Marthe by Joris-Karl Huysmans

Nana’s little sister

French author Joris-Karl Huysmans (1848–1907) published about two dozen books over the course of his literary career, but less than half of those have been translated into English. His first novel, Marthe: The Story of a Girl, was published in 1876. Huysmans writes in a naturalist style, a form of anti-romantic social realism that stresses unflinching descriptive detail. The Naturalist school of literature was founded by Emile Zola, who, upon reading Marthe, took Huysmans under his wing and mentored his early career. Of all of Zola’s protégés and imitators, Huysmans is the writer whose style most closely matches the master, at least for the first several years of his career. Judging by this impressive debut novel, Huysmans had already found his mature naturalist literary style before availing himself of Zola’s mentorship.

Marthe is born in Paris, the daughter of a painter and a factory worker. By the age of 15, both of her parents have died, leaving Marthe to care for herself. Like her mother before her, she works in an artificial pearl factory, crafting the fake jewels from powdered fish scales and glue. The pay is poor, the job is bad for her health, and she is surrounded by young women coworkers who regale her with tales of their dissolute lifestyles and licentious activities. She is discovered by a cabaret impresario who invites her to join the showgirls at a sleazy local theatre, and it is not long before Marthe learns that she can make a living by selling her body. From there, Marthe’s career runs the sexworker gamut from burlesque dancer to literal prostitute to a kept woman, the mistress of a sugar daddy. Along the way she meets Léo, a struggling poet and journalist, and the pair embark on a roller-coaster romance. Portions of the book are based on Huysmans’s own youthful love affair with a lady of the night.

Not long after Marthe, Zola published his own novel about a Parisian harlot, the classic Nana (1880). Zola’s novel is much more epic in scale and grander in scope than Marthe, which is a very short novel and intimate in its focus, similar to Stephen Crane’s Maggie: A Girl of the Streets (1893). Zola makes Nana the high-class of whore of Babylon who has all the powerful men of Paris wrapped around her finger, while Marthe is a more realistic garden-variety hooker, the girl next door gone bad like so many poor urban women of her age. Despite Naturalism’s pretensions of brutally scientific realism, Zola would exaggerate elements of his novels for dramatic effect. Huysmans, on the other hand, would exaggerate elements of his novels for repulsive effect. In the three books I’ve read by him, he seems to go out of his way to disgust, put off, and offend his audience. In Marthe, for example, Huysmans’s descriptions of a low-rent flophouse and a sleazy back alley are so loaded with sordid detail you might want to put the Kindle down and sanitize your hands. There are also some pretty racy sex scenes in this book, not too graphic by today’s standards but enough to be considered pornographic in the 1870s. Not surprisingly, the book was banned. Charged with obscenity in France, Huysmans had the book published in the more free-wheeling Belgium.

Among English-language audiences, Huysmans is better-known for his novels Au Rebours (Against Nature or Against the Grain) and Là-Bas (Down There or The Damned, a novel about Satan worship), but I found Marthe superior to them both. As an unromanticized depiction of social ills, this is a superb naturalist novel. Huysmans pulls no punches, and his prose is strikingly brilliant (at least in English translation). This is not a pleasant story, but Huysmans succeeds in viscerally immersing the reader into this sordid and squalid world. Zola is my favorite author, and I’m always look for other writers of a similar philosophy and style. Marthe is one novel in which one of the so-called lesser naturalists actually gives Maître Zola a run for his money.

The Man Who Sold the Moon by Robert A. Heinlein

Surprisingly preoccupied with business matters

The Man Who Sold the Moon is a science-fiction novella by American author Robert A. Heinlein that was published in 1950. It is also the title of a collection of short fiction published that same year, in which that novella is included. It is this latter collection to which this review pertains. In addition to its title selection, the collection entitled The Man Who Sold the Moon also contains five short stories originally published from 1939 to 1940. All six pieces are works in Heinlein’s Future History series, a large assemblage of novels, novellas, and stories that all take place in the same fictional future. The works collected in this volume represent the beginning of that series; that is to say, they are the earliest narratives in the fictional chronology.

