A harmless bit of fluff
This book reminds me of a Latin-American soap opera: It stars a plucky young heroine who falls in love (forbidden love, of course); the plot features some preposterous circumstances; it’s overwrought with deliberately tear-jerking emotion; yet you can’t help but watch because the lead actress is so attractive and charming. In this case the star of the show is Helene Mouret, a character so beautiful and likeable that you can’t help but root for her. Unfortunately, she is the most realistically drawn character in the book, and the rest of the cast feel like caricatures. Helene, a widow with a young daughter, falls in love with a handsome doctor, which is not totally understandable to the reader, because as a character the doctor is a bit of a nonentity. The ridiculous set of coincidences that bring the two lovers together approaches the realm of farce. I don’t want to make it sound like a horrible book; it’s just mediocre in every way. The story doesn’t have much to say historically about France’s Second Empire, other than perhaps the plight of young widows at the time. It’s difficult for the reader to feel sorry for Helene, because one never really feels like she is on the verge of destitution or disgrace. The book contains some long descriptive passages about the Paris skyline which are poetically pretty, but don’t add much to the narrative. Those who wish to read the entire Rougon-Macquart series will of course read this book. It is certainly not the worst book of the bunch. Casual readers of Zola’s works can skip it.
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Excelsior!
This beautiful coffee table tome dissects the hallowed history of Marvel Comics into a year by year chronology. Each year gets four pages (or sometimes six, during the glory years) in which the major events of the year are summarized. Selected issues of comics are featured in the order of their release dates. The first appearances of characters, from the most famous heroes to some rather obscure villains, are highlighted, as well as major plot events and multiple-title crossovers. Each year ends with a list of that year’s news events, including mention of a few movies released at the time.
Marvel Chronicle is published by Dorling-Kindersley (DK), a company that produces heavily illustrated coffee table books on every imaginable subject. The writing of the book is by various authors, and is really quite good. Complex plots are pithily summarized in a fun and attention-grabbing way. The book features loads of beautiful art from the Marvel archives, but the design of the book is 100% DK: tiny hard-to-read type, made even more hard-to-read by busy, screened backgrounds, and heaven forbid a quarter inch of white space should be showing on any page. The book also suffers from poor proofreading. You'll find one typographical error on almost every two-page spread, as well as a few factual errors (Charlton Heston did not star in Spartacus, and the Abomination did not make his first appearance in The Amazing Spider-Man).
Nevertheless, Marvel Chronicle is a stunning piece of memorabilia for the Marvel fan. As a guide to the continuity of the Marvel Universe, however, it is sketchy and intermittent at best. This book is first and foremost a business history. It chronicles the evolution of the Marvel corporation, and details all the varied strategies it employed to increase readership, capture market share, and rake in the dollars. The narrative is refreshingly unapologetic in the way it juxtaposes Marvel’s classic story lines and timeless characters with all the silly crap, the outdated trends, the weird toy and TV tie-ins, and the just plain what-were-they-thinkings. The most fascinating part of the book is the early days, the ‘40s and ‘50s, when the company was known as Timely Comics. Back then superheroes were few (Captain America, the Sub-Mariner, the Human Torch), but Timely glutted the market with books of every conceivable genre: romance, western, horror, sci-fi, funny animals, and Archie-esque teen comedy. The change that came in the early 1960’s was truly amazing. With the exception of Wolverine and the aforementioned trio of superheroes, all of the great Marvel characters were created within the span of less than two years. The X-Men and the Avengers debuted in the same month! The creative output of Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, and company staggers the mind.
This book brought back great memories of the days when I used to go to the drug store after school and scan the comic racks. Once the book passes the mid-‘90s mark, however, my interest waned. My friends and I used to scoff at DC Comics for their parallel universes and “infinite earths.” Around the turn of the 21st century, however, Marvel fell victim to the same idiocy. Now every creator wants to be a revisionist, every story line attempts to reinvent the wheel, and every new issue must bear a number 1. Marvel Chronicle ends on an ironic note, as the company’s recent output shows them turning more and more away from the venerable history so triumphantly celebrated in this book.
