An amusing caper from the classic pulps
The Spider Strain, a novella by Johnston McCulley, was originally published in the April 8, 1919 edition of the pulp periodical Detective Story Magazine. McCulley is best known as the creator of the character Zorro, but during his prolific career as a writer for the pulps he created several successful recurring characters, among them The Spider. The Spider is a criminal supergenius who, despite being confined to a wheelchair, oversees a complex network of organized crime. John Warwick, in addition to being one of the criminal kingpin’s most trusted agents, is also romancing The Spider’s niece, Silvia. When Warwick decides to give up his life of crime, settle down, and marry his sweetheart, he must first ask for the boss’s blessing. The Spider informs him that he can have his freedom once he performs two final missions. The first is to steal a mysterious locket from the neck of a wealthy socialite. Warwick finds this task easier said than done, as his efforts are thwarted by an annoying adversary.
McCulley has written the tale in very simplistic prose, accessible to even a junior-high reading level. Nevertheless, it’s a brisk read with enough small twists and turns to keep the reader excited and looking forward to the next chapter. The intended surprise ending is more predictable than it should be, but not so obvious as to be offensive. Unfortunately, the least effective element of this novella is its protagonist. Warwick speaks in a voice that is like an overly exaggerated impression of Cary Grant. Every sentence ends in “What? My word!” Every man he encounters is either a “chap” or an “ass.” It‘s not even clear whether he’s supposed to be American or British, and the setting is never specified. While at the time I’m sure McCulley intended this manner of speech to be smart and hip, to the contemporary reader it gives the impression that Warwick is the least intelligent character in the book. He hardly seems capable of pulling off any of The Spider’s capers. On the other hand, his trusty Japanese valet, Togo, seems eminently competent by comparison.
Oddly enough, the second of The Spider’s two tasks for Warwick is never mentioned. This may be because The Spider Strain is the penultimate episode in this series, with one more installment remaining to cover Warwick’s final job for the master criminal. After reading this story, I’m not sure I want to follow Warwick on his last adventure, but McCulley’s writing is engaging enough that I’m interested in investigating some of his other characters. If you are in the mood for some classic pulp fiction, The Spider Strain is a light, entertaining read that will sufficiently satisfy your craving, but don’t expect to be blown away by it.
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Five divergent paths to the grave
Death is a quintet of short stories by Emile Zola, each detailing the death and burial of a different character. The Comte de Verteuil, age 55, is a rich man of noble birth who has enjoyed much success in business and held great political influence. Madam Guérard is a 60-year-old widow who supports her three lazy and profligate sons. Madame Rousseau and her husband, through much hard work and sacrifice, have lifted themselves up from the ranks of the poor to become the middle-class proprietors of a stationery store. Charlot Morisseau, a sickly young child of poor parents, has lived a brief and dismal life of poverty and hunger. Jean-Louis Lacour is a poor old farmer who has worked like a draft horse his entire life, until one day his seemingly limitless stamina finally gives out. The declines and falls of these five individuals are depicted with Zola’s trademark naturalistic veracity. He gives us five unglamorous and unglorified examples of the extraordinary dramas that mark the endings of ordinary lives.
The purpose of this book is not merely to wallow in morbidity by dwelling upon the universal inevitability of mortality, but rather to compare and contrast the lifestyles, demises, and funerary customs of five distinct social strata. Zola begins with the representative of the wealthiest class and works his way down. Not surprisingly for Zola, none of these characters, rich or poor, can be said to lead a particularly happy life. Their five sagas combine to form a sort of mini Les Misérables confined to a scant 90 pages. The brevity of the work is belied by its depth and power. This is vintage Zola storytelling. He provides a grittily detailed perspective into the lives of these five individuals, examining each with intricate complexity and remarkable authenticity.
The American edition of this book was published in 1911, and that’s all I really know about it. Death is absent from every “Complete Works of Emile Zola” collection that I’ve ever seen. Though he wrote most of his short stories in the early part of his career, before achieving success as a novelist, these stories are definitely a step above the melodramatic tales indicative of his early work and are more in keeping with the mature naturalistic style of his Rougon-Macquart novels. The 1911 printed edition contains a fair number of typographical errors, and the English translation, which can be a bit dull and clumsy at times, doesn’t do it any favors. Despite such defects, however, the power of Zola’s vision shines through.
Though I’ve always found Zola’s short stories to be quite inferior to his novels, this book is the exception to that rule. The short stories of Death are like the seeds from which five great Zola novels might have sprung. Though it may be one of the most inconspicuous books in his catalog, it deserves a spot on the shelf among some of his better novels. Any true fan of Zola should read it.