The Man Who Sold the Moon (the novella) is an extended prequel to the much shorter story entitled “Requiem.” With the exception of that pair, the stories in this volume are only loosely related to one another. Although all united by the Future History scheme, they feature different characters and are set in different decades. Occasionally a character or his technological achievements may be mentioned in a later story. The half dozen stories in The Man Who Sold the Moon don’t seem to be presented in any logical order—neither in order of publication nor in order of Heinlein’s fictional timeline. This book includes a chart, put together by Heinlein, outlining the chronological order of the series. These being the earliest stories in the timeline, they take place roughly from the present day (the time of publication being late 1930s) to the fictional 1980s.

Heinlein’s first published story, “Life-Line,” is about an inventor who creates a device that can predict the future by “reading” timelines. It has the fanciful and thought-provoking qualities of a good Twilight Zone episode. “Let There Be Light” is about two scientists who pursue a more efficient form of lighting, and it’s about as exciting as that sounds. In “The Roads Must Roll,” America’s highways have been replaced by a cockamamie system of conveyer belts—not Heinlein’s brightest idea. “Blowups Happen” is a speculative story about nuclear power, written before nuclear reactors were a reality.

The centerpiece of this collection, The Man Who Sold the Moon, chronicles the endeavours of D. D. Harriman, a successful businessman, high-dollar huckster, and big-time negotiator who takes it upon himself to spearhead mankind’s first trip to the moon. In order to bring this dream to reality, Harriman must employ some questionable ethics, navigate legal loopholes, and exercise much financial chicanery. The plot is a chronicle of all this wheeling and dealing and not so much about the actual space travel. Harriman has elements of P. T. Barnum, Donald Trump, and Elon Musk, but more likeable and sympathetic than the latter two. “Requiem,” the sequel, catches up with Harriman later in life.

Given Heinlein’s reputation as the greatest science fiction writer of the 20th century, or at least one of the big three (along with Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke), I expected more from this volume. Heinlein’s Future History series is highly acclaimed, but this is still very early in that history. Space travel is just getting started, and we haven’t yet gotten anywhere near the colonization of other worlds. The result is a book full of surprisingly down-to-earth stories that have more to do with prosaic matters of business and industry than with astrophysics or space exploration. I’m surprised that the readers of Astounding Science Fiction magazine would have found fascinating these stories about government regulation and bureaucratic red tape. In just about every story here, Heinlein pushes some kind of libertarian agenda. This is most evident in the title selection, in which space travel and exploration are best left to private interests, preferably unregulated. Governments are merely obstacles in Heinlein’s vision of the future.

Despite my tepid review, there is enough here to build a reasonably satisfying foundation for a fictional universe, and I’m sure as Heinlein ventures farther from Earth, his narratives will become more deserving of the adjective “astounding.” I’m intrigued enough to follow this future timeline into the next volume of collected stories.

Stories in this collection

“Let There Be Light”

The Roads Must Roll

The Man Who Sold the Moon

Requiem

Life-Line

Blowups Happen

Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy by Bertrand Russell

Like reading a glossary for another book

Bertrand Russell won the 1950 Nobel Prize in Literature, though he was a philosopher, mathematician, and public intellectual, not a literary writer. (I suppose any nonfiction, however, could be considered essays.) As near as I can tell, Russell explained his mathematical system of philosophy in three works: In The Principles of Mathematics, published in 1903, he spelled out the fundamentals of his system of thought. He then built upon that foundation to create his magnum opus, together with Alfred North Whitehead, entitled Principia Mathematica, which was published in three volumes from 1910 to 1913. Neither of those books is intended for a general audience. Presumably one would need a PhD in mathematics to understand them. Russell did write many books for general readers, however, and in 1919 he released Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy, a book intended for lay readers (like myself).