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Should have been written two decades later
Vandover and the Brute is Frank Norris’s first novel, written in the mid-1890’s, but it was not published until 1914, more than a decade after his death. During the intervening twenty years, Norris became a celebrated man of letters, and perhaps the most admired champion of Naturalism in American literature, before suffering an untimely death at the age of 32.
The hero of the novel, Vandover (whether that’s his first or last name is never made clear), is born in Boston. At the age of eight his mother dies, and he moves to San Francisco with his father, who raises him alone. Vandover is not an exceptional student, and he’s a bit self-indulgent and lazy, but he does possess a talent for art. He goes off to Harvard to study, where he meets two fellow San Franciscans, Charlie Geary and Dolliver Haight. After graduation the three return to California and maintain their friendship. Like many young men, they develop a taste for liquor and women during their college years. While his two friends learn to control their sinful ways, buckle down, and start to pursue their life’s ambitions, Vandover slides deeper into a life of vice. The “Brute” mentioned in the title refers to the animal within him that longs for the pleasures of the flesh. Gradually he succumbs to the negative influences of alcohol, sex, and gambling, and begins to see all that he holds dear taken away from him.
This novel is unfortunately ahead of its time. Norris attempts to paint a picture of moral degradation, but the conventions of his time would not allow him the tools to complete the portrait. The vices in question are never explicitly stated, only hinted at. This inhibited expression dulls the effect of the moral lesson. Sexual experiences are replaced by phrases like “She abandoned herself.” Any unmarried woman who’s not a virgin is labeled as “lost” or “ruined.” One of the characters contracts a communicable illness which I assume is syphilis, but I’ll never know for sure because Norris dare not speak its name. The scenes of drunkenness are somewhat more blatantly depicted, but at times the results of these debauches inspire laughter rather than horror. Norris was an enthusiastic disciple of the literature of Emile Zola. What he’s aiming for here is the sort of gradual moral and financial decline experienced by Gervaise Macquart in Zola’s novel L’Assomoir. Zola, however, being French, was not subject to the American prudishness of the late 19th century. He had the freedom to discuss sexual matters more openly, thus his portrayal of a life of sin is more genuine and timeless. To the contemporary reader, Vandover and the Brute seems tepid by comparison, and the various means Norris employs to avoid the outright discussion of vice act as obstacles to the reader’s engagement in the story.
That’s not to say that there isn’t some great writing here. This novel contains some expertly crafted examples of the gritty, blunt realism for which Norris would become famous. Halfway through the book there is a disaster scene that’s so convincingly drawn it will have you on the edge of your seat. He describes with equal authenticity a night at the opera, a marathon game of cards, or the machinations a shady business deal. Though there are some exceptional scenes here, they never quite coalesce into a cohesive novel. Vandover and the Brute is an early work by a great master that offers a glimpse of the shape of things to come. It captures some of the embryonic brilliance that would mature and blossom in later, greater works like The Octopus and McTeague.
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Nuee Nuee Motarkee! (Very, very good)
These days Herman Melville is famous as the author of Moby-Dick, but during his lifetime he was renowned as the author of Typee. This book—his first, originally published in 1846—became an overnight sensation and instantly made Melville a household name. Typee is a semi-autobiographical work based on Melville’s travels to the Marquesas Islands of the South Pacific, and his life there amid a much feared tribe of cannibals.
After months at sea aboard a whaler, the narrator (presumably Melville himself, but only referred to in the text as Tom or Tommo) decides he’s had enough of the substandard living conditions and abusive treatment on board ship. When the vessel docks at the island of Nukuheva for supplies, he decides to go awol and hide in the jungle until the ship leaves port, thus freeing himself from his servitude. He is joined by a fellow crewman, Toby, and the two climb up into the mountains of the island, hoping to bask in a tropical paradise. They soon discover, however, that island life can be surprisingly harsh. After a few days the two are on the verge of starving, and the narrator has a mysterious and painful swelling in his leg. The two decide to throw themselves at the mercy of the natives, hoping to meet up with the friendly Happar tribe. Instead, they find themselves captives of the dreaded Typees, a tribe renowned for their hostility, ferocity, and cannibalism. It soon appears their fearsome reputation is undeserved, however, as they treat their captives with the utmost respect and benevolence, at times coddling the injured narrator as if he were an infant. Despite their kind treatment, however, for some unknown reason they absolutely refuse to let him go. Are they so obsessed with hospitality that they feel compelled to keep the white man as some kind of tribal mascot, or is there a darker, hidden motive behind their actions? Could they be fattening him up for some cannibal feast?
