With Fire and Sword by Henryk Sienkiewicz

Epic.
With Fire and Sword is a sweeping, romantic, historical epic, originally published in 1884 by Nobel Prize-winner Henryk Sienkiewicz. Though little read by American audiences, this book deserves a place of honor alongside such classics as The Three Musketeers, War and Peace, Doctor Zhivago, and Les Miserables. The opening chapters required a little historical research just to figure out what was going on, but once I got my bearings it was a great ride.

The story begins in 1647, and takes place mostly in the Ukraine, which was part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, at that time the most powerful nation in Europe. The novel follows the events of the Hmelnitski Uprising (This review is based on Jeremiah Curtin’s English translation, so I’m using his spellings of proper nouns). Bogdan Hmelnitski led a Cossack Revolt against the Commonwealth, with the aid of the Tartars (Muslims from the Crimea). Pan Yan Skshetuski is a lieutenant in the Commonwealth forces led by Prince Yeremi. Shortly before the uprising Yan meets the love of his life, Princess Helena. As the fighting breaks out they are separated and spend most of the novel trying to get back together. One major obstacle to their reunion is Bogun, a fierce and powerful Cossack leader who also loves Helena, and takes her captive. Pan Yan has three comrades-in-arms: Pan Michal Volodyovski, Pan Longin Podbipienta, and Pan Zagloba. These four soldiers display a friendship similar to the four comrades of The Three Musketeers, with Zagloba providing most of the comic relief.

If there’s a weakness to this book it’s the plotting. The great adventure classics by Hugo or Dumas are intricately crafted so that each chapter is crucial to pushing the story forward. With Fire and Sword feels like it has quite a bit of filler. There are several chapters of the heroes drinking and talking about how they should all go look for the princess, but very few chapters of the heroes actually looking for the princess. About six instances occur of characters coincidentally running into Bogun, when two probably would’ve sufficed. Despite these few low points, the book overall is very exciting, and filled with memorable characters and events.

This novel contains some of the most vivid and gruesome depictions of warfare ever written. If they gave a prize for most impalements in a novel, Sienkiewicz would surely have won it with this entry. Atrocities are committed by both sides, beheadings are commonplace, and the torture of prisoners is routine. At one point, as the Commonwealth forces are approaching a town of particularly rebellious peasants, Yeremi instructs his soldiers to “Kill them so that they know they are dying,” a philosophy that permeates the book. I don’t want to make it sound like it’s all blood and guts; Sienkiewicz also shows us the political intrigue behind the military strategy. And let’s not forget, this is, after all, a love story.

This is the first book in a trilogy of historical novels by Sienkiewicz. The second volume is The Deluge (aka Potop), and the third is Pan Michael (aka Pan Wolodjowski or Fire in the Steppe). After reading the first book, I can’t wait to tackle the other two.
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My Art, My Life by Diego Rivera

Fiction is stranger than truth
Diego Rivera was one of the greatest artists of the twentieth century. His life was a thrilling adventure in art, politics, and history. Yet in his autobiography My Art, My Life, co-written with American journalist Gladys March, Rivera still felt the need to embellish his life story with a truckload of tall tales and fabrications. When he was six years old, for example, he gave an impromptu atheistic sermon at his local church that was so impressive he was immediately granted an honorary induction into a society of liberal intelligentsia. Ridiculous, yes; and that’s only the beginning. Throughout the book, Rivera constantly makes himself out to be a macho, revolutionary tough guy. (He could have killed Porfirio Diaz and Adolf Hitler, if only someone else hadn’t stopped him.) Yet whenever anyone criticizes the deliberately provocative and controversial imagery in his paintings, he suddenly adopts the attitude of a disingenuous schoolboy: “Who, me? I never meant to offend anyone.”

