Hornblower During the Crisis by C.S. Forester

It is a credit to Forester that he was able to skillfully resume a tone he had achieved years before. The overt allusions Forester employs are really cute. I love it when he does that. Hornblower During the Crisis, merely a fragment, was the last product of Forester's pen before his death. Chronologically, it comes between Hotspur and Atropos, and the continuity is commendable.

This unfinished novel is actually appended by two short stories, "Hornblower's Temptation" and "The Last Encounter." The first involves Horatio defusing a potentially explosive situation. He has to carry out the execution of an Irish rebel, a job he abhors, sensitive, thoughtful, anachronistic protagonist that he is. After examining the man's belongings he finds incriminating papers and money meant for the Irish dissenters. Horatio nobly decides to throw it all overboard, preventing further strife with Ireland.

The second story visits Horatio years after the wars. It serves as an overarching conclusion to the Hornblower saga. It presents the hero as a satisfied man, enjoying the end of a long and successful life. He has come to terms with just about everything there is to come to terms with. He appreciates his wife for being a woman, and not a goddess. He has adjusted to prosperity, and has only fleeting doubts about its permanency. he even looks at himself with a bit of humor.

I've always found it just a bit creepy to read the last words of a dead man, but, I suppose, most writing is that of now-dead men. I guess that makes reading in general really creepy. No, I know. Everyone dies eventually. Besides, all literature was written when the authors were alive. Anyways.

I truly enjoyed the Hornblower books. They were consummate adventure-romance with a complex, endearing, flawed, forthright protagonist. Forester crafted a masterpiece of a series. Horatio Hornblower is one of the greatest literary characters it has ever been my pleasure to know. I'm not with Hemingway on a lot of things, but I am totally behind him with this: "I recommend Forester to everyone I know."

Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

The mysterious girl featured in Jan Vermeer's famous painting is given a story of her own. The author weaves a narrative around her while illuminating Holland circa 1660, and she embellishes upon the artist, imbuing him with an artfully piquing personality.

Griet, the eponymous girl, must find employment, for her father was blinded in an accident and can no longer support the family. She becomes a maid in Vermeer's household, and she catches the eyes of both him and his patron. She is entranced with the process of painting, and soon she is a subject of Vermeer's muse. But the portrait of her causes strife, and so she is dismissed. Ten years later, she is married, with children, and Vermeer's death leaves her with the pearl earrings central to the composition, tokens of the artist's regard for her.

Altogether, it was a finely wrought book. The prose was delicately modern, but not obviously so. The plot was subtle, but substantial enough to sustain this reader. The romance between Griet and her husband was forced and almost non-existent, and the relationship between the artist and his subject was tension-filled, but it skirted illicitness. Mostly, Griet just stood in awe of Vermeer and his genius. The book was a rather tactful portrait of the artist and his portrait.

A post-script on a related subject: the movie with Colin Firth was excellent. One of the less purposeful movies I've seen, but definitely one of the most beautiful. It was like much art is- perhaps devoid of any meaningful purpose, but certainly overflowing with aesthetic merit.

The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler

The Jane Austen Book Club was The Eyre Affair all over again. It is so gimmicky and preposterous to use classic literature as a ploy to lure readers in. Don't these authors have any original ideas? Do they have to steal from the more talented and worthy?

Fowler follows a bunch of women and a man as they read through all six Austen novels and discuss them. Many ridiculous soap opera-like events ensue. Many characters' childhoods are analyzed, revealing the roots of their neuroses. One is a token lesbian, another is a token crazy old lady, another a young Madame Bovary. The man is interesting, but he seems to be an idealized rendering, one of those woman-author fantasies.

Worst of all, the characters are as flat as the pages they exist on. Fowler is far too fascinated with her creations. They're all so creative, and witty, and destined for a super-sweet happy ending. In other words, as far from real life as one can get.

