Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez

Latin American Balzac

Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez (1927–2014), winner of the 1982 Nobel Prize in Literature, is probably the biggest name in Latin American literature. Intellectuals might argue for Jorge Luis Borges, and general readers might cite Isabel Allende, but people in both camps have probably read a García Márquez novel. His 1961 novel One Hundred Years of Solitude is his best-known work, but Love in the Time of Cholera, published in 1985, is a close second. Both books have sold tens of millions of copies and have been translated into at least 30 languages.

Love in the Time of Cholera is set in an unnamed Colombian town on the coast of the Caribbean Sea. The story takes place from about the 1880s to the 1930s. Dr. Juvenal Urbino, an aged physician, is one of the town’s most distinguished citizens. He and his beautiful wife, Fermina Daza, lead a wealthy and cultured life. A cholera epidemic has recently raged through the region, killing thousands, and still lingers on in some villages. As a medical man, Dr. Urbino is ever on the watch for this deadly disease, but his own untimely demise comes about as the result of an unfortunate accident. At his funeral, an eminent crowd of mourners gathers in the Urbino mansion to offer their convalescences to his wife. One attendee, however, uses this inappropriate moment to declare his undying love to the widow Urbino before her husband’s body is even in the ground.

This lovestruck man, by the name of Florentino Ariza, did not just pop up out of the blue, however. It turns out that he and Fermina Daza have a history that goes back almost a half century. The story then flashes back to their first meeting in their teen years and follows their relationship through the intervening decades. Dr. Urbino obviously has an important part to play in that story as well, and the three form one of the most memorable and moving love triangles in all of literature.

I had mixed feelings towards One Hundred Years of Solitude, but I was immediately captivated by Love in the Time of Cholera. In One Hundred Years, the story revolves around this confusingly byzantine family tree that the reader has to decipher. Love in the Time of Cholera, on the other hand, focuses on three, maybe four people. García Márquez describes these characters in intimate and intricate detail that brings them vividly to life. Along the way, you get some glimpses of life in Colombia during this period in history. The Latin American atmosphere is palpable, but this is still a universal story of love and longing. García Márquez’s prose (judging by the English translation) is rich and artful. Every sentence is full of meaning, and few words are wasted. It’s really a joy to read. The one reservation I have about this novel is some pervy sexual content. One character’s relationship with a much-younger girl would not fly in today’s cancel culture.

Love in the Time of Cholera doesn’t seem to be set in the same fictional universe as One Hundred Years of Solitude. García Márquez is noted as a writer in the style of “magic realism,” but this book is decidedly less magic in character than One Hundred Years. No supernatural events occur in Love in the Time of Cholera, and I prefer it that way. The story is at times quirky and fanciful, and the characters lead exaggerated, larger-than-life lives, but everything that occurs is within the realm of reality. If this novel is considered magic realism, then Balzac invented magic realism, because this is basically a Balzac novel set in Colombia. I wish García Márquez had been as prolific as Balzac because I would gladly read many more novels like this.

No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

McCarthy does Elmore Leonard

Few American authors garnered as much critical acclaim over the last half century as Cormac McCarthy (1933–2023). He published his first novel in 1965, but it wasn’t until about 30 years later that he achieved any commercial success. I rarely quote Wikipedia, but this was too good to pass up: “As of 1991, none of McCarthy’s novels had sold more than 5,000 hardcover copies, and for most of his career, he did not even have an agent.” He hit it big in 1992 with All the Pretty Horses and has since become a household name. Not only the appeal, but the style of his work seemed to get more commercial in his latter years. He started out as the new William Faulkner, but by the time he died, it seems he had discovered an affinity for pulp fiction. McCarthy’s novel No Country for Old Men was published in 1992. The film version, made 15 years later, won the Oscar for Best Picture. This book is a crime novel, similar in style and subject matter to Elmore Leonard’s work, but as he did before with Blood Meridian, McCarthy instills this gritty, violent story with the deep thoughts of highbrow literature.