Gladys March does well to preserve Rivera’s fictions; it is not her job to censor him. She does not get off scot-free, however. Not only does she take Rivera’s stories and translate them from Spanish to English, she also takes the words of an intellectual visionary and translates them into the language of an eighth-grader. The short, choppy sentences and elementary vocabulary make for uncomfortable and occasionally tiresome reading. There are factual errors, as well, which could be attributed to March rather than Rivera. The artist and educator Gerardo Murillo, who called himself Dr. Atl, is here referred to throughout as Murillo Atl, as if that were his given name. At one point Rivera talks about painting a 40 x 65 foot mural at the Ministry of Education. There is no forty-foot-tall Rivera mural in that building, so he must have been talking about some other building, perhaps the National Palace? Later, while Rivera discusses the “painting” of his mural at the Teatro de los Insurgentes, never once is it mentioned that the finished mural is not a painting but, in fact, a mosaic. These are a few examples of confusing discrepancies of fact which distract from the already distracting self-mythologizing of Rivera.

Despite these shortcomings, the true value of this book becomes evident when Rivera discusses the creation of his art, his growth as an artist, and the development of his artistic philosophy. On these subjects he is frank and forthright. Because of my admiration for Rivera as an artist and my fascination with Mexican culture and history, it’s almost impossible for me not to like a book on this subject matter, especially when it comes from the mouth of the master himself. As far as Rivera biographies go, however, I prefer The Fabulous Life of Diego Rivera by Bertram Wolfe. Although Wolfe was a friend of the artist, he’s not afraid to point out Rivera’s faults. Here the only fault Rivera will own up to is his ill treatment of women. (As appendices, the book includes brief statements by each of Rivera’s four wives, providing a welcome dose of reality.) This book does have its flaws, and after reading it I must admit my estimation of Rivera may have dropped a notch or two, but those interested in Mexican art will appreciate this unique glimpse into the mind (and ego) of a genius.
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Looking Backward, 2000 to 1887 by Edward Bellamy

Future Imperfect
First published in 1888, Looking Backward was one of the most popular books of its day. It inspired several utopian communities and hundreds of “Bellamy Clubs” across America. Reading it today, it’s hard to see what all the fuss was about.

Through a convoluted series of circumstances, wealthy Bostonian Julian West falls asleep in 1887 and wakes up in the year 2000. Upon awakening he is greeted by Dr. Leete, who will serve as his host and guide in this future society. The social order has changed drastically since West’s day. America is now governed by an idealistic form of socialism, though Bellamy avoids the S-word in favor of terms like “cooperative”, “rational”, or “brotherly”. It’s not a strict Marxist socialism, but rather Bellamy’s own brand. The overall governing principle is that cooperation is more efficient than competition. The trusts that dominated America in the late 19th century have eliminated each other through competition and consolidated into one giant trust, now governing all industry. This trust has somehow become the U.S. government, and now beneficently works for the interests of all citizens. The military has been replaced by the Industrial Army, all industry has been nationalized, money has been abolished, and all citizens receive identical wages in the form of credit which they are free to spend however they choose. Bellamy’s society of the future sounds a lot like an early prospectus for the Soviet Union read through rose-colored glasses. In reality, its existence would require the total negation of all human greed and sloth. It is also heavily reliant on a benevolent ruler who wields absolute power. Unfortunately, as history has shown us time and again, those who wield absolute power are seldom benevolent.

My main objection to this book, however, is not directed toward its political ideals. I generally enjoy reading the socialist literature of this time period, and I’m usually up for a good utopian novel of any political stripe, no matter how far-fetched. What I object to is the writing. Once West wakes up in this brave new world, how does he spend his time? Sitting on the couch talking to Dr. Leete, chapter after chapter after chapter. Occasionally they go out to a restaurant, store, library, etc. where all they do is talk, talk, and talk some more. What’s the first rule of good writing? Show me; don't tell me. If your intention is to teach us about an ideal industrial society, why not give the man a job? Julian West is not an active participant in the society being described. He doesn’t interact with it at all. He is a perpetual bystander. This is really not a novel at all, but a series of dialogues in which Dr. Leete is the mouthpiece spouting the imaginary Constitution of Bellamy’s ideal America. Would we all be happier living in Bellamy’s world? Probably. But that doesn't make it a good book.
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The Belly of Paris (a.k.a. The Fat and the Thin) by Emile Zola

