The Moon Pool by A. Merritt

Hackneyed lost-world lunacy

Abraham Merritt (1884–1943), who often published under the abbreviated name of A. Merritt, was an American writer of science fiction and fantasy fiction. For many years, he was also an editor for The American Weekly, a syndicated newspaper supplement. His sci-fi novel The Moon Pool was originally published as two short stories in the fiction magazine All-Story Weekly. Merritt then combined these stories into a novel, which was published in book form in 1919.

A brief forward to the novel explains that an anthropologist named Dr. Throckmartin has disappeared, along with his wife and two assistants, while on a research expedition. Suspicion has fallen on Dr. Walter T. Goodwin, a botanist, who saw Throckmartin shortly before he went missing. The narrative of this novel is Goodwin’s written account of what really happened. This report has been edited by A. Merritt and published by the fictional International Association of Science.

Throckmartin and Goodwin, former acquaintances, are both conducting research on different islands in the South Pacific. They meet each other on a passenger steamer traveling amongst the islands, headed for Melbourne, Australia. Throckmartin had been doing research at the archaeological site of Nan-Matal, the ruins of an ancient Micronesian civilization on the island of Ponape (Wikipedia spells the actual sites “Nan Madol” and “Pohnpei”). Throckmartin tells Goodwin a harrowing story of how his wife and the other members of his party vanished on the islands. He is traveling to Australia to gather more supplies and men for a return expedition. Not long after telling this story, Throckmartin himself vanishes from the boat on which the two scientists are traveling. Goodwin resolves to venture to the Nan-Matal to investigate the disappearances and rescue the Throckmartin party. In this effort, he is accompanied by a couple of new acquaintances, men with their own reasons for embarking on such an adventure. When they make it to the archaeological site, they discover a portal that leads to a lost civilization underground.

The Moon Pool is a horror novel for those who think colored lights are spooky. Over and over again, we get images of colored lights—“pulsing” (14 times), “throbbing” (17 times), “coruscating” (15 times)—in every color of the rainbow. Another oft-repeated motif is the characters experiencing simultaneous feelings of “ecstasy and terror”—many, many times and in many variations. The best portions of The Moon Pool are when Merritt offers scientific explanations of the mystic phenomena depicted—speculative hypotheses drawing from physics, chemistry, anthropology, etc.—but there is so little of that. The vast bulk of this book is just the familiar cult-in-a-cave clichés that one finds in any Tarzan or Mummy movie. The females of this lost race are conveniently gorgeous, scantily-clad humanoid beauties, while the males are brutal, ugly ogre types. They engage in bizarre rituals in which sacrifices are made to a vengeful god.

The Moon Pool might be a baby step above most pulp fiction of this era. There’s an actual sci-fi story going on here; it’s more than just boobs and bullets, though there’s some of that too. This premise and plot, however, only merit perhaps a novella, while Merritt tries to turn this into an extended epic. The result is a boring, drawn-out mess. There are so many overly protracted descriptions of architecture: yet another chamber with another pool or fountain, yet another light show or a curtain of colored mist. Who cares? Despite a couple of relatively exciting action scenes, the story is dominated by mystic mumbo jumbo and predictable romance. Merritt wrote a sequel to The Moon Pool, The Metal Monster, in which at least one of the characters returns, but I’m not likely to tune in for that encore performance.

The Enlightenment: The Pursuit of Happiness, 1680–1790 by Ritchie Robertson

An erudite, pan-European survey of the era

Ritchie Robertson is a British academic who has published several books on German literature. With his most recent book, however, Robertson has broadened his scope to encompass the pan-European movement known as the Age of Enlightenment. Published in 2021, Robertson’s book The Enlightenment is a sweeping synthesis that attempts to, and in my opinion succeeds in, providing a comprehensive summary of the era that encapsulates the intellectual and social landscape of the period.