Most of us, when we do math, take for granted the fact that 1 + 1 = 2 or 2 x 2 = 4. As a philosopher, however, Russell takes nothing for granted. Like Rene Descartes or Baruch Spinoza, he starts with first principles, assuming nothing, and systematically builds his argument from the ground up. It’s not enough to accept that 1 + 1 = 2 , one must ask WHY 1 + 1 = 2. Indeed, what exactly is addition, or for that matter, what is a number? That is what this book is about. Russell essentially defines the basic terms and functions of mathematics from a foundation of pure logical reasoning. Entire chapters are devoted to defining terms like rational numbers, real numbers, cardinal numbers, or differentiating between finite and infinite series. Reading this Introduction is much like reading an appendix or glossary to some other book, and Russell even admits as much. Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy merely provides the basic Rosetta Stone for understanding more advanced Russell books, like The Principles of Mathematics or the Principia.

You may not need a PhD in mathematics to read this Introduction, but you might very well need a master’s degree. Even if you’re good with numbers, however, that may not help you here. Leaning towards the philosopher rather than the mathematician, Russell writes all the mathematical formulae in paragraph prose, often using confusing, serpentine syntax. In order to express these concepts in textual form, Russell has to give new mathematical definitions to everyday words, which requires you to learn and memorize this new complex vocabulary.

Around chapter 14 (out of 18), however, the book finally turns in the direction of what I expected when I chose to read it; that is, how we use all these mathematical foundations to make logical deductions. From this point onward, the book is really quite interesting and can actually be understood by non-mathematicians. I question, however, whether I really needed to know many of those definitions that Russell spent so much time on. Once you get past chapter 13, many of those terms aren’t even used, and the text reads more like common sense.

What’s the point of all this? I suspect that Russell is a modern version of Pythagoras. He thinks mathematics is not merely a part of reality; mathematics is reality. Or rather, the logical rules that govern mathematics are the same that govern the movements of atoms or the thoughts in our heads. Russell sees no separation between mathematics and logic; they both operate on the same principles, whether the propositions are expressed through number or word. I believe Russell would assert that all human thought is fundamentally mathematical. We collect empirical sensory data, group it together in a complicated system of set theory, and then assess and organize that data with logical principles to create knowledge.

I was lost for much of the first half of this book, but I did find the latter half rewarding. Overall, I don’t think this Introduction is very effective in accomplishing what Russell set out to do, which is to provide the general public with an on-ramp to his school of thought. To get a handle on this subject, you’d be better off reading a Logic 101 textbook for college undergrads.

My Life with the Eskimo by Vilhjálmur Stéfansson

Traveling to hunt, hunting to travel

Vilhjálmur Stéfansson (1879–1962) was a Canadian-American explorer and ethnographer. He was born in Manitoba, the son of Icelandic immigrants. Shortly after his birth, his family moved to the Dakota Territory of the United States. He was educated at the universities of North Dakota, Iowa, and Harvard. As an explorer, his area of interest was the Arctic, and as an ethnographer, his expertise was the Inuit or Eskimo (the former is the more proper term, but the latter was more widely used in Stefansson’s lifetime). From 1908 to 1912, Stéfansson lived among the Eskimo on the north coast of Alaska and Canada, studying their ways and collecting artifacts and data for the American Museum of Natural History, which afterwards published his scientific findings. In 1912, Stéfansson also published a popular account of his expedition, intended for general readers, entitled My Life with the Eskimo. At that time, Stéfansson’s more than three year sojourn in the frozen North was the longest Arctic expedition on record.

