A fascinating thesis, but a half-baked defense
In his 2002 book entitled 1421, Gavin Menzies tries to make the case that in the year in question, 71 years before Columbus discovered America, the Chinese not only discovered America but also navigated, charted, and to some extent colonized the entire world, with the exception of Europe. At that time, the Ming Dynasty emperor Zhu Di sent out a fleet of treasure ships to explore the unknown reaches of the earth and establish trade connections with the nations they encountered. The fleet, under the direction of Admiral Zheng He, split into four smaller units led by four intrepid admirals: Hong Bao, Zhou Man, Zhou Wen, and Yang Qing. Menzies traces the itineraries of these four Chinese fleets and catalogs the discoveries they made. He bases his argument on a detailed study of pre-Colombian world maps, asserting that the entire world was already mapped before Columbus set sail. He supports this theory with excerpts from diaries and letters, archaeological findings, and other scientific evidence.
I am not at all uncomfortable with the idea of pre-Colombian intercontinental travel. If we already accept that the Vikings reached North American shores in the year 1000, then the idea that a relatively advanced seafaring civilization like the Chinese might have traversed the world four centuries later is not such an incredible stretch. Yet, even though in my case Menzies is preaching to the choir, his writing is far from convincing. Almost every paragraph in the book contains some kind of qualifier like “it is entirely feasible that,” “it is highly probable that,” “it seems likely that,” or a disclaimer that the research is still out on a particular subject, and the results will be posted to his web site when they come in. Another favorite tactic is the use of the process of elimination in lieu of hard evidence, as in “Who else but the Chinese could have . . .?” or “It must have been the Chinese who. . .”, when in fact, as they say, it ain’t necessarily so. Menzies makes hundreds of claims in this book—Chinese colonies in Peru, Mexico, and Rhode Island; Chinese discovery of the North Pole; the Portuguese colonization of Puerto Rico in the 1430s; Chinese intercontinental distribution of various plant and animal species, including living mylodons (prehistoric giant ground sloths); and more. Each one of these claims would take a full-length scholarly monograph to defend, yet Menzies glosses over many of them in a paragraph or two.
Menzies asserts that his experience as a former submarine captain in the Royal Navy gives him an insight into the Chinese expeditions that a library-bound historian would not possess. There may be some truth to that, but the more he brings himself into the narrative, explaining his research methods, the less he furthers his case. He jumps to hasty conclusions based on sketchy logic, which only draws attention to the fact that he is not an academic historian or scientist. I’d like to think that there’s some truth to Menzies’ hypothesis, but he doesn’t inspire much confidence.
Menzies is at his best when he’s writing about the past, describing life in the Forbidden City, for example, or conditions aboard the ships of the Chinese treasure fleet. Even then, he’s prone to exaggeration and speculation, but at least he makes the past come to life. If he really wants to further this theory, he should express it in the form of a Da Vinci Code-style historical novel. He’s as good a researcher as Dan Brown and certainly a better prose stylist (faint praise, indeed). Until then, 1421 will have to do. It’s a fascinating ride, an entertaining read, and a smorgasbord of food for thought, but best swallowed with a grain of salt.
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A little rusty, but still manages to entertain
The Castle of Otranto is widely regarded as the first Gothic novel, and it definitely contains all the emotional melodrama, forbidden romance, spooky castle corridors, and supernatural happenings that one expects of that genre. In the preface to the first edition of 1764, Horace Walpole claimed that this work was a translation of a recently discovered Italian manuscript dating back to around the 12th century. The book was successful enough, however, that when the second edition came out, Walpole admitted that was all hogwash and took credit for writing his own work.
The story takes place in the principality of Otranto, in Italy, where Prince Manfred is lord of the land and its castle. Manfred is less than satisfied with the fertility of his wife Hippolita, for she has only given him one son and one daughter, but the impending marriage of his son Conrad serves to reassure him that soon he will have grandchildren to carry on the family line. When the wedding day arrives, however, Conrad is crushed to death by a mysterious giant helmet which falls from the sky. Naturally, all are horrified by this event, but it brings a special anguish to Manfred, for cruel fate has robbed him of his sole male heir. He becomes determined to rectify this matter by divorcing Hippolita and taking Conrad’s bride Isabella for his own, though the union is decidedly against the young lady’s will.