Not surprisingly, Robertson focuses primarily on France, Britain, and Germany, but he does often reach farther afield into many other European nations, demonstrating that this was a truly continent-wide phenomenon. The United States doesn’t get a great deal of coverage. Jefferson and Franklin are occasionally discussed, and there’s a brief section on the American Revolution. Rather than examining specific nations or specific thinkers in turn, this book is organized thematically by issue or discipline. The result is much rapid jumping around among diverse locations and historical personages, but this approach helps in gaining an understanding of the overall zeitgeist and important debates in Enlightenment thought. Figures like Immanuel Kant, David Hume, or Voltaire are mentioned in almost every subchapter. If you wanted to get an overall picture of Kant’s thought, for example, you’d have to search around for two sentences here and three sentences there, but if you did so, you’d get a very good understanding of what Kant was all about.

The one thread that tied the myriad endeavors of the Enlightenment together was a striving for an improvement in the happiness of the human race, whether it be through technology, philosophy, politics, law, or some other means. That may seem like an obvious and simplistic answer. Hasn’t mankind always striven for happiness? Well, no, not really. For much of the past two thousand years the prevailing view (at least in the Western world) was that life is an ordeal to be endured so that one could be rewarded with happiness in the afterlife. The Enlightenment is often thought of as a period of extreme secularization and rising atheism, and there definitely was some turning away from prior superstitions and religious dogma, but Robertson asserts that the religious landscape of the Enlightenment was far more complex and heterogenous than widely assumed. The trend of the age was not necessarily antireligious but rather an effort to reconcile religion with reason, to question religion and theology in order to clarify them, so that religion is the product of active thought rather than passive acceptance.

Robertson’s study is not only through but also well-balanced. This isn’t just a book about how great certain Enlightenment thinkers were and what important political and scientific advances were made. Robertson also pays attention to the prejudices, superstitions, and ignorances active during this period. He presents the progress of Enlightenment thought as a series of debates, or exercises in trial and error, and gives as much consideration to those in the wrong as those in the right.

I takes a very skilled writer and researcher to encapsulate an era in one volume like this. Robertson’s book is comprehensive enough to serve as a textbook for an undergraduate course, but it doesn’t read like a textbook. The prose is accessible to general readers, and history buffs will find much food for fascination here. Robertson’s breadth of knowledge is impressive. He seems to have read just about everything published between the two dates in the subtitle, as well as the scholarly literature of recent years. For anyone interested in this period, the notes and bibliography are a treasure trove of further readings. Though I thought I had a good idea of what the Enlightenment was all about, Robertson really broadened my understanding and heightened my interest in this pivotal age in history.

Cosmos, Volume I by Alexander von Humboldt

All of the things that go to make Heaven and Earth

If you’re old enough, you may remember the classic 1980s television series Cosmos, created and hosted by the astronomer Carl Sagan. Or, you might recall the 2014 series Cosmos, a tribute to Sagan’s work, hosted by Neil de Grasse Tyson. Both, however, stole the idea of Cosmos from Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859). Just as Sagan and Tyson were likely the most famous scientists in America at the time their TV shows were broadcast, Humboldt was probably the most famous scientist in the world when he published his late-career magnum opus Cosmos. This landmark work of science literature was published in five volumes, the first of which, the subject of this review, came out in 1849. Humboldt’s Cosmos is an attempt to synthesize all knowledge of the natural sciences up to the mid-nineteenth century. It reads as if Humboldt wrote it for his scientific peers, but Cosmos also enjoyed an immense popular readership in its day..

Humboldt unfurls his scientific overview in a systematic fashion, beginning with the large and moving to the small. He starts by discussing “nebulae” that we now know to be other galaxies. He then examines the various components of our solar system before moving on to the Earth’s seismic and volcanic activities and its rocks and minerals. Then it’s on to oceanography and climatology before finally arriving at life in the form of plants, animals, and humans. Although Humboldt proceeds with systematic rigor, he was also notoriously prone to digressions on whatever topics interested him. The book gets off to a slow start with about a hundred pages of introductory material in which he outlines how scientists should write about nature, how he’s going to write about it, and what exactly he’s going to tell you, before he ever gets around to telling it. As an example of Humboldt’s wandering mind, even in this “general” introduction, there is a three-page footnote about the elevation of the snow line on various mountains of the world. When he finally gets to his “General Review of Natural Phenomena,” delivers it in typical nineteenth-century fashion: all in one long chapter with no breaks or subheads. Humboldt gives special extended attention to some of his “pet” interests, such as the zodiacal light (sunlight reflecting off cosmic dust). The English edition that I read from 1868 (translation by E. C. Otté) has only one appendix; it’s about prehistoric birds in New Zealand.