In some peculiar attempt to update Austen, all Fowler achieves is a liberal fantasyworld with little basis in the literature it uses for publicity. As if Austen needed to be updated in the first place! Her stuff is superb, all of it gorgeously crafted portraits of her society and time. She wrote what she knew, and her success is unsurpassed. Moreover, the satisfaction found in reading her novels comes not only in the masterful writing, but in the propriety of the society itself. The permissive relativistic ideal of Fowler's is not romantic in the slightest. Her attempt to evoke Austen's fantastic prose falls flatly.

The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

As if I did not get enough of Kerouac in On the Road, I embarked on this virtually identical account. Well, not identical in content, but identical in conclusiveness. Kerouac espouses a sort of Buddhism in which one prays constantly without knowing to whom, one meditates and writes poetry and tries to be kind to all, and one continually keeps in mind the fact that everything is nothing, that no one is anything, that all of existence is just part of the Void. One also drinks and sleeps around and has orgies whenever one feels like it.

As far as I can tell, Kerouac bases some of his philosophy on ancient Buddhist writing, but much of it comes from within him, as he fancies himself a sort of god. I do not understand how one can form an entire belief system from his own line of reasoning, for as limited beings humans are intrinsically faulty. And while Kerouac's character reads from the Bible and has happy feelings toward Jesus, his friend and mentor derides Christianity and mocks a "Dharma Bum" who turned Christian in his last days.

Frankly, I cannot comprehend the anatagonism toward Christianity. Perhaps it is the moral restraint. No more orgies, don't you know. But intellectually, these "bums" should have no qualms. If one is willing to accept the authority of ancient manuscripts as truth, the Bible is certainly more reliable and verifiable. And philosophically, it is beautiful. "To the pure, all things are pure." (Titus 1:15) I could easily imagine Kerouac writing something like that. He could retain his esoteric poetry and adhere to the true incident of God reaching down to man. The Gospel is, unequivocally, more intellectually honest than "everything is nothing."

A Room with a View by E.M. Forster

A Room With a View was an altogether fascinatingly and tersely written book. Lucy Honeychurch visits Italy with her spinster cousin, Miss Bartlett. Lucy is surreptitiously kissed by a passionate, unconventional, handsome young man, but their relationship ends when she leaves the country. She meets up with a more conventional acquaintance and becomes engaged to him back in England. She is kissed by the first man again and the experience causes her to break off her engagement.

She eventually marries her primary love, but before she commits to him, she discovers who she is and what she wants in life. Her dilemma was such: should she marry Cecil, a well-to-do traditionalist with stifling views toward women, or should she choose George, the middle-class paradoxical non-conformist with more liberal outlooks on a woman's place in society? Forster puts it excellently: "It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, 'She loves young [George] Emerson.' A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome 'nerves' or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?" (Chapter 14: How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely)

Lucy, in fact, comes very near to emulating Miss Bartlett's spinsterhood. Ironically, thought, it is Miss Bartlett who essentially saves her from this fate.

I caught an allusion and felt wonderfully intelligent about it. "...Nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it." (Chapter 17: Lying to Cecil) A Macbeth line if I ever heard one. There were myriad references to subjects canvassed in my Art History class, which also made me feel smart. That's always fun, reading a book that flatters one's intellect.

Hornblower and the Hotspur by C.S. Forester

Horatio Hornblower is one of the few literary characters who do as well cinematically as they do textually. The story reads much more enjoyably through the eyes of Horatio than it does through the eyes of Lieutenant Bush, as in Lieutenant Hornblower. Forester's psychological analysis is superb. He narrates Horatio's thoughts and reactions as if he is thinking them, and it makes a beautiful companion to the story action.

Horatio's dutiful, unequal marriage is skillfully wrought, lending tension, conflict, and imperfection to an otherwise charmed naval life. It makes for a fascinatingly original plot point, as the heroic protagonist is more often destined for blissful, happily-ever-after relationships, than something so unsatisfying to both the reader and the character.

Horatio's actions and reactions in the light of battle are sympathetically and compassionately portrayed. He wavers over decisions that ultimately lead to the deaths of his compatriots, though they might be in his country's best interests. He scorns praise and adulation, believing his fears and uncertainties discredit his heroics. He is unceasingly unsure of himself.