The Castle of Otranto still has some entertainment to offer the modern reader, but it’s definitely acquired a dull patina over the past two and a half centuries. Though the macabre ambience and supernatural events depicted in the book may have filled its 18th century audience with shock and horror, a quarter of a millennium later these elements merely inspire amusement in today’s reader. The reading public of 1764 also had a different attention span than readers of the 21st century. In those days they may not have minded sitting through dialogue that basically repeats the same conversation three or four times, but today these passages seem unnecessarily tedious. Nevertheless, there are enough twists and turns in this skillfully constructed fable to keep one interested. Over the course of the story each character’s secret past is revealed, and all find they are related directly or indirectly to one another in some way, all entwined in a twisted web of connectivity reminiscent of The Count of Monte Cristo. As the narrative progresses, it is a pleasure to watch Manfred become more and more tyrannical, more obsessed with possessing Isabella. This obsession drives him to behave immorally, betray his family, and scorn the church. The obvious message of the book is that the more you fight the hand of God, the more it’s going to come back to pound you, and there is a gratifying satisfaction in waiting for the inevitable hammer to fall.
I can’t say I’m enamored with this book enough to give it a wholehearted endorsement, but if you enjoy the Gothic literature of writers like Edgar Allan Poe or Bram Stoker, or just historical literature in general, like Sir Walter Scott or Balzac, it might be worth your while to blow the dust off of The Castle of Otranto and give it a try.
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A confounding puzzle and a thrilling ride
Joseph Heurtin, convicted murderer and death row inmate at the Santé prison, receives a note with instructions for a prison break. Following the directions in the note, Heurtin leaves his cell, scales the wall, and flees the scene. Little does he know that the unknown benefactor behind the mysterious note is none other than Inspector Maigret, the police detective who originally handled his case. Despite overwhelming evidence in favor of Heurtin’s guilt, Maigret has never been convinced that he acted alone. Maigret engineers the prison break, keeping Heurtin under surveillance, in hopes of discovering the real mastermind behind the crime. What’s at stake is whether or not the wrong man will go to the guillotine, or, as Maigret puts it, it’s a question of a man’s head. The Examining Magistrate in the case, Monsieur Coméliau, gives his permission for this operation, but does not have much confidence in Maigret’s plan. When things go bad and Heurtin eludes the police, Maigret’s career is on the line. If he wants to keep his job, he has ten days to apprehend Heurtin and discover who is really responsible for the murders.
A Man’s Head was originally published in 1931 under the French title of La Tête d’un Homme, and has appeared in English under the alternate titles A Battle of Nerves, Maigret's War of Nerves, and The Patience of Maigret. It is the fifth novel in this series of detective novels by Georges Simenon. Though the Maigret books are often unconventional in style and structure, relying more on atmosphere and character development than on the mechanics of detection, this one for the most part sticks to the basic format of mystery novels that began with Sherlock Holmes and continues to this day. The penultimate chapter features the requisite big reveal in which Maigret explains how all the various happenings of the preceding chapters fit into one big ingenious jigsaw puzzle. Sticking to convention doesn’t hurt the book at all, for Simenon is quite successful at working within the prescribed rules of the genre when it suits him. The plot is more than sufficiently intricate to confound the reader. This is one Maigret mystery that truly mystifies. Also, for once Maigret faces a formidable adversary with whom he can verbally and intellectually spar. The “villain,” for lack of a better word, is a devilishly clever mastermind who enjoys playing with Maigret’s head. In the tradition of the genre he lies somewhere between Professor Moriarity and the psychos of today’s serial killer movies who can never seem to commit a crime without seeking affirmation from the police.
A Man’s Head is a captivating ride, and a satisfying read. The entire book can be read in under two hours, and once you get started, you won’t want to stop. Of the few Maigret novels I’ve read so far, this is the best of the bunch, and it leaves me looking forward to reading more.
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A disappointing voyage
In 1907 Jack London departed San Francisco for a trip around the world. For this voyage he commissioned the construction of a 45-foot yacht he dubbed the Snark. Taking along his wife Charmian, a small crew, a library of books, and a typewriter, he set off for the South Pacific. Along the way he wrote the series of articles that make up this book.
I have read most of Jack London’s works, and this is one of my least favorites. Given the subject matter, you’d think this account would be loaded with exciting adventures, but much of the book lacks interest. Essentially it’s a series of essays about an aging millionaire and his wife who travel around the world on their yacht. Everywhere they go they’re treated like visiting dignitaries. It’s a far cry from the gritty, perilous exploits one finds in London’s fiction. Many of the chapters concentrate on the mundane, technical aspects of the seafaring life. This detracts from the more worthwhile discussions of the exotic destinations that were visited. There are a few good pieces of travel writing here and there. London learns to surf at Waikiki, visits the leper colony of Molokai, and encounters a prototypical American hippie in Tahiti. In the Marquesas he visits the sight of Herman Melville’s Typee, but instead of finding a thriving civilization of noble savages he finds an abandoned jungle sprinkled with a few sickly inhabitants. This letdown is indicative of the book as a whole. In The Cruise of the Snark, the romance of the South Seas proves to be a disappointing illusion.