It’s really interesting to learn about the state of science in 1849, and how scientists and explorers of that era went about obtaining knowledge of our universe. This was before the discovery of continental drift or Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution, but such revelations are certainly foreshadowed in this work. I’ve always admired Humboldt as an explorer and a naturalist, but when reading Cosmos one can’t help but admire him as a researcher. He seems to have read everything that had been published in four or five languages, no small feat when you consider how difficult it must have been just to get one’s hands on a specific book in those days, or how much time, effort, and patience was required for correspondence with one’s scientific colleagues.

Though he had an encyclopedic mind and a voracious appetite for specifics, as evidenced by some of the trivial rabbit holes he ventures down in this book, Humboldt was science’s master generalist. He was well-versed in a multitude of scientific disciplines, and his writings emphasize how all natural phenomena are intricately connected into a cohesive and interdependent whole. In this regard, Humboldt was the founder of ecology as we know it. In the introduction to Cosmos, he explains that he wants to write a work that assembles precise empirical data but never loses sight of the essential beauty and wonder of nature, the emotional effect so important to the Romantic movement. As far as imparting the beauty and sublimity of nature is concerned, Humboldt was more successful with his earlier work Views of Nature. Cosmos, on the other hand, reads more like a relentless torrent of data, but it’s a fascinating torrent to mentally bathe oneself in. Reading Cosmos is like living vicariously through a golden age of natural science, as if you were one of Humboldt’s associates. It’s a difficult read, not for everybody, but if you enjoy science history, a trek through Volume I of Cosmos is an inspiring and enlightening experience.  

Godfrey Morgan: A Californian Mystery by Jules Verne

Robinson Crusoe fantasy camp

Not too long ago, in reviewing The Swiss Family Robinson by John David Wyss, I briefly touched upon the profound influence that Daniel Defoe’s novel Robinson Crusoe has had on world literature. That novel clearly had an affect on Jules Verne, who wrote at least a handful of “robinsonades” and included Crusoe-like plot elements in many of his novels of travel and exploration. Verne’s adventure novel L’école des Robinsons was published in 1882. The French title literally translates into The School for Robinsons, and the book has been published in English as School for Crusoes and An American Robinson Crusoe. The 1883 London translation of the novel, however, was entitled Godfrey Morgan, after its protagonist.

Godfrey, an orphan, was raised by his uncle, the billionaire William W. Kolderup of San Francisco. Kolderup also has an adopted daughter, Phina, with whom Godfrey is conveniently betrothed. (Almost every Verne novel features a pair of young lovers engaged to be married.) Before he ties the knot, however, young Godfrey wants to travel the world. Having never ventured far outside of the gilded cage in which he was brought up, Godfrey now has a spell of wanderlust. His future father-in-law grants Godfrey his consent to embark on a round-the-world voyage, provided he is chaperoned by his tutor, Prof. Artelett, a dandy who teaches dancing and deportment. The two head west across the Pacific Ocean towards New Zealand but never make it there. Their ship is wrecked in a storm, and the crew is lost. The two gentlemen from San Francisco find themselves marooned alone on a deserted island.

Much like the original Crusoe and the Swiss Family Robinson, these two castaways enjoy a number of fortunate boons. All of the livestock from their ship miraculously makes it to shore, a box washes up on the beach containing many implements necessary for survival, and a hollow sequoia presents itself as a makeshift townhouse. This is not the most arduous of survival stories. Godfrey and Artelett spend most of their time gathering roots and occasionally shooting a deer. These fellows are far less industrious than the Swiss Family. In order to add some excitement to the proceedings, Verne brings in perils that belong on an entirely different continent. Eventually all is explained, though the explanation is ridiculous.