It all makes for a riveting story. A self-conscious hero constantly facing death, preoccupied with both his intrinsic and domestic inadequacies, ashamed to promote himself to further his career, despite his overt merits- that is Horatio Hornblower.

Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand

A debonair poetic genius loves a woman but refuses to court her because of his insecurity over his nose. Ingenious storyline, where have you been all my life?

Cyrano de Bergerac is an excellent work overall. It is ridiculous to the point of hilarity. Sadly though, the end is much like Vanity Fair's, but without the final marriage. Cyrano should have gotten a happy ending. The story was really going that way.

I appreciated the well-timed poetic forays, especially Cyrano's detailed list of insults about his nose, and his fencing ballad ("Wait! Let me choose my rhymes."). The romantic tension was palpable. The sacrifice-in-the-name-of-love thing was noble, but Cyrano would have done better by his love if he had attempted to woo her himself. Then she would not have had to grieve for fifteen years before learning she had even more to grieve over- the fact that she didn't have to have grieved.

Nevertheless, the humor was aptly conveyed, even through the sterilization of translation, and the starkly stoic form of a play. Truly delightful.

The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton

A man goes undercover to infiltrate a dangerous group of anarchists in Europe, but he soon discovers the men he is supposed to expose are undercover too, and even the evil mastermind is not an anarchist. The story ends with a sumptuous banquet at the supposedly evil guy's house, and then the main character loses consciousness and finds himself out walking, where he was at the beginning.

I can make a few connections, but I fear the deeper meaning of the work is above me. I do not understand why Chesterton felt the need to rail against the anarchy of the rich and powerful. Since when are the aristocracy anarchists? Maybe they were then. I have no way of knowing. I think the serial revealing of the true identities of the alleged members of the anarchal society symbolizes the fact that these rich revolutionaries believed all their associates thought as they did, but really did not. I'm not sure that last sentence makes sense. I'm not sure this entire book made sense.

I just do not know what Chesterton was trying to say with this, but I enjoyed his prose nonetheless. He has been compared to C.S. Lewis, and I see similarities, especially in his quotability. The concept of the intellectual anarchists was interesting, if nothing else. I don't think there are many people who want to destroy just for the sake of destruction, nor do I think there are lots who consider all forms of government a direct threat to their well-being. I've found that the atheism linked to the anarchists here is usually paired with a political outlook that is liberal to the point of Communism.

The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham

As far as I can tell, much of literature in general chronicles man's search for the meaning of life. The Razor's Edge does precisely that. The narrator follows a young man over a period of ten years, and watches him as the latter seeks purpose and meaning and truth. That young man asks all the right questions and he seems to be looking for the right answers, but his conclusions are woefully inconclusive.

Summarily, Larry, the young man, has an insatiable desire to read and discover and learn. He travels across Europe and devours all the philosophies he can. His time in a monastery is disappointing, for he has questions that the monks cannot answer. He wrestles with the ubiquitous problem of pain and whether man is actually at fault for the depravity manifest within him.

From there, Larry travels to India and ultimately falls in with the mystic Hinduism there. He mumbles some jargon about connecting with the "reality of the Absolute" or some such nonsense, and that is it. Apparently the world is infinite and we have all been reincarnated infinite times and will keep on being reincarnated until we have reached a state of transcendence. The transcendence is the ultimate reality, and it is possible to reach this place while alive through meditation and whatnot.

What is so frustrating about it all is the utter lack of concrete evidence. There is nothing trustworthy on which to base Larry's philosophy, and there is no rational way to prove it. The entire theory is merely the mumblings of a Hindu mystic with no credentials to speak of. Why choose this worldview over any other? Because of some feelings one has when meditating, and a dream one has about one's "previous lives"? The book was entirely unsatisfactory, and pathetically irrational.