Typee provides tense moments of gripping suspense interspersed with interludes of comical culture clash. The enjoyment is heightened by Melville’s prose, which is a pleasure to read for its shameless verbosity. His sentences are simple and brisk, yet it’s as if he’s consulted a thesaurus for each noun and verb. College fraternities could make a drinking game out of Typee, downing a beer every time he uses the word “verdure.” The keg would soon run dry.
Given the fact this book was written over 150 years ago, Melville exhibits an astounding degree of racial sensitivity. He shows great respect for the natives and their culture, even going so far as to assert that the islanders of the South Pacific would be far better off had they never encountered a single white trader or Christian missionary—surely an unpopular notion for his time. He clearly feels that the “civilized” tribes of Europe and America could learn a thing or two from the simple and honest lifestyle of these people so unfairly dubbed “savages.” On the other hand, Melville does not shy away from portraying less flattering aspects of native life, thus stopping short of perpetuating the stereotype of the “noble savage.” Though not an entirely factual memoir, Melville’s narrative nevertheless has an overall ring of authenticity, objectivity, and sincerity. For anyone who’s ever dreamed of traveling to a remote, exotic land to immerse oneself in a foreign culture, this delightful hybrid of adventure novel and travel memoir provides a welcome dose of escapist adventure and educational enlightenment.
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The Great (Red) American Novel
Though best known for his excellent novel The Call of the Wild, Jack London’s greatest work is The Iron Heel. A dystopian vision of the future, it tells the story of the events leading up to a world war fought between socialists and a plutocratic oligarchy of wealthy capitalists. The narrator of the novel is Avis Everhard, the upper-middle-class daughter of a university professor in San Francisco. Avis’s husband Ernest Everhard, a working-class laborer and scholar, is one of the leaders of the socialists and the revolution. First published in 1907, the events of the novel take place from 1912 to 1932. The book is edited by Anthony Meredith, a historian living 700 years in the future, in the age of the Brotherhood of Man, when the world has for centuries been ruled by socialism, and class struggle, violence, and war are only distant memories. Meredith provides an introduction to the newly discovered Everhard manuscript, as well as extensive footnotes detailing an assortment of actual historical events that took place in the history of labor and fictional events that take place at various points in the imagined future.
Jack London was such a prolific writer that often his works feel like they were dashed off in one fell swoop, with little self-editing. Not so this work, which was obviously a labor of love. Every sentence is perfectly crafted and vital to the intricately constructed plot. The book begins with Ernest Everhard lecturing various class groups on socialist politics. (Ernest is basically a socialist superman, always the smartest and toughest guy in the room, and never wrong about anything.) Then, as the socialists gain strength, the oligarchs fight back. The beauty of the plot is the way in which London gradually escalates the conflict between the two, creating a snowball effect, so that by the end of the novel extraordinary events seem completely credible.
The Iron Heel succeeds on many levels. As a political primer, the discourse of Ernest Everhard presents a simplified version of Marxist theory that, while probably not 100% accurate, serves as a good introduction to the philosophy behind socialism. As a piece of propaganda, this book is to socialism what Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged is to capitalism—unabashedly one-sided but admirably audacious. As a historic document, like Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, it provides an important snapshot of the state of the socialist movement in America in the early 20th century. As a science fiction novel, it is as imaginative as 1984, Brave New World, or Fahrenheit 451, and more prescient in its depictions of the future. (While the socialists haven’t lived up to London’s vision, corporate America certainly has.) As an adventure novel, it’s a gripping and suspenseful epic. No matter what side of the political fence you’re on, anyone can enjoy a good freedom fighter story. Lastly, as a work of literature, The Iron Heel is an inspiration because it calls to mind a time when writers felt the purpose of a book was to change the world. Unfortunately, as the novels of today continually attest, that conviction is largely a thing of the past.