Though Verne is famous for his science fiction, little science is employed in the survival of these two gentlemen. Typical of Verne, however, this novel is largely a secular, rationalist take on the Crusoe genre. Although obligatory mention is made of the almighty every now and then, this wilderness sojourn is not a meditation on divinity like the pious contemplations of Crusoe and the Swiss. Unfortunately, there are a couple racist comments about dark-skinned islanders here. In general, I’ve found Verne to be more enlightened than many of his contemporaries, but he was still guilty of the ignorance and prejudices of his era.

There isn’t much mystery to this “Californian Mystery.” Verne sets up the plot so that every event is telegraphed well ahead of time. You’d have to be ten years old or less not to see where this story is going. Everything is so obvious that it must have been intentional by Verne to let the audience in on secrets to which Godfrey and Artelett are not privy. Does that strategy pay off? Well, so-so. This isn’t one of Verne’s more intelligent or exciting novels, but it is moderately fun, and the characters are likable. If you’ve read any of Verne beyond his two or three more famous books, then you probably know what to expect, and Godfrey Morgan neither disappoints nor exceeds those expectations.

Trouble in Mind: Bob Dylan’s Gospel Years—What Really Happened by Clinton Heylin

More than most fans want to know, and not who you want to hear it from

Although I’m not a true Christian believer, I love Bob Dylan’s gospel period. He made some fine rock and roll from 1979 to 1981 and assembled some excellent musicians to perform it. Dylan’s born-again Christian spell, which encompassed the albums Slow Train Coming, Saved, and Shot of Love, is generally not well-regarded by critics or fans. At the time, some concert-goers expressed outrage that Dylan was only playing his new Christian rock tunes in concert while ignoring his Greatest Hits. This period in Dylan’s musical career perhaps enjoyed a slight resurgence in appreciation with the release of The Bootleg Series Vol. 13: Trouble No More in 2017. To capitalize on the release of that official collection of previously unreleased material, frequent Dylan biographer Clinton Heylin published his book Trouble in Mind: Bob Dylan’s Gospel Years—What Really Happened, also released in 2017.

Heylin takes the “What Really Happened” in the subtitle very literally. His main concern here is to establish a detailed chronology of events, such as the first time Dylan played “Slow Train” in a rehearsal, the first time he attended the Vineyard Christian Fellowship in LA, the last time he played “Saved” in concert, and so on. In great detail, Heylin recaps every recording session, tour rehearsal, concert performance, and on-stage sermon that took place over these three years, as well as newspaper and magazine reviews of Dylan’s concerts and Dylan’s reactions to those reviews. Much attention is accorded to any change in concert playlist or album track selection. It’s a lot of trivial detail, but as a Dylan fan, and in particular a fan of this period, I found all this interesting. Heylin’s research is commendable. If you don’t mind seeing the trees rather than the forest, this book is for you. If, however, you really want to understand Dylan’s religious beliefs, the religious content of his songs, or why he embarked on this gospel trip in the first place, you’re not going to find that here. Thankfully, however, we have Scott Marshall’s excellent 2017 book Bob Dylan: A Spiritual Life to enlighten us on such deeper matters.

What I really don’t like about Trouble in Mind is Heylin’s tone and attitude. First of all, his prose reads as if it were written for a group of his buddies. It’s rather casual and snarky, and Heylin seems too pleased with his own clever turns of phrase. When you’re acting as a journalist and a historian, whether you like it or not, write with a little professionalism and formality. This isn’t a fanzine. Even if you hate Heylin’s prose, however, much of the text is quoted from other sources that are better written.