An underrated work
This novel, the third in the Rougon-Macquart series, is a great example of what Zola does best. Through his minute attention to descriptive detail, he creates a setting based on historical fact, peoples it with an ensemble cast of realistic characters, and before we know it we are entangled in their lives as if we were one of the neighborhood. In this case the neighborhood is Les Halles, the huge marketplace of Paris, and the cast is composed of fish mongers, butchers, bakers, vegetable sellers, and street urchins. The two main characters are Lisa Quenu (born Lisa Macquart, daughter of Antoine Macquart), and her brother-in-law Florent. Florent, a Republican who’s had some trouble with the law, seems to be an embodiment of Zola’s feelings toward the revolutionary movement of the time, both positive and negative. Lisa, who runs a butcher shop with her husband, represents the moderate French citizen of the era, far more interested in the comforts and challenges of everyday life than in the events of the world outside her own immediate surroundings. While Florent entertains grandiose Utopian visions of a socialist France, politics is the last thing on Lisa’s mind. Her main concern is keeping up the appearance of relative prosperity, thereby winning her family a bit of social status within the neighborhood. 

Depending on which edition you read, this book is either titled The Belly of Paris or The Fat and the Thin. The second title refers to two types of people in the world. On the most obvious level it could simply refer to the division between the Haves and the Have-Nots. But Zola explores the dichotomy on a deeper level, separating mankind into those who are concerned foremost with creating a comfortable life for themselves, preoccupied only by the immediate world around them (The Fat) and those who have an outward concern toward the world, life, and humanity as a whole, living a life of sacrifice—whether deliberate or not—because of a devotion to a higher cause, whether it be political conviction, art, or some other calling (The Thin). Zola doesn’t pick sides, but rather points out the strengths and foibles of both types. This novel is not a masterpiece, and it won't have the kind of profound effect on you as some of Zola’s better books (Germinal, La Terre, L’Assomoir). It is an engaging read, however, and can certainly stand as a worthy sidekick alongside Zola’s greatest works.
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The God of His Fathers by Jack London

Sophomore slump
This is Jack London’s second collection of short stories, first published in 1901. All the stories take place during the Klondike Gold Rush in Alaska, the Yukon Territory, or elsewhere in the North. About half of the stories feature the inhabitants of Forty Mile, the recurring cast of characters that were introduced in his first collection. In this book London is still finding his way as a writer, and this selection of tales is a mixture of the masterpiece and the mediocre.

The two best stories in the book are similarly titled, though couldn’t be more different. In “Grit of Women,” Indian trail guide Sitka Charley relates the story of how he and his wife Passuk made a grueling 700 mile journey to the Bering Sea during a time of famine. It’s the type of gritty odyssey of man (and woman) struggling against harsh conditions that London does best. In “The Scorn of Women,” the three most attractive women in Dawson vie for the attention of a clueless mining king as his fiancee makes the long trip up from the States. It’s a lighthearted and clever comedy of manners, not the kind of thing London usually excels at, but this one works. Women feature prominently in many of the stories, ranging from devoted angels to evil femme fatales, and are always depicted as more intelligent and hard working than their male counterparts.

Native American characters are also well represented in this volume. Several stories are ill-served by one or two paragraphs extolling the destiny of the white man to triumph over the Indian. At times this obsession with race becomes a distraction and a detraction from otherwise enjoyable stories. London’s antiquated misrepresentations of Darwinism don’t translate well to the present day. To his credit, however, in London’s stories the whites do not always triumph, but are often outsmarted, outworked, or outfought by their Native counterparts.

“At the Rainbow’s End,” “Jan, the Unrepentant,” and “A Daughter of the Aurora” all suffer from weak endings. On the other hand, in “The Man with the Gash,” in which a miserly hostel keeper receives a visit from a scarred stranger, the ending is rather predictable but so utterly original that you enjoy it anyway.

Overall, The God of His Fathers is not as successful a collection of stories as London’s first book, The Son of the Wolf, but it still offers a taste of better things to come later in his career. All things considered, if you enjoy wilderness adventure then an average book by London is better than the best books of almost any other writer in the genre.

Stories in this collection:

The God of His Fathers

The Great Interrogation

Which Make Men Remember

Siwash

The Man with the Gash

Jan, the Unrepentant

Grit of Women

Where the Trail Forks

A Daughter of the Aurora

At the Rainbow’s End

The Scorn of Women

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At the Sign of the Cat and Racket by Honoré de Balzac

Strong start, flat finish
At the Sign of the Cat and Racket is a short novel by Honoré de Balzac. It was first published in 1830, but the story takes place about two decades earlier. It is one of the earliest pieces Balzac wrote for inclusion in his Comédie Humaine, the collection of 91 interconnected writings in which he documents the entire scope of French society in the early 19th century. While this particular entry is an adequate showcase of this great author’s formidable talent, it certainly doesn’t deserve to be counted among his masterpieces.