Stories in this collection
I. Comte de Verteuil
II. Madame Guérard
III. Madame Rousseau
IV. Charlot Morisseau
V. Jean-Louis Lacour
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A helpful primer for the philosophically challenged
In The Consolations of Philosophy, published in 2000, Swiss-British thinker Alain de Botton examines the ways in which teachings from the canon of Western philosophy can be used to combat, or at least alleviate, the problems and worries of 21st-century life. The book is broken down into six chapters, each devoted to a specific worry—unpopularity, financial distress, frustration, inadequacy, romantic woes, and a catch-all chapter on life’s difficulties in general. As consolation for these ills, de Botton prescribes the teachings of Socrates, Epicurus, Seneca, Montaigne, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche, respectively. De Botton provides a brief biography of each philosopher, describing the hardships faced by each in his own life, how these personal difficulties influenced the development of their individual philosophies, and how the reader of today can benefit from those same philosophical ideas by applying them to their own problems. Along the way, de Botton gives pithy encapsulations of the thought of these six illustrious thinkers, liberally sprinkled with quotes from their work. He does a very admirable job of summarizing these big ideas in clear and simple language, devoid of philosophical jargon, that is not only accessible but also entertaining to the general reader.
For those uninitiated into the reading of philosophy and perhaps even intimidated by it, this book would make a great introduction to the subject and a persuasive argument for the relevance of philosophy to daily life. The problem, of course, is how do you get those unfamiliar with philosophy to read this book in the first place. If you’re the type of reader who’s willing to tackle a book with the word Philosophy in the title, and you’ve even heard of Alain de Botton, then you probably already have an interest in the field, in which case you will most likely find that this book inspires a profound “Duh.” Those who already appreciate the teachings of the worthy philosophers chosen for inclusion will make few new discoveries here. De Botton’s lively and engaging prose and knack for selecting interesting biographical anecdotes rescues this book from becoming another Philosophy for Dummies, yet it still amounts to little more than a secular Chicken Soup for the Soul. For those who are already well aware of the consolations of philosophy, it serves much the same function as a book of well-chosen quotations or aphorisms, in that some pleasant comfort is derived from reviewing the main thrust of these philosophers’ teachings as de Botton has rendered them in a nutshell.
De Botton is to be commended for attempting to popularize philosophy and remind us all of the relevance of philosophical inquiry to our daily lives. This book reads like a preface to a larger body of work devoted to this mission, hopefully to be followed up by more penetrating works on specific issues. His 2012 book Religion for Atheists, for example, is a more intellectually challenging and originally argued book that presents a more focused argument for the relevance of philosophy. The Consolations of Philosophy is far more simplistic, but if it finds its proper audience it will prove a rewarding and enlightening read.
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No bars can hold him
Darrell Standing is an inmate in San Quentin Prison. A former professor of agronomics at the University of California, he was convicted of a murder he admittedly did commit. Once incarcerated, he is wrongly accused of a conspiracy to escape, and unjustly sentenced to solitary confinement. He spends five long years in solitary, during which he endures frequent beatings and long periods bound in a straitjacket. The near suffocating constriction of the jacket has an unexpected side effect. Over time, Standing develops the ability to separate his consciousness from his imprisoned body, enabling him to travel through time and space to experience past lives. Among the many personalities he inhabits while in the jacket are Count Guillaume de Saint-Maure, a swordsman of medieval France; Jesse Fancher, a nine-year-old member of a wagon train crossing Utah in 1857; a nameless 4th-century hermit in Egypt; Adam Strang, a 16th century Englishman, supposedly the first white man to set foot in Korea; Ragnar Lodbrog, a Norse-born Roman centurion in the service of Pontius Pilate; Daniel Foss, a seal hunter shipwrecked on an Antarctic isle in the early 19th century; and a series of prehistoric tribesmen representative of various ages of mankind’s distant past. In his death row cell, Standing compiles a manuscript detailing the biographies of these past lives, as well as the harsh conditions he endures at San Quentin.
The Star Rover, also known as The Jacket, was published in 1915. Though considered a novel, the book really reads more like a collection of short stories loosely tied together by the prison narrative. Like most of Jack London’s work in the genre of science fiction, it is audaciously imaginative and years ahead of its time, yet it may have been conceived simply as an opportunity for London to try his hand at historical fiction. While the Kiplingesque tale in Korea and the wilderness survival tale of the shipwrecked sailor seem right at home within his body of work, the swashbuckling French story seems more fitting to Alexandre Dumas, while the tale of the Roman soldier is reminiscent of Lew Wallace’s Ben-Hur. London seems to relish the opportunity to cast his net so far afield, but he achieves mixed results. There is little cohesion between the various lives or with the prison story that frames them. In the penultimate chapter, London tries to tie everything together with a sweeping panorama of the history of mankind, interwoven with his philosophy of the meaning of life. While the conclusions he reaches in this chapter are arguable, the power and mastery of his writing is undeniable. It’s as grandiose and hyperbolic as anything he’s ever written, straddling the line between genius and mania.
