holden's frustrations and disillusionment, the common ground that scores of teenagers have identified with. After all, she's had her share of "phonies."

Death in Venice and Seven Other Stories by Thomas Mann

Mann's work was recommended to me enthusiastically, with a "just don't think too hard" caveat tacked on. I always considered my approach to literature rather dilettantish anyway.

This book is a collection of Mann's turn-of-the-century short stories that explore themes of the genius in art and intellect within a motif of the German at home and abroad. The stories share threads of recurring elements, illuminating the essential aspects of Mann's own creativity.

"Death in Venice," "Tonio Kroger," and "Disorder and Early Sorrow" were the only stories whose merits outweighed any untoward content. The other five, while undoubtedly well-written and with some merits of their own, alternated between sordid and dull, and so I am unable to give them praise that is not heavily qualified.

"Death in Venice": On a trip to Venice, an acclaimed author sights a young, attractive Polish Adonis of sorts, and, overwhelmed with the beauty of his countenance, forsakes reason to follow him for weeks on end. The boy's comely features send the man into philosophizing reveries on the nature of literary expression and the creator and his creation. "Thought that can merge wholly into feeling, feeling that can merge wholly into thought- these are the artist's highest joy," he muses during his undaunted pursuit.

There is irony in Mann's name, for he examines extensively the emasculation of his linguistic artist. His protagonist asks, "[D]o you believe that such a man can ever attain wisdom and true manly worth, for whom the path to the spirit must lead through the senses?" This man's decidedly effeminate nature detracts from the intellectual insights he has, and he clearly tries to justify his unwholesome affection for the young boy under a guise of aesthetics. More's the pity.

"Tonio Kroger": Again the androgynous artist appears. Dark-complexioned Tonio Kroger lives the fitful, melancholy passion of the litterateur, silently envying the blue-eyed blonds who surround him in their blissful ignorance. He considers his artistic gifts a curse inherited from his mother's temperamental Italian blood, contending that he was not destined, but doomed, from birth, to create. However, a trip to Denmark gives him the presence of mind to accept and even revel in his love of the "blond and blue-eyed, the fair and living, the happy, lovely, and commonplace."

"Disorder and Early Sorrow": A professor and his young daughter experience a presentiment of later sorrows that inevitably come when she dances with one of her older brother's friends on a lark at a party. The five-year-old feels an indefinite sense of the envy and longing that accompany rejection when she has to go to bed and her humoring partner reunites with his date. Her father observes it all with a helpless pathos.

This was the purest of Mann's stories, exquisite in its sorrow, tender in its telling, noble and unwavering in its feeling. He was at the top of his form here.

Mann is splendid when he conducts esoteric discussions of Life and Art, as it were, but he often becomes mired in the disturbing and the unsavory. It's unfortunate, for he is a consummate writer.

He Who Thinks Has To Believe by A.E. Wilder-Smith

What a title, right? I've finally found someone who approaches the world in a manner I can accept. Wilder-Smith begins with just the sensory information to which every human being is privy, and he follows a logical line of reasoning to conclude that what the Bible says is truth. He attempts no emotional appeal, guilt trip, or sentimentality. In fact, as a professor of pharmacology, he insists that "try[ing] to 'believe' emotionally" leads to "dangerous emotionalism and hysteria," for it rebels against one's ratio, or sense of rationality.

The primary section of the book deals solely with a parable of an undiscovered tribe of "Neanderthalers." These "honest, thinking people" are able to reason from the evidence that natrually surrounds them and deduce that there must be a Creator, and He must desire reconciliation with them. When some explorers discover these people and try to enlighten them with assertions of a materialistic worldview, the Neanderthalers poke holes in their theories and hold steadfastly to theism, augmenting their beliefs with Christianity when they encounter a Bible.

The second part discusses the finer points of Wilder-Smith's theology. I'll attempt briefly to sum up the gist of his arguments. Because of the information present in matter, and because life never comes from non-life, we can conclude that a higher consciousness created the world. Because the creator is never less than the creation, we can conclude that this higher consciousness is personal as we are personal. Because this higher consciousness (for all intents and purposes God) is personal, we can conclude He desires interaction with us. Because genuine interaction requires one to be on the same wavelength of another, God has to manifest Himself as a man to achieve this interaction. Because of the historical accuracy, fulfilled prophecy, textual logic, and willing martyrdom of those involved, we can conclude that the Bible's account of such a manifestation is true.