Balzac begins the book by describing an ancient building on the Rue Saint-Denis in Paris, which stands out from its neighbors like a relic of centuries past. This edifice, adorned with a whimsical old painting of a cat playing tennis, houses the shop of the cloth merchant Monsieur Guillaume. The antiquated Guillaume runs his business with the tried-and-true methods of an earlier era and governs his brood of two daughters and three apprentices with an almost military strictness. Guillaume plans to marry his eldest daughter Virginie to his reliable senior apprentice Joseph Lebas, thus insuring the future of the family business. Lebas, regretfully, would much prefer the hand of the younger Guillaume daughter, Augustine. The feeling is not mutual, however, since Augustine has fallen in love with a rich and successful artist, Théodore de Sommervieux. After much negotiation between old Guillaume and the various lovers, the daughters are married off. What follows is a contrast between two marriages—one for love and one for duty—and an investigation into whether love is enough to insure a happy long-term union.

I can usually count on Balzac for at least a four star book, but this piece doesn’t quite measure up to the majority of his work. Balzac does his usual superb job of establishing the setting, and the reader becomes enthralled in the inner workings of the Guillaume household. Once the story turned to the philosophy of marriage, however, my interest waned. The subject matter and tone of the two halves differ to the point that the book as a whole suffers. As I was plodding through the lofty, heart wrenching romance toward the end of the novel, I found myself longing for the more humorous tone and naturalistic style exhibited in the earlier pages. Balzac caps the story off with an all too abrupt ending, which further compounds the disappointment. Beyond the halfway point, this novel ceases to be an ensemble piece and concentrates almost exclusively on one couple. The couple in focus, unfortunately, is far less intriguing than the supporting cast. The good thing about the Comédie Humaine, however, is that often the supporting characters eventually get their due treatment in another work. Those wanting to learn more about the fate of the Lebas family can find them in César Birotteau and Cousin Bette.
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Graphic Witness: Four Wordless Graphic Novels, edited by George A. Walker

Great works deserve a great introduction

Woodcut novels are a rare and beautiful art form that have been underappreciated for far too long. Thankfully in recent years some of these classic “graphic novels” have been rescued from obscurity and given the proper respect they deserve. This collection features four great works created from 1918 to 1951.

Frans Masereel is the European pioneer of the genre. His art exhibits the jagged simplicity of German Expressionism, and his storytelling is correspondingly disjointed and ambiguous. Lynd Ward is the American master, embodying the true apex of the art form. (The Library of America recently published an edition of his complete works.) His prints are beautifully detailed with intricate line work, and his narrative likewise displays complexity and depth. Canadian artist Laurence Hyde provides the most beautiful art in the book, combining the stark gravity of Masereel with the nuance of line and tone found in Ward’s work. Italian-American artist Giacomo Patri supplies the weakest piece in the collection. His art, in both its conception and execution, is really not in the same league as the other three, but his story provides a valuable glimpse into life during the Great Depression. If there’s a common thread among the four works, it is a stand against social injustice. No less than three of the works feature workers rising up against their oppressors, with mixed results.

The only reason I’m not giving this book five stars is because I was disappointed by the thirty-odd pages of text that accompany the art. The preface and introduction by Walker, and the afterword by Seth provide only a couple paragraphs of biographical information on each artist, with some very general comments on how these novels expressed the political realities of their time and how woodcut novels were the precursors to today’s graphic novels. To this I say, “Duh.” I would have preferred more detailed biographies and more on the history of woodcut novels in general.

Left: Lynd Ward, from Wild Pilgrimage; Top right: Frans Masereel, from The Passion of a Man; Bottom right: Laurence Hyde, from Southern Cross

Stories in this collection:

The Passion of a Man by Frans Masereel

Wild Pilgrimage by Lynd Ward

White Collar by Giacomo Patri

Southern Cross by Laurence Hyde

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