In the borderlands of Southern Texas, Llewelyn Moss is out hunting antelope when he spots a group of trucks parked out in the middle of nowhere. Upon closer inspection, he finds the site littered with dead bodies. In an apparent drug deal gone bad, it seems that both sides have massacred each other. As is often the case in such scenes, there’s a briefcase full of money on site. Moss absconds with what he estimates to be 2.4 million dollars. The drug cartel naturally wants its money back, so it sends men after Moss. Among those hunting him down is a mystery man named Anton Chigurh, a cold-blooded assassin who uses an unusual weapon to make his kills, though he’s pretty good with a shotgun as well. One way to get to Moss is through his wife, so she has to go on the run as well. Ed Tom Bell, the local sheriff, considers it is duty to serve and protect the citizens of his county, including Mr. and Mrs. Moss. He sets out investigating the case, hoping to catch up with Moss before the killers find him.

Much of the plot takes place in motel rooms and highway diners on Texas desert roads, where gunfights frequently ensue. There are two aspects of the book that elevate this novel from a genre thriller to a great work of American literature. First is the character of Chigurh, a force of nature when it comes to dealing death, but also a philosopher when it comes to dealing dialogue. Second are the monologues of Ed Tom Bell that are interspersed in italics throughout the primary third-person narrative. These monologues alone could constitute a book worthy of a Pulitzer. Bell contemplates his mortality, old age, marriage, his regrets as a law enforcement officer, a former soldier, and a man, and how the world has changed for the worse on his watch.

Similar to Leonard’s writing, No Country for Old Men is written in curt, choppy prose—sometimes so curt and choppy that it’s a little tough to figure out what’s going on. It reads like an exercise in using as few words as possible. There are no visual or biographical descriptions of the characters, you just have to figure out who they are by what they say. The dialogue is brilliantly written, again calling to mind Leonard, but without so much overt humor. The manner of speech employed by the characters, intelligently rendered in authentically down-home diction, is also reminiscent of Charles Portis’s great Western novel True Grit.

Most literary critics don’t consider No Country for Old Men to be McCarthy at his best because it doesn’t have the Faulknerian profundity of his earlier novels. For that same reason, it may be his most accessible book to an audience of general readers raised on crime films and Westerns. This is definitely not a conventional thriller, but I was riveted to every page. I’ve liked McCarthy’s books in the past, and I like Leonard, so to me this novel was the best of both worlds.

The Science of Liberty: Democracy, Reason, and the Laws of Nature by Timothy Ferris

Liberal common sense, well-argued

American science writer Timothy Ferris published about a dozen books on astronomy before the 2010 release of his book The Science of Liberty, which is about a whole lot more than just astronomy. Ferris was a friend and colleague of Carl Sagan (the two worked together on that gold record that went out with the Voyager 1 space probe), and, judging by this book, he shares a lot of common ground with Sagan as a science educator/promoter and liberal activist. The message of The Science of Liberty could have come from Sagan’s pen, but I actually like Ferris’s journalistic style of writing better than Sagan’s more personal Henry-David-Thoreau-of-space musings. In The Science of Liberty, Ferris makes the case that—as simply put as possible—science is beneficial to liberty and vice versa. He argues that science furthers human happiness and freedom, thus advancing the cause of classical liberalism, and that science can only prosper in a liberal-democratic society that values civil liberties, academic freedom, and emancipation from dogma.

That may sound like common sense, but it’s surprising how many people and regimes in history have tried to argue the opposite, as Ferris recounts in this historical overview. In the opening chapters, Ferris outlines the framework of his political hypotheses. Then follows a series of investigations into chronologically presented periods in history—the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, the American and French Revolutions, World War II, the Cold War, etc.—in which Ferris examines how science and liberty were furthered or hindered. Periodically interspersed are a few statistics-heavy chapters in which Ferris compares the successes and failures of liberal-democratic nations versus other, less scientifically inclined societies.

Ferris introduces a simple but insightful new model of political ideology. Instead of the familiar spectrum analogy in which liberals fall to the left and conservatives to the right, Ferris proposes a triangular model in which liberals, conservatives, and progressives are the three equidistant corners. This book was published before Donald Trump entered politics, so Ferris doesn’t cover the most recent wave of anti-intellectualism from the conservative right, though he does hint at its foreshadowing with some brief mentions of George W. Bush. Surprisingly, Ferris spends fewer pages discussing conservative anti-science (e.g. fascists, Christian fundamentalists, Islamist terrorists) than he spends discussing progressive anti-science (e.g. communists, Marxists, ultra-woke academics, postmodern deconstructionists). Ferris, in my opinion, is too dismissive of socialism, implying that it always leads to totalitarianism. While Stalin and Mao were nightmares that certainly didn’t do science or liberty any favors, FDR’s New Deal or Scandinavia’s social service programs could be considered socialist science experiments that worked out for the good.