Fans of London will enjoy this book because it’s like a Frankenstein’s monster of all of his pet interests: agricultural science, prison reform, evolution, seal hunting, prehistoric man, the supernatural, sailing, Korea, manifest destiny, and so on. It’s like a patchwork quilt of clippings from his entire career. I wouldn’t recommend this book to someone who’s new to London, because to the uninitiated reader it might all just seem like a big incoherent mess. Like many of London’s works, there’s also an unfortunate undercurrent of racism. Standing only seems to be able to channel Aryan males, and many of the stories share the theme of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed race conquering the globe. Thankfully it’s more subtle and less offensive than some of London’s more overt statements on race. For most of the book, London speaks of humanity in universal terms, and The Star Rover reads like a celebration of the resilience of the human spirit. At times it can be quite inspirational, at times depressingly brutal, and at other times just plain bizarre.
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Classic adventure, questionable science
Outside of the Sherlock Holmes stories, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s most famous creation is the scientist and adventurer George Edward Challenger. Professor Challenger starred in three novels and two short stories, beginning with The Lost World, first published in 1912. Edward Malone, a journalist of athletic build but timid demeanor, seeks an interview with Challenger, hoping the eccentric misanthrope might provide some good copy for his paper. Though at first Challenger is hostile to the reporter out of a general hatred for those of his profession, he soon takes a liking to the young man. The relationship between the two characters is very similar to that between Holmes and Watson, except that Challenger is a bigger jerk than Holmes and a far less intriguing character. Challenger reveals to his newfound confidant that in the Amazon rain forest he has discovered a remote plateau where prehistoric creatures that have long been thought extinct still thrive. When Challenger makes his findings public before a meeting of the Zoological Institute, he is confronted by doubters. To test the veracity of his claims, an expedition is hastily organized, consisting of Dr. Summerlee, a rival scientist; Lord John Roxton, an aristocratic sportsman, and Malone, who volunteers for the journey in hopes not only of finding a good story but also of adding some much-needed adventure to his life.
Malone is the narrator of the tale, and most of the book is written in the form of letters sent back to his newspaper. This makes for an awkward construction, as it becomes clear that at the end of every chapter Malone is going to be safe in camp scribbling his account, while some overly convenient method will be contrived for an Indian to carry off his letter to the civilized world.
The Lost World is the prototypical tale of a team of scientists venturing into unknown lands, upon which Jurassic Park is just one of hundreds of descendants. In typical Conan Doyle fashion, the story starts out at a rather slow pace, with secrets being revealed gradually over time. Though this challenges the attention span of the 21st-century reader, there is a charming freshness to the sense of wonder expressed when remarkable discoveries are finally made. Dinosaurs live! It should come as no surprise that the expedition eventually reaches the plateau and finds the prehistoric creatures in question. The fact that the adventurers are not travelling back in time, but rather visiting an area of evolutionary stagnation, allows Conan Doyle to indulge in some evolutionary anachronisms. In this world, unlike in prehistoric reality, dinosaurs coexist alongside prehistoric mammals, ape-like humanoids, and modern Native Americans. One of the book’s disappointments is that it does not spend enough time on the dinosaurs, but brushes by them rather quickly in order to focus on the apemen, at which point it becomes just another white-man-conquering-the-savages story. Throughout the book, the expedition members seem less concerned with practicing science than they are with invading a new territory. Towards the end of the book, the expedition team makes a choice that no scientist would ever make, a choice to destroy rather than to preserve. The overall message of the book, rather blatantly stated, is one of the superiority of man over nature, and, less obviously, of white European men in particular.
Though it was perhaps ground breaking for its time, and it’s certainly a step above run-of-the-mill pulp fiction, The Lost World has since been surpassed by many of the imitators it inspired. Those who appreciate classic adventure fiction will find much to appreciate, but it should not be considered a must-read by any means.
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Alluring visions of a false utopia
There is more than one book with the title Chinese Propaganda Posters, so let me start by clarifying that I am reviewing the 2011 edition of the volume published by Taschen with the subtitle “From the Collection of Michael Wolf.” The original edition was published in Germany in 2003. This 2011 edition features side-by-side text in three languages: English, German, and French.