If you happen to be a sailor or a boat enthusiast you may enjoy this book more than the average reader. The text is peppered with sailing jargon, and at times London details his nautical maneuvers to the point of tedium. Resolving to teach himself celestial navigation en route, he devotes a few chapters to his trial and error in this arcane craft, which will bore the tears out of the typical landlubber. Sailing a small craft on the open ocean for months on end is a daring feat, but most likely the greatest peril faced by the travelers on this voyage was the possibility of getting lost in the empty seas due to a mathematical error on the part of the author.
The original edition contained over 100 photos London took during the trip. Though he was a skilled photographer, in the printed editions I’ve seen the images are too small and murkily reproduced to be of much value. These photos are absent from the Kindle edition, but they’re no great loss.
Jack London wrote many excellent books, both fiction and nonfiction. The Cruise of the Snark is not one of them, and should not be high on your reading list. If you’re looking for South Pacific adventure, I would suggest his short story collections On the Makaloa Mat and South Sea Tales.
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The struggle between Faith and Reason
Lourdes, originally published in 1894, is the first volume in Emile Zola’s Three Cities Trilogy. In 1858, in a grotto outside the town of Lourdes, a girl named Bernadette Soubirous had a series of visions of the Virgin Mary. From that moment on, Lourdes became a site of religious pilgrimage, and the local spring water was proclaimed to miraculously cure all manner of ailments. Zola’s novel takes place in the late 19th century, during a weekend of national pilgrimage, when faithful Catholics from all over France are converging on the shrine in hopes of obtaining a heavenly miracle. The story opens in a train car filled with all manner of sufferers and their clerical caretakers. In the first chapter alone the reader is introduced to at least fifty characters, and over the course of the book it becomes difficult to remember who is plagued by which crippling infirmity. The main story line revolves around Pierre Froment, a young priest, and his childhood friend Marie de Guersaint, who was paralyzed by a freak injury suffered in a riding accident at the age of thirteen. Marie prays that Our Lady of Lourdes will grant her a miracle cure. Pierre, despite being a man of the cloth, is a rationalist and a skeptic. He is a priest who has lost his faith and hopes perhaps the pilgrimage to Lourdes will rejuvenate his dying belief.
The novel takes place over a period of five days, but this pilgrimage feels like a long haul. The first half of the book is really tough to get through, though the reader’s efforts are rewarded with a stronger second half. What makes it so difficult is that Zola seems less interested in providing the reader with an engaging plot than with accurately capturing the experience of Lourdes. Many of the chapters read more like a National Geographic article than a novel. Zola not only depicts in minute detail the mysterious ambience of the grotto and the lush grandeur of the basilica, but also the shameful cheesiness of the gift shops and the military efficiency of the food service. He clearly revels in describing the pilgrims and their various ills. Long paragraphs read like laundry lists of decaying flesh and suppurating sores. In addition, weaving its way through the book is the historical narrative of Bernadette and her visions, and the subsequent transformation of the tiny town of Lourdes into an ecclesiastical mecca.
The overall purpose of the novel is to dwell upon the question of what function religion still serves for humanity in a world where so many of its superstitions have been debunked by science. Zola was an outspoken disciple of Darwin and clearly a skeptic on religious matters. As such he examines the phenomenon of Lourdes from a secular perspective, through the rational mind of Pierre. Does faith have a beneficial effect on human health? To what extent are illnesses psychosomatic? Is religion a necessity for human happiness? Readers of a devout Catholic persuasion are not going to like this book. Conversely, Atheists may consider it a waste of effort to devote so much reading time to a novel on Catholic history. Nevertheless, in today’s world the conflict between faith and skepticism is still a heated battle, and the issues Zola raises in Lourdes are still relevant and meaningful to a twenty-first century audience.
Lourdes is the first novel Zola published following the completion of his monumental twenty-novel series, the Rougon-Macquart cycle. It probably doesn’t deserve a spot in a top ten list of his finest works, but it would manage to squeeze into the better half of his prodigious literary output. After reading this auspicious opening volume, I am looking forward to following the Three Cities Trilogy to Rome and Paris.