But did he use all that time wisely? If this book were all you had to go on, it wouldn’t seem so. Stéfansson’s stated aim was to travel eastward to find bands of Inuit who have previously had little or no contact with White people. He bounces around the Alaskan coast for two years, however, and 162 pages of the book go by before he even gets started towards that goal. Even then, the book makes it unclear what exactly he’s trying to accomplish. The bulk of the text is about hunting caribou and seals. Stéfansson needs to hunt to feed himself, his assistants, and his sled dog team. He travels hundreds of miles to shoot the food necessary to travel hundreds of more miles to shoot more food to travel hundreds of more miles, and so on. Almost every animal they see, they kill, either for the meat, the skin, or as a specimen for the AMNH. Also a member of the expedition is a zoologist named Dr. Anderson, but he and Stéfansson are never in the same place, and the two are constantly traveling hundreds of miles to look for one another.

While all this is going on, Stéfansson is conducting scientific research, but he doesn’t tell you much about it. He’ll say, “I collected folklore from the people in this village.” That’s great. Would you like to tell us a little about that? No, let’s get back to another hunting story. Not until after page 360 does he finally discuss some of the archaeological digs, ethnological research, and linguistic studies that he conducted. These topics, much more interesting than all the caribou hunting, are relegated to the last few chapters of the book, treated as if they were appendices. If the entire book were more like these last 70 pages, My Life with the Eskimo would have been a much more satisfying read.

Reminiscent of another popular expedition narrative, Thor Heyerdahl’s Kon-Tiki (1948), Stéfansson also has an ethnological thesis to argue in My Life with the Eskimo. In his travels, he encounters what he calls “Blonde Eskimo”—Inuit with light hair, light skin, and blue eyes. Stéfansson theorizes that these may be the descendants of Danish and/or Norwegian settlers who disappeared from the west coast of Greenland centuries ago and perhaps drifted westward. Unlike Kon-Tiki, Stéfansson does not belabor the point. This theory is not the book’s raison d’etre, just one matter discussed among many. Though Stéfansson’s hypothesis of the Blonde Eskimo’s Norse origins does not seem so farfetched, as with Heyerdahl’s theory, 21st-century DNA testing has since disproved it.

I read quite a few explorer memoirs, and this one is just mediocre. Stéfansson is clearly very knowledgeable about the Inuit, but writing for the general public does not seem to have been his forte. Again, the last 70 pages of this book are quite good, but up to that point there’s a fair amount of boredom between nuggets of interest.

Freethinkers: A History of American Secularism by Susan Jacoby

The disheartening saga of the separation of church and state

Susan Jacoby is a former journalist and an outspoken atheist who has published a few books on the history of atheism and freethought, among other topics. Her book Freethinkers: A History of American Secularism was published in 2004. “Freethinker” is a blanket term that could be used to describe those who don’t subscribe wholeheartedly to any formal organized religion—perhaps anyone from a hardcore atheist to a liberal protestant. In American history, the term may refer to many of the founding fathers who were deists (e.g. John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Paine) or to the atheist and agnostic activists of the late 19th and 20th centuries (e.g. Robert Ingersoll, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Clarence Darrow, Madalyn Murray O’Hair). Was Abraham Lincoln a freethinker? Jacoby looks into that too. Basically anyone who believes in the separation of church and state is covered here. The book essentially charts the changing status of that separation from the drafting of the U.S. Constitution to the end of the 20th century.

This is not an impartial, objective history. Jacoby certainly has an axe to grind, but that’s part of her point. The real history of freethought has been suppressed by American religious factions, and the only person who would write a book like this is a true nonbeliever. Many of America’s founders were freethinkers, yet today a myth persists that the U.S. was established as a Christian nation. Historically, many White Christian clergy in America were pro-slavery, anti-women’s rights, and anti-civil rights, and encouraged their congregations to toe those party lines, yet somehow when you read today’s history textbooks you’d think that all those problems were solved by the God-fearing faithful singing “Amazing Grace.” Jacoby sets the record straight from a freethinker’s perspective.

This book often reads less like a history of freethinkers than a history of freethought’s adversaries. It’s as if Jacoby defines freethinkers by their challenges, and their persecutors seem to get more coverage than the secular saints they’re persecuting. The book includes entire chapters on Catholics and their exertion of influence on American government. Jews, on the other hand, have generally been political allies of freethought who often found themselves grouped with atheists as alleged radicals and communists. Jacoby discusses the movements to abolish slavery, win women’s suffrage, teach evolution in schools, and make abortion legal, all of which were notably supported by freethinkers.