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A nuts-and-bolts guide to Stoicism
This book provides a fascinating, in-depth examination of Stoicism, though I think the title is a little misleading. “The Stoic Life” gives the impression that this is a book about practical applications of Stoic thought to one’s life, which is not the case. This book never enters into “self-help” territory, like William Irvine’s Guide to the Good Life: The Ancient Art of Stoic Joy, for example, nor does it offer the sort of issue-specific Stoic advice (on grief, on anger, etc.) one might find in the writings of Seneca or Marcus Aurelius. Brennan doesn’t advocate Stoicism, and I’m not sure he’s even a fan of it. His primary objective is to define Stoicism, what it is and how it works. To do this he painstakingly dissects ancient texts word by word, phrase by phrase in order to clearly determine what exactly the ancient Stoics believed. While the contents of the book weren’t what I expected, I certainly wasn’t disappointed.
The Stoics believed that the key to happiness was to live in accordance with nature. But how does one put that into practice? Some of the things that we encounter in life are good (virtues), some bad (vices), but most are indifferents (neither good nor bad). How do we recognize which is which, and how should that affect our choices and actions in life? The bulk of the book consists of Brennan’s analytical breakdown of this decision-making process. Once the ethical framework of Stoic behavior is established, Brennan goes on to address the conundrum of why any of it makes any difference at all, given that the Stoics believed that all events were predetermined by fate, even our own thoughts.
Brennan has a real talent for taking complex philosophical ideas and explaining them in clear and precise terminology that is easily accessible to the general reader. He also chooses ingenious analogies that are truly helpful in illustrating Stoic ideas. While the quality of the writing makes this book an enjoyable read, it is in no way a simplistic look at the subject. Brennan essentially starts with the assumption that his audience knows nothing about Stoicism, gives a historical overview, then builds the structure of Stoic thought from its most basic terminology to its most complicated concepts. What results is almost a flow chart of the Stoic thought process that seamlessly marries their metaphysics, ethics, and epistemology into a cohesive whole. The Stoic Life will prove a valuable companion to anyone who plans to read (and hopes to understand) the works of Epictetus, Seneca, or Marcus Aurelius.
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An awesome overview
The “Handbook to Life” series from Oxford University Press is an excellent collection of archaeology books. I own several of the volumes in the series, but this one on the ancient Maya world is the first that I’ve read from cover to cover. It’s a great all-purpose resource on the Maya, synthesizing research from hundreds of sources. The book starts with a general summary of the history of the Maya, from prehistory to the present. Then it breaks the information down into categories, with chapters on such topics as warfare, society and government, architecture and building, and daily life. This volume is particularly strong in its treatment of the religion and belief systems of the Maya, explaining their overall world view, providing mini-“biographies” of major gods and goddesses, and giving summaries of important myths and legends, including a rather detailed synopsis of the Popol Vuh. An in-depth examination of the sculptural carvings at Palenque provides an example of how the Maya expressed their beliefs through their art. The chapter on arithmetic, astronomy, and the calendar is probably the best concise explanation of the Maya calendar system that I’ve ever read. The chapter on hieroglyphics provides an abbreviated version of the history of decipherment found in Michael Coe’s book Breaking the Maya Code. Every aspect of Maya life is presented in this book, and it covers every strata of society. While a lot of books about the Maya cover the succession of kings and the religious rites of the high priests, The Handbook to Life also gives you an idea of what life was like for the foot soldier, the scribe, the traveling merchant, or the mother preparing food for her children.
The writing throughout is clear and accessible, and rich in fascinating detail. I wouldn’t exactly say it was exciting prose, but definitely more lively and engaging than the average textbook or encyclopaedia. I’m not a scholar in the field, merely an “armchair archaeologist” who’s been to Palenque, Chichen Itza, and other archaeological sites and anthropological museums in the Maya region. For me, reading this book was the equivalent of attending a full immersion Mayanist fantasy camp. I’m sure that in any further reading I do in the area of Maya studies the Handbook to Life will be a valuable companion.
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