Even if you don’t agree with the ideology of a particular regime, looking at its propaganda art can be a moving experience. That is made abundantly clear in this gorgeous book that reproduces over 300 propaganda posters from Communist China, ranging roughly from the 1950s through the 1980s. These powerful and attractive works of popular art deliver imagery that is rarely seen in the art galleries of capitalist countries. Only in the occasional work of public art or community murals might we see portrayed such uncynically positive imagery—paeans to agriculture, industry, labor, and technology; celebrations of natural beauty and the human spirit; and illustrations of the benefits of hard work and diligent study. Of course, in the case of China under Mao Zedong, most of the utopia that’s depicted is a lie. Yet, the artists of America and Europe—where it seems art must always be reacting against something—could learn a lot from the art of socialist and communist societies—where the purpose of art is to promote a better world, even if the reality falls far short of the ideal. Those who enjoy representational painting will appreciate the style of socialist realism in which these posters are painted. For the most part they are quite skillfully executed, even when the “realism” doesn’t necessarily reflect reality.
The dual feeling of admiration and disgust inspired by these images is aptly expressed in two brief essays by Chinese writers Anchee Min and Duo Duo. A third essay by Stefan Landsberger, a collector and scholar on the subject, gives an overview of the history of the propaganda poster in China. Beyond that, the text of the book consists entirely of captions and brief quotes from Mao. The captions, for the most part, are strictly translations of the Chinese text in each image, along with the name of the artist, date, and print run of the poster. In rare cases there may be a footnote identifying a person, place, or concept depicted in the poster. The book would have benefited greatly from more of such supplementary historical context. Despite providing a brief historical chronology, the editor assumes a level of knowledge in Chinese history and culture that the typical American or European art lover is unlikely to possess.
Taschen, the publisher, is known for producing sumptuous art books, and this one is no exception. Each and every image is beautifully reproduced, though they are frequently cropped to fit the page. Any deficiencies of the book are simply the low points of Wolf’s collection. The posters depicted in the book are almost all four-color reproductions of color paintings. With the exception of one image on page 9, no coverage is given to the Chinese tradition of block printed posters in black and red. Wolf has an evident fondness for depictions of cherubic children, a subject matter which unfortunately does not evince the most aesthetically pleasing results. The lovable little imps are often endowed with clumsily rendered, almost adult faces, the repetition of which produces an effect similar to a creepy doll collection. Overall, however, this book is a welcome feast for the eyes to those who enjoy this brand of imagery. Though some additional interpretive text would have been welcome, it is an excellent collection of images.
Qiu Baiping and Chen Zhenxin, Carry out the Four Modernizations of the Fatherland, 1981
Zhong Zhaolin, Spring Rain, 1975
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Too much of a soap opera
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| Frank Norris |
The first two chapters of A Man’s Woman are absolutely riveting. An arctic expedition team, after failing to reach the North Pole, marches across the jagged and shifting ice, struggling southward in hopes of meeting with a rescue ship. Their own ship having been crushed by the encroaching ice, they trudge through the wind-scoured wasteland, as sled dogs drag their lifeboats toward some elusive stretch of open water. Over the course of months of endless toil and incredible suffering, members of the party fall prey to frostbite, starvation, and disease. Author Frank Norris captures this experience in vivid naturalistic detail. This is not Jack London’s frozen North, idealized in its beauty, power, and glory. This is a gritty and gruesome reality, where brave and hardy men are reduced to less than animals. In his depiction of the tragic ordeal, Norris provides a gripping drama that keeps his audience firmly rooted to the edge of their seats.
A Man’s Woman, first published in 1900, is not a novel of arctic adventure, however. It is a story of what happens to the survivors after they return to civilization. The book’s primary focus is a love story between two strong-willed and career-driven characters. It examines the question of how much two individuals can compromise their lifestyles and personalities for the sake of their relationship, without totally losing themselves in the process.
As is characteristic of Norris—the chief American practitioner of literary Naturalism—the many sights, sounds, and smells of the story are catalogued with a detail and authenticity that rivals reality itself. The thought processes of the characters are transcribed with equal thoroughness and with great psychological insight. The story, however, is far more melodramatic than one expects from Norris. Each scene seems so calculated to be emotionally manipulative that the overall effect is off-putting. The whole book revolves around one extremely overwrought central scene in which the male and female leads exhibit behavior that is both irrational and unrealistic. Throughout the novel, the plot elements are quite predictable. At the start of each chapter the reader can easily see where he’s being led, which inspires a feeling of impatience at being forced to sit through pages of interior monologue, the end result of which is a foregone conclusion. As usual, Norris’s mastery at establishing setting and mood is evident in this novel, but the story he tells does not do justice to the world he has created.
Frank Norris never wrote a bad novel in his life (though he did write some bad short stories). Of the seven novels he completed during his all-too-brief career, however, one of them has to be his worst, and this is it. Diehard fans of Norris will nonetheless recognize moments of characteristic genius here. Casual readers investigating this great American novelist would be better served by reading his masterpieces The Octopus and McTeague. Though not a terrible novel by any means, A Man’s Woman is the Norris novel least worthy of reading.
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