For an American freethinker such as myself, this book can be really depressing. Among the events chronicled, there are few freethought victories here. The one high point is the popularity of Robert Ingersoll in the 1880s and ‘90s. Thomas Paine is another hallowed freethought luminary, but sadly he ended his life more reviled than revered. By the time you get to the late 20th century, you’re convinced that the United States is one step away from becoming the Christian equivalent of the authoritarian Islamic regimes of the Ayatollahs or the Taliban. Jacoby repeatedly and bluntly points out how Christian Conservatives have subverted the Constitution for their own theistical agenda. This book ends with the George W. Bush administration, which Jacoby considers the low point in the ongoing battle for the separation of church and state. Things have only gotten worse since then—not because Donald Trump is more religious than Bush, but because Trump’s administration cozies up to religious interests to further his conservative aims. I’m glad somebody told this story, and Jacoby tells it well, but the truth hurts.   

The Skylark of Space by E. E. Smith and Lee Hawkins Garby

Landmark space opera, corny but creative

The Skylark of Space is a science fiction novel by E. E. Smith (1890–1965). Sometimes credited as Edward E. Smith, or referred to by his nickname “Doc,” Smith was born in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, but soon moved to the Pacific Northwest and eventually worked as a food chemist for a doughnut factory in Michigan before starting his literary career. Though he published over a dozen sci-fi novels, he never did give up his day job. The Skylark of Space was first published in serial form in three 1928 issues of Amazing Stories magazine. The novel inspired one of the most memorable covers ever to grace the front of Amazing Stories, illustrated by Frank R. Paul. Smith usually gets all the credit for The Skylark of Space, but he cowrote the first portion of the novel with Lee Hawkins Garby, who happens to be a woman. Smith penned the rest of the Skylark series himself. The Skylark of Space was first published in book form in 1946.

In his laboratory, the chemist Dick Seaton investigates the properties of a newly discovered and extremely rare element known only as “X.” Unexpectedly, a lab instrument, made of copper, is propelled through the window, flying at high speed on a straight trajectory into the unseen distance. Seaton discovers that X has unlocked the “intra-atomic” energy within the copper, thereby releasing a clean, extremely powerful, and optimally efficient form of energy. Seaton and his friend, the millionaire industrialist Martin Crane, envision this new energy source providing the propulsion necessary for space travel. With the intention of exploring the stars, they begin building a spacecraft dubbed the Skylark. Seaton’s scientific colleague Marc DuQuesne, however, wants to steal the X for himself and will stop at nothing to get his hands on it, even over Seaton and Crane’s dead bodies.

When it appeared in Amazing Stories, this novel had a profound influence on young readers like Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and John W. Campbell Jr., who would go on to become some of the most important names in science fiction. What likely appealed to those future authors were the “hard science fiction” elements of the story, rather than its less successful fantasy and romance aspects. In this novel, Smith, a true scientist himself, deliberately strives to explore various scientific phenomena, and he provides reasonable scientific explanations for the bizarre happenings in the book. Obviously, the Skylark’s copper-fission propulsion method is not a reality, for example, but it’s based on real scientific concepts and is treated with a respectably sound science-fiction logic. The chemical properties of metals and the technological and military applications of various wavelengths of the electromagnetic spectrum are also explored.

It’s in the human and alien characters where the novel becomes farfetched. The love stories are corny beyond all get-out, and the extraterrestrial beings are like something out of an Edgar Rice Burroughs fantasy. The novel starts out as a down-to-earth Thomas Edison pastiche, but it just gets sillier and sillier as it goes on. It’s comical that Seaton and Crane express absolutely no surprise or wonder at their experience of interstellar travel. They treat their space voyage and contact with an alien race as the most natural and expected occurrences. The irrational behavior of the villains is even sillier. Some elements of the story are merely kitschy with antiquity, like the idea of fur suits keeping one warm in the nearly absolute-zero vacuum of space.