There is more to it, but that is the essence of what Wilder-Smith posits. I found such dispassionate logic intensely gratifying. I'm sure someone could muster up a rebuttal to some of his points, especially those which he admits surpass the realms of human understanding, but spontaneous generation is still unsubstantiated, and surely the information coding of genetics cannot be left to chance. As Wilder-Smith says, "chance [is] an antipode, an antithesis of thought." Design comes not randomly.

Wilder-Smith lifted an onus of inability from my shoulders. I've been trying to legitmately, logically, articulate my claim to Christianity in a lucid, comprehensive fashion for over a year now, and it was not until Wilder-Smith's book that I found someone capable of doing so.

The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White

I was fortunate enough to acquire this revered manual for a dollar at a thrift store. The library wouldn't let me check it out, for they categorized it as a reference book. It's a surprisingly slim volume, under a hundred pages. The authors adhere to their own exhortations of brevity. They were condescending and affected at times, even as they instructed the reader to avoid such tones, but their composition advice is worth taking.

Much is review of the basic courtesies, as they'd have it, of the writer for his reader. Communicating effectively is the composer's essential goal. "Clarity can only be a virtue," White insists. They iterate the rudimentaries of grammar, punctuation, and the like. Strunk, especially, espouses brevity. The less said, the better. White is inclined to agree, and so am I.

I felt chastised on a few counts, such as the subject of qualifiers. Apparently, my use of "rather" is rather unnecessary and weak. "Interesting," too, is taboo, denounced as being unspecific. Not-positives, moreover, such as "not honest" or not important," should be replaced with positive assertions: "dishonest," insignificant."

One instruction, which I'd never heard before, resonated loudly with me: "Write with nouns and verbs," White says. "The adjective hasn't been built that can pull a weak or inaccurate noun out of a tight place." I'd always assumed all parts of speech were created equal, but upon reflection, White's adage rings wise. I assure you, I'll make a conscious effort in the future to write thusly.

Strunk and White have a few idiosyncratic preferences. They consider thanking someone in advance to be bad form, and the word "respectively" to be largely unneeded. White says the word "thruway," phonetic spelling and all, will become an established term. I think his prediction was a bit off. I don't know if I've ever heard anyone say "thruway," and I can't say I could define it properly.

The authors do seem to be striving for a thoroughly early-20th-century, modern-1950s, sterilized tone with much of their advice, but who could begrudge them that? It was the early 20th century. But with that said, some of the manual's assertions may be grounds for reconsideration. The pervasively ironic tone of the post-(post?)modernist now employed by many writers sometimes involves a slight variance in acceptability. How's that for qualifiers?

Despite all the admonitions to take the reader into account when writing, White closes with this: "The whole duty of a writer is to please and satisfy himself, and the true writer always plays to an audience of one." I can say that, barring a few assigned essays, I have always inclined that way; to what end I don't entirely know. Certainly some interesting (I don't care; I like the word) Young and Sharp Submissions.

Beowulf by Anonymous; translated by Seamus Heaney

What more appropriate book to commence a blog with than Beowulf? Below is my impression, as it were. You can view it, and many, many others, from here: http://www.geocities.com/dualphilology/beowulf.html

As the first surviving work in the English language, Beowulf has been elevated to a place of almost mystical reverence in literary circles. Tolkien was a foremost scholar on the epic poem, and the influences he derived from it form the very foundation of his own attempt at Northern European mythology. Indeed, the very grammatical structures of his invented languages, the questing motif, the treasure-guarding dragon, even the name Eomer, can be traced to Beowulf.

It has been said before, but it loses no truth in repetition: Beowulf speaks to a very fundamental, archetypal, germane (both literally and figuratively) set of emotions. The epic hero vanquishes his foes and rules triumphantly for many years, meeting his own end in a spectacular display of hubris, destroying his enemy even as it destroys him, dying a glorious death. Stories with these elements are found throughout the world's cultures, for honorable warfare has been an intrinsic desire of mankind, or mannas cynnes, as the Old English renders it, since its inception. Such values become a manner of survival for early, isolated people in a hostile environment.

I enjoyed the story, without a doubt, but more than that, I revelled in the poetry. Heaney's translation was superb, a delightfully readable versification that retained an archaic sensibility. Moreover, the original Old English was printed alongside, allowing me to trace the elements of Germanic roots that remain in our speech today. "Modor" (mother), "twelfye" (twelve), "wundor" (wonder), were all discernible; some such as "under" or "gold," have not changed at all.

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.