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“That government is best which governs least”
In Civil Disobedience, first published in 1849, Henry David Thoreau asserts that when a government acts in a way contrary to the conscience of one of its individual subjects, that individual has a duty to deny any allegiance to that government by ceasing to pay taxes and refusing to obey unjust laws. While Thoreau was focused on the issues of slavery and the Mexican-American War, much of the rhetoric in Civil Disobedience is broad enough that it can be used as an inspirational rallying cry for dissenters of every stripe, from anarchists to Tea Partiers. By today’s standards, Thoreau’s own political thought was a fiercely individualistic mix of liberalism and libertarianism. He was a staunch pacifist, anti-military, and critical of the judicial and penal systems, yet he was also against big government, trade regulation, and taxation. In Thoreau’s view, all governments are inherently corrupt. Just because democracy is based on majority rule doesn’t make it any less corrupt, because the approval of the majority is no guarantee of justice and right. Instead of waiting for their government to become just, citizens should behave justly, even if that means breaking the law.
Civil Disobedience amounts to about thirty pages in printed form, and takes about an hour to read, depending on how much time you want to spend dissecting Thoreau’s antiquated grammar and syntax. From the perspective of the language alone, this is a more difficult, less accessible read than his best-known work, Walden. More effort is required to decipher Thoreau’s prose in order to extract the kernel of his message. The Kindle file that’s available for free on Amazon was created by Project Gutenberg. The text was typed rather than scanned, but doesn’t seem to have been proofread, as it still contains several typographical errors. The file includes only the text of Thoreau’s essay, with no introduction or notes. In this case, notes can be helpful in clarifying some of Thoreau’s historical references, so a well-edited paperback edition may provide a more helpful reading experience for first-time readers. For those familiar with Thoreau and this great work, however, a digital, highlightable copy makes for a welcome addition to your portable e-book library.
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The sacred and the profane
During his illustrious career, Noble Prize-winning novelist Henryk Sienkiewicz created an impressive array of epic historical novels chronicling the history of his native Poland, yet to international audiences he is best known for another epic work, Quo Vadis, a novel of ancient Rome. Originally published in 1895, Quo Vadis—the title is Latin for “Whither goest thou?”—is set around the year AD 64 during the reign of the emperor Nero. Marcus Vinicius, a Roman patrician and military tribune, falls in love at first sight with Lygia, the beautiful daughter of a foreign king. He immediately determines to possess her at any cost. Through the influence of his uncle Petronius, Nero decrees that the maiden be taken from her family and granted to Vinicius. Though Lygia loves Vinicius, she does not wish to be taken by force as his concubine. With the aid of friends she escapes, and a maddened Vinicius pursues her. His search leads to the discovery that the girl is a member of a new and mysterious religious sect, the Christians. Through his investigations, Vinicius discovers that, contrary to reports that the Christians worship donkeys and eat babies, there are some truly worthwhile aspects to their teachings, and he begins to sympathize with their faith. When Nero sets in motion a merciless persecution of the Christians, rounding them up for torture and slaughter, Vinicius’s search for Lygia becomes a race to save her life.
More than any other novelist, with the possible exception of Victor Hugo, Sienkiewicz knows how to deliver Romanticism with a capital R. Everything about the book is grandiose, bombastic, and larger than life, each character a colossus in and of themselves. Yet Sienkiewicz also captures all the minute details of Roman life with a vivid, naturalistic clarity. Whether he’s depicting an orgy, a gladiatorial battle, a crucifixion, or Nero’s burning of Rome, the reader feels himself totally immersed in the scene. Sienkiewicz also expertly interprets the mind-set of ancient Rome—from its glory and honor to its depravity and debauchery—and the environment of fear under Nero’s despotic regime. The bloody, sexy, grittily realistic vision of Rome that we come to expect today in our movies, television shows, and novels most likely originated with Quo Vadis. This book was inspired by Alexandre Dumas’s 1838 novel Acté, which also tells the story of Nero, but Sienkiewicz’s Rome is a far cry from the picturesque, sanitized vision of Rome that prevailed in the literature of Dumas’s time.
Sienkiewicz, a fervid Catholic, implanted Quo Vadis with a strong religious message. Devout Christians could certainly read this novel as a work of inspirational literature. Yet Sienkiewicz is not overly preachy or dogmatic. Though Saints Peter and Paul have supporting roles, most of the story is told through the eyes of the Romans. Non-believers can read this story simply as a historical novel about the clash between the Roman Empire and a burgeoning religious movement. It must be admitted that, while the Roman characters run the gamut from honorable to depraved, the Christians are all depicted as perfectly virtuous, without a coward or a Judas among them. On the other hand, perhaps the most sympathetic character in the book is not a Christian at all, but Petronius, an Epicurean. Theist or Atheist alike can enjoy Quo Vadis simply as a masterful work of historical literature. Its only literary fault is that the plotting drags a bit in its final third, a defect that’s mostly wiped from memory by the book’s monumental and unforgettable closing scenes. Regardless of your religious inclination, if you have any interest in ancient Rome or a taste for historical fiction, Quo Vadis is a must-read.
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