Frankenstein by Mary Wollestonecraft Shelley

Let me just say that this book was utterly unlike anything I could have imagined it to be. Primarily, it was terribly unfrightening, and surprisingly long-winded. Moreover, the writing was not nearly of the caliber I've come to expect from revered 19th-century writers. And ultimately, Shelley's insight into human nature is uninspired and minimal.

The most intriguing part of Frankenstein was a soliloquizing moment in which narrator Robert Walton laments over his lack of peers and desperately desires a companion with whom he can share his intellectual interests. My heart went out to him. Goodness knows I've felt that way many times myself. But the book, of course, was written by a woman, and I suppose there is something decidedly effeminate about all that.

There was also an excellent minor character whom Shelley had the gall to kill off. Henry Clerval was this paramount literary type who gallivanted across Europe "having the best time" (credit Mr. Herold, the local high school art teacher, whom I fear I will be quoting for the rest of my life). The book should have been about Clerval. He was compassionate, devoted, adventurous, and well-read. Come to think of it, he was another obviously feminine creation. Let me take this opportunity to rehash my antipathy for novels written by women from a male perspective. The flagrant audacity involved in such an undertaking is incomprehensible.

The bulk of the book was sordid and verbose, lurid and vague. Shelley's argument for the inherent innocence of the human race was disappointing and unconvincing. Horror stories are a baser form of literature in the first place, and second-rate ones are that much worse. Shelley had a moderately good premise, and that accounts for the longevity of her book. She didn't run with the myriad possibilites the story was capable of, but others did.

Candide by Voltaire

Voltaire was fairly witty for a crazy French atheistic ranter. Candide was a satire attacking the common understanding of Gottfried Leibniz's assertion that "everything is for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds." It is a rather ridiculous statement in the first place, and naturally lends itself to all sorts of mocking. The story follows characters as all kinds of bad things happen to them, effectually proving the premise untrue.

Of course, ours is not, in fact, "the best of all possible worlds," but instead a horrible, twisted, depraved world augmented by billions of people's free wills wreaking what havoc they must when so many are acting outside of perfection. Truly, just a tiny deviation from a life of continually flawless behavior would have far-reaching consequences, and would permanently mar an otherwise perfect world. In actuality, we have innumerable deviations from perfection every moment, and this world is hopelessly removed from "the best."

And that is just the way it is. Candide is an exceedingly diverting read with few, if any, biblical indiscretions to speak of. I liked it.

Catriona by Robert Louis Stevenson

Ah yes, David Balfour. Happily cliched, morally uplifting adventure-romance hero. Thank you, Mr. Stevenson. I cannot say enough how wonderful a romantic action-adventure novel set in Scotland, with a happy ending, is. Literature is seriously lacking in this department. Thankfully, Stevenson has taken up some of the slack. After wandering the Scottish moors on Alan Breck's heels in Kidnapped, our protagonist, the young, noble, forthright David Balfour, moves through society and comes into his own in Catriona, the sequel.

There is a delightful portion of the story in which David is forced to house a young woman, Catriona of course, in his lodgings, for her father had essentially abandoned her abroad. He loves her and eventually marries her, and it's great. Let me tell you, there is nothing more romantic than repressed feelings not acted upon until the proper time. After all, that was the driving force behind Jane Eyre and Austen's novels, and there is nothing better than those.

But back to Catriona. So there is some adventure and sufficient peril for the protagonist. But most of all, there is a happy ending. I cannot help it. That reassurance that everything turns out all right in the end- I need it. Otherwise, I begin to feel very vulnerable and threatened. I know, I know. All that sad, inconclusive, depressing stuff has a prominent place in the canon of classic literature and is probably more lofty and thought-provoking and whatnot. I just suppose I am as of yet unable to relinquish my juvenile fears and inhibitions.

The Human Comedy by William Saroyan

I was talking to a guy at school, and he mentioned The Human Comedy as his favorite book of all time, so I decided to check it out. Honestly, though, I was not completely impressed. It was a sweet book, but it was a tad simplistic. The simplicity wasn't entirely a detractor, for it rendered the book devoid of any objectionable content, but I think its view of the world was somehow too small to present an accurate depiction of universal truths.