Prior to reading this book, I already agreed with just about every aspect of Ferris’s thesis, so I didn’t really need any convincing. Most of what he argues here just seems like common sense to my Jeffersonian side. While reading the first couple chapters, I found myself wondering, do I really want to read a whole book that’s persuading me to believe what I already believe? As I got further into the book, however, I really enjoyed it, and I learned quite a bit. The historical chapters present a lot of familiar characters and stories from science history, but Ferris fleshes them out with many interesting details that were new to me. I gleaned all sorts of fascinating biographical tidbits on scientists like Galileo, Newton, Locke, Jefferson, Darwin, Edison, and even anti-science figures like Hitler. Ferris also has a real knack for selecting memorable and relevant quotes, and the statistics he cites are well chosen and quite eye-opening. Though I primarily expected a book on science history, Ferris’s explication of political ideologies as they relate to science and liberty also prompted me to reexamine some of my own political preconceptions. 

The Science of Liberty is a very thought-provoking read. It really spoke to me, not only aligning with much of what I believe but also helping to clarify some of those beliefs. People who already believe in liberalism and the value of science will appreciate this book immensely, but will it convince anyone who needs convincing? Will conservatives want to read it? They should read it, but unfortunately, they probably won’t.

The Terror by Arthur Machen

Ingenious and spooky WWI thriller

Welsh author Arthur Machen (1863–1947) wrote primarily in the horror and fantasy genres, and his work has proved greatly influential to subsequent authors in those areas, from H. P. Lovecraft to Stephen King. Machen has only recently come to my attention, and so far I have enjoyed everything I’ve read by him. He may be the greatest of Edgar Allan Poe’s successors in the literature of horror and the supernatural. Machen’s work of the late 19th and early 20th centuries brings Poe’s gothic terror into the modern era in a way that can still be appreciated by, and frightening to, 21st-century readers.

Machen’s novel The Terror was published in 1917. It takes place in a small rural coastal village of southwestern Wales named Meirion. In 1915, at the height of World War I, a shocking rash of mysterious deaths occurs in and around this village. Children have fallen off of cliffs, or were they pushed? Bodies are found of people who appear to have died of asphyxiation, but with no apparent evidence of strangulation or other trauma. A family lies dead in the highway out in front of their home, their brains bashed in. A girl is stung to death by bees. A farmer is found dead of a stab wound, as if pierced by a spear. There are no witnesses to these killings, and no clues as to their causes or perpetrators. Since it’s wartime, however, one can’t help but wonder if the Germans are responsible. Could there be a secret network of German soldiers operating within the British Isles, spreading terror throughout the countryside? Whether the Germans are responsible or not, this tragedy and terror on the home front is certainly not helping Britain’s war effort and has greatly hindered England’s fight against Germany.

Two local citizens attempt to find an explanation for these bizarre happenings. Dr. Lewis is a country physician, while Mr. Remnant seems to be a well-read retiree. The two theorize as to the causes of these events and bounce ideas off of each other. Lewis seems to be the more rationally scientific of the two. Remnant is more open to far-fetched conspiracy theories. The story is related by an unidentified third-person narrator who, like an investigative journalist, has gathered testimony related to these incidents, much of it from the mouths of Lewis and Remnant.

Even to today’s audience, who has developed an immunity to murder novels and serial killer movies, Machen’s descriptions of the deaths are bluntly brutal and must have been quite shocking to readers of a century ago. Many horror filmmakers of today are still squeamish about killing children in their stories, but not so with Machen. The indiscriminateness of this tragedy, coupled with the journalistic style with which the details are presented, give the novel an air of realism, even when contemplating possible supernatural occurrences. There are times over the course of the novel when the plot just seems to be a collection of random scary events with no rhyme or reason to the proceedings. Machen concludes the mystery, however, with an ending that ingeniously ties all loose ends together into a unique, imaginative, and praiseworthy resolution.

Of the three novels by Machen I’ve read so far, The Terror is superior to The Hill of Dreams but falls just short of The Great God Pan. All three are really quite exceptional works. While it’s easy to draw comparisons to Poe, Machen really has a distinctive voice and style all his own. His writing is quite unlike any of his contemporaries. The horror stories of Arthur Conan Doyle, Ambrose Bierce, and Algernon Blackwood seem tame and quaint by comparison. I’m not an habitual reader of horror or supernatural fiction, but in Machen’s case I will gladly make an exception.