The Skylark of Space reads like a literary bridge between the works of Jules Verne and Robert A. Heinlein. The story of space princes, warring alien races, and starship battles is clichéd space opera, but those same clichés have nevertheless proved successful in many subsequent sci-fi epics from Star Wars to Dune. Sporting cool tech and exciting battle scenes, The Skylark of Space was no doubt considered quite cool by sci-fi fans of 1928. In spite of its hokier aspects, it’s still quite fun to read today.

Stuntman!: My Car-Crashing, Plane-Jumping, Bone-Breaking, Death-Defying Hollywood Life by Hal Needham

Tall tales of moviemaking dripping with testosterone

Growing up in the 1970s, I enjoyed the movies directed by Hal Needham: Smokey and the Bandit, The Cannonball Run, and their sequels, for example. At the time, Burt Reynolds was the biggest box office star in the world. Needham’s films help make Reynolds a star, and vice versa. Before becoming a director, however, Needham had a long career as a sought-after stuntman and stunt coordinator for Hollywood productions, Westerns in particular. He even owned a ranch where stunt horses were trained. In 2011, two years before his death, Needham published his autobiography Stuntman! Not surprisingly, Needham’s memoir depicts a life not unlike those larger-than-life movies he made with Reynolds, full of fast cars, fast horses, fast women, and lots of booze.

Stuntman! is mostly a film-industry memoir, but the first chapter and a half do cover Needham’s life before making movies. He grew up dirt poor in Arkansas, literally the son of a sharecropper. As a youth, he and his brother often had to hunt and fish for the family dinner. After his family moved to St. Louis, he enlisted to fight in the Korean War but was never sent overseas. Following his discharge from the service, he moved out to Los Angeles on a whim. In a lucky stroke, he managed to parlay his work as a tree trimmer into a career as a stuntman.

Needham was best friends with Reynolds and lived in Burt’s house for a while. Don’t expect a lot of behind-the-scenes looks into the lives of celebrities from this book, however. Burt is a bit of a shadow figure in this narrative; Needham reveals more about the personalities of Richard Boone and John Wayne. Almost all of the stories in this book take place on movie sets. Needham relates the stunts he orchestrated and performed in various films. At times it reads like a how-to manual for stuntmen: This is how you flip a car. This is how you stage an epic fall. This is how you jump out of a low-flying airplane. In his free time, Needham, who’s known for his car chase films, engages in other automobile-related activities like attempting to break the speed of sound in a rocket car, racing across the country in the real cannonball run, and owning his own NASCAR team.

Needham is about as macho as they come. He’s basically the Burt Reynolds character from his movie Hooper. He’s likable enough as a storyteller, but he’s got some ego on him. Anything anyone can do, he can do it better, and every idea he has is genius. He never admits to making a mistake. Every woman wants him. The relentless self-aggrandizing becomes tiresome after a while. He’s the Baron Munchausen of redneck good-ol’-boys. Also, as a man’s man, Needham has to be the world’s greatest partyer. He drinks at every occasion, and often drives or operates other heavy machinery while drunk. Some of his drinking stories are funny, but you can’t help thinking he’s the drunken jackass who’s weaving all over the lane next to you while you’re just trying to make it home safe.

With the possible exception of the first Smokey and the Bandit, none of Needham’s films would be characterized as smart, and this book doesn’t come across as very smart either. But Needham’s movies were good dumb fun, and so is this book. One of the reasons I enjoy the action movies of 1960s and ‘70s is because of the authentic pre-digital stunts. There was no faking it back in Needham’s day, and by his account, safety was not priority one. This book is a good nostalgia trip through that era. In today’s movies, so many action scenes are digitally created or enhanced, and action movies have become tiresome as a result, which begs the question, Where’s the next Hal Needham when we need ‘im?