For The Human Comedy tried very hard to be a philosophical book. Characters spontaneously recite speeches of truisms, spouting that's-the-way-life-is phrases. The truisms don't seem to be particularly true, though. The prevailing theme of the book is a universalizing one that reiterates a mantra of brotherhood and fraternity among all men, taking the concept so far as "we all are everyone else." It's a slightly relative view, and it transfers the blame of wrongdoers indeterminably to the next person and the next, until no one is to blame for anything. And the plot involves an implicit trust between strangers that feels fairly rash.

Nevertheless, I could appreciate the characters. My favorite was perhaps Mr. Spangler, a telegram man whose policy of polite, universal kindness saves him, and a few others, from harm. Others were enjoyable as well- the older brother in the army, the middle brother supporting the family and learning how life is, the pleasant sister, and the youngest brother who is discovering joy as it comes to him. The mother did a lot of philosophizing (it reminded me, for some reason, of that scene in The Importance of Being Earnest in which Algy and Jack banter about the former's invented truism), and she talked to her dead husband, so I did not like her as much.

I am not sure why this book was that guy's favorite. Nothing really made it stand out; nothing in it seemed particularly extraordinary. Who knows.

The Canterbury Tales by Geoffery Chaucer

I had to go with a thoroughly modernized translation because the original language was Middle English, and I didn't particularly feel like torturing myself. I mean, the untouched version would be worse than Shakespeare by, like, hundreds of years. So, I got the gist of the stories, even if I didn't get the flavor and feel of Chaucer's language.

This means, of course, that I can really only evaluate the stories on their narrative merit. Many could only be described as bawdy, the dirty jokes of the Middle Ages, and not stuff one would neccessarily summarize out loud. Others were cute and romantic, and some were satires. I enjoyed this glimpse into medieval life. It is not often I read a book actually written in the time it speaks of, especially this far back in history. It is almost like learning history firsthand, from someone who was actually there. A writer's material is so personal that it becomes a sort of conversation with the reader. It was quite pleasant to hear voice from such a distant time, even if the sound might have been distorted through the translation.

One point that struck me when reading the tales was that nothing has truly changed. People, no matter their location in time, are still people. They still have the same sense of humor (imagine- a joke almost one thousand years old, is still funny), there is still infidelity and idolatry, girls are still embarrassing flirts, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Fascinating stuff.

Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury is rather dependable. Whenever I pick up a book of his, I know I'll get a beautiful, thoughtful, sci-fi commentary on society. I selected Something Wicked This Way Comes for its allusory title towards Macbeth, the play I had just finished in AP Lit and Comp. I was curious as to how it would all fit together.

I'll admit I probably do not grasp the full import of the allusion, but I think I have part of it. Within Macbeth, this line precedes the entrance of the hero-turned-villain. Bradbury's book also featured a sort of good-turned-bad element in the carnival that comes to town. Two young boys are excited by the impending carnival, but are soon mystified by the creepy, occultist characters it brings with it. The boys discover the sadistic aims of the man in charge of it all, and eventually they triumph over him. People in this novel die or disappear mysteriously, just like in Macbeth.

The book features a Tuck Everlasting-like convention, and so philosophizes nicely over the ramifications of living forever.

I particularly enjoyed a line by one of the boys' fathers. "God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other." I thought it was beautiful imagery. That father was an excellent character. He was a library janitor who had read most of the books he swept around. What an incredible picture.

The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene

The Power and the Glory was essentially Death Comes for the Archbishop without the cool title. A priest in Mexico wanders around the various parishes before dying. He feels guilty because he fathered a child, and because he is a drunkard. He is shot to death in the end because the Mexicans are purging the country of Catholicism, an effort that was obviously not successful.

A minor character, a precocious preteen girl, had some real potential, but she was merely mentioned in passing. The rest of the book was sordid and tepid. Sinful priests are a dime a dozen- read the newspaper. Strangely, the author supports Catholicism in the conclusion. The whole book deprecated the religion, exposing all the corruption and hypocrisy inherent in the church. And yet, the sight of the priest at the end invokes piety and deference in a previously jaded, indifferent boy. No comprendo.