After reading this book, I have to ask, does Heylin even like Dylan’s music? He certainly doesn’t care much for this gospel era. He frequently states that Saved and Shot of Love are terrible albums, full of lackluster performances. Obviously, I like this period of Dylan’s career or I wouldn’t be reading your book, so why would I want to read about how much this music sucks? Heylin frequently repeats the old chestnut that the studio recordings don’t hold up to the live performances, which is the same gripe you often hear from your friends who like to brag about how many concerts they’ve seen. Heylin thinks it’s his god-given mission to inform you of what he considers Dylan’s every fault and stupid mistake in these three years of his career, whether it’s songs he left off albums, records delivered later than promised, unproductive rehearsal sessions, or song arrangements that Heylin didn’t agree with. This is a relentlessly negative portrait of Dylan as a sloppy, foolish, absent-minded buffoon that the reader is supposed to chuckle along with. Heylin writes as if he’s too good for Dylan. No, you’re not better than the guy you make your living off of. We know he’s quirky, makes messy music, and sometimes weird decisions, but he’s still the greatest rock singer-songwriter of all time and a deserving Nobel laureate. Marshall wrote a book that treats him as such. Heylin has not.

A Dream of John Ball by William Morris

Renaissance fair socialism

William Morris (1834–1896) was an English author, visual artist, textile designer, and socialist agitator. As the most prominent artist in the British Arts and Crafts movement, Morris created drawings, paintings, book illustrations, fabrics, furniture, and stained glass windows that harkened back to the Middle Ages. He was also a rather prolific man of letters, and his literary works, not surprisingly, were likewise often set in medieval times. His novel A Dream of John Ball was published in 1888.

The narrator of the novel is a present-day Englishman of the 1880s who falls asleep and dreams himself back into the Middle Ages. Specifically, he finds himself amid the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, a rebellion that swept across large portions of England. Serfs fighting for the right to own property and be their own masters rose up in arms against the regime of King Richard II. The narrator falls into a band of such rebels in County Kent. The inspirational leader of this cadre of freedom fighters is John Ball, a real-life clergyman whom Morris portrays as a sort of Robin Hood figure. Jack Straw, another historical figure from the revolt, also appears in the novel.

After quickly being accepted into this band of rebels, the narrator fights along side them in an encounter with the king’s forces. In this battle that takes up roughly the first half of the novel, Morris indulges his ardor for medieval culture, lovingly describing in vivid detail all the garments, weaponry, and accoutrements of these 14th-century warriors. This extended action sequence reads like a few chapters disembodied from Ivanhoe or some other Sir Walter Scott novel. There’s much medieval pageantry and heroic derring-do but not much of a story. Morris emphasizes the fellowship between these daring and forthright men while implying that such fellowship no longer exists in the modern world. In Morris’s eyes, this picturesque world of medieval farmers and craftsmen would have been an idyllic utopia, were it not for the oppression they endured under feudalism.

The second half of the novel is an improvement over the first. When the narrator finally sits down to talk to John Ball, the story actually goes somewhere and has a purpose. Ball can somehow sense that his conversation partner is a visitor from the future. He asks the narrator if his dream of equality and brotherhood of man will ever come to fruition. The narrator regrettably informs Ball that although serfdom and feudalism would cease to exist in England, men will still be bound as wage-slaves within an oppressive system run by greedy oligarchs. Although much has changed in half a millennium, the ultimate status of the common man has changed little. He proceeds to explain capitalism in lingo evocative of the Middle Ages, with many thees and thous and the use of antiquated words like “villeins” and “thralls” instead of “serfs” or “proletariats.” The Peasant’s Revolt is regarded by some radicals as an inspirational prototype (albeit unsuccessful) for a socialist revolution. While there is no hope for John Ball’s rebels, Morris encourages readers of 1888 to hold out hope for an overthrow of the oligarchy and freedom for the common man.

Morris is regarded as a pioneer of the science fiction and fantasy genres in English literature. A Dream of John Ball is merely a baby step in that direction. The only science fiction element is the time travel, which takes place in a dream and therefore could just be the narrator’s imagination. A couple years after this novel, Morris would write a more overtly sci-fi and more overtly socialist work, News from Nowhere, which is superior to A Dream of John Ball in just about every way I can think of. Nevertheless, the second half of A Dream of John Ball is well-conceived, eloquently executed, and daringly outspoken for its time.