Perhaps it was all to say that Catholicism is mysterious and nonsensical, but still the true religion. I don't know. The case was not made for me.

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Madame Bovary was actually a fairly timely read. I was perusing an article online that presented the concept of "female pornography," pornography literally being that which fosters unrealistic expectations in the opposite sex. For men, that manifests itself physically, while for women the fantasy comes in the realm of the emotional. Trashy romance novels and second-rate chick flicks cultivate the concept of the flawless tall-dark-and-handsome knight-in-shining-armor, sonnet-spouting and continually pledging his undying love. Obviously, this can have damaging effects on women's relationships with, and expectations of, men.

Madame Bovary is a case in point. She grows up in a convent, filling her mind with these very fantasies derived from novels and such. When she eventually marries, she is disappointed. Why doesn't her husband love her with that intangible passion of her books? Why doesn't he constantly romance her? How could she have so unluckily united herself with such a dull, unfeeling man?

In search of sexual fulfillment, therefore, Madame Bovary commences upon an affair. Her husband is completely unaware. The affair lasts for some time, but eventually her paramour jilts her. So, she arranges another affair, one she is sure will be more satisfying than the last. But with this second man she soon falls into a comfortable and not particularly romantic routine, and so Madame begins dreaming of yet another man, a real romantic. But she amasses some serious debt and commits suicide before she can alight upon another tryst.

Madame Bovary's unrealistic expectations ruined many, many lives. Her eternally forbearing husband adored her despite her innumerable caprices, and he succumbed to grief after her death. Her daughter, whom she never showed affection towards, was sent to a workhouse upon the successive deaths of her parents. And Madame's own life, of course, was destroyed by her passions. The novel was a graphic illustration of the damaging effects of irrational fantasizing.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac

A kid I worked with at summer camp had a copy in his cabin of just about everything Kerouac ever wrote, and my art teacher rambled on and on about how revolutionary On the Road was, so I figured to be considered educated, I had to read it.

I am not entirely sure what my final verdict on this book should be. From what I can tell, it was just the typical quasi-philosophical, drinking-smoking-sleeping-around searching for the meaning of life but never doing anything productive, let alone finding answers for the questions everyone asks, sort of novel. Pointless, in other words.

I think I can see what appealed so much to that kid at camp, though. Hitchiking repeatedly across the country, meeting scads of eccentric people, exploring the world, doing whatever whenever, would all be quite attractive to a teenaged boy, I think. But not to me. I would react similarly to the women in the book. They were more apt to settle down and stay in one place after a while. On the Road was an interesting social experiment, but ultimately a faulty one. The nomadic Buddhist lifestyle doesn't really answer anything.

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Their Eyes Were Watching God was a typical woman-released-from-the-chains-of-man, chronicle of burgeoning sexuality sort of thing. How sad that there actually is that kind of literary category. Janie is a black woman in the South who marries three times before finding a husband she likes. Unfortunately, he gets bit by a rabid dog and tries to kill her, so she has to kill him self-defense. Nice.

I do not find infidelity and social defiance laudable. I guess I have no soul, but I did not like this book.

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

I would never willingly pick up Hemingway after reading The Old Man and the Sea, but The Sun Also Rises was assigned literature in school. Jake Barnes and his expatriate friends wander across Europe, disconnected and disenchanted, dissatisfied with their lives and their relationships. They end up in Pamplona to witness the running of the bulls. Jake does not hook up with the girl he likes. The end.

Hemingway just seems frustrated and apathetic. He was so troubled, and his literature reflects that. I can't read him and enjoy it. It is just not going to happen. Everyone drinks, smokes, and sleeps around. Nobody is ever satisfied. The prose rambles meaninglessly for pages and pages. He never gets anywhere. It leaves me frustrated! I do not see how he had any special insight into the human condition. He was so lost.