The Night Visitor and Other Stories by B. Traven

Ten well-drawn tales of Mexico

The information we have on author B. Traven’s life is sketchy. The name is a pseudonym, and he deliberately kept his real identity a secret. Journalists and literary scholars have connected him to prior aliases, but I don’t think his actual birth name has ever been ascertained with certainly. He was born in Germany and emigrated to Mexico in 1924. Traven wrote all of his literary works in the German language, and most of his fiction is set in Mexico or elsewhere in Latin America.

The Night Visitor and Other Stories, a collection of Traven’s short fiction, was published in 1966 by the American publisher Hill and Wang. Some of the volume’s ten stories had been previously published in a German-language collection entitled Der Busch, published in 1928. One story, “The Cattle Drive” is an excerpt from Traven’s debut novel The Cotton-Pickers (1926). As is typical of Traven’s work, all of the stories in this volume take place in Mexico.

Two of the stories included here are longer and more substantial than the other eight. In “The Night Visitor,” an American farmer in Mexico loses himself in his neighbor’s extensive library and becomes obsessed with pre-Columbian Mexican history. “Macario” has the feeling of an old Mexican folktale that Traven has adapted for modern readers through some O. Henry-esque storytelling. The title character, a poor, overworked woodchopper, has one great desire in life: to eat a roasted turkey all by himself. This humorous story takes some wonderfully unexpected turns. In both these selections, Traven inserts some supernatural elements that create a Twilight Zone effect. He doesn’t overdo it, however, to the point where these tales venture into the horror or fantasy genres. Of the book’s shorter entries, the aforementioned “The Cattle Drive” and the comical “When the Priest Is Not at Home” are both very vividly rendered and engaging stories.

The American writer whom Traven most calls to mind, stylistically and philosophically, is Jack London. London spent a few years in Alaska and the Yukon Territory during the Klondike Gold Rush and was able to parlay that experience into half a career’s worth of novels and stories. He brought the Klondike alive for armchair readers who would never venture there. Traven does the same for Mexico. Both writers depict their chosen settings in a naturalistically realist style but draw romantic touches from regional folklore and legends. London was a socialist; Traven an anarchist. Both often feature proletarian themes and critiques of capitalism in their fiction. Later in his career, London did travel to Mexico and wrote one excellent story set there, entitled “The Mexican.” Traven, however, is the best writer of fiction about Mexico who’s not actually Mexican. Katherine Anne Porter might be his only real competition in English-language literature.

Traven’s writing on Mexico is more than just typical tourist fare. He really makes an effort to understand and interpret the culture, mindset, and spirit of the Mexican people, including the nation’s Indigenous inhabitants. As a Mexicophile myself, I appreciate that Traven gives Mexico the same attention and consideration that countless other authors have given to Paris or London. Traven’s work sometimes resembles the writings of the great Mexican author Juan Rulfo, whose landmark collection of short stories, The Burning Plain, was published in 1953. In general, the stories here in The Night Visitor are more lighthearted than Rulfo’s, but they share a similar grittily authentic, sometimes eerie atmosphere and a respect for the Mexican peasant, the Indian, and the working man. For an American reader, it is surprising that it takes a German author to reveal Mexico to the non-Latino. These enchanting stories make one wonder why more authors from the U.S. haven’t ventured south of the border for literary inspiration.

Stories in this collection

The Night Visitor

Effective Medicine

Assembly Line

The Cattle Drive

When the Priest Is Not at Home

Midnight Call

A New God Was Born

Friendship

Conversion of Some Indians

Macario

The Naturalist on the River Amazons by Henry Walter Bates

An exemplary narrative for armchair explorers

Henry Walter Bates (1825–1892) was an English naturalist. His area of expertise was entomology, the science of insects, but in the 19th century scientists were allowed to be generalists, so he made discoveries in other areas of biology as well. In 1842, Bates embarked on an expedition to explore the Amazon rainforest and gather specimens of the animals and plants that live there. Upon completing an expedition, 19th century naturalist-explorers would compile volumes of scientific texts describing the species they brought back with them. In addition, many would publish a narrative account of their travels intended for a general audience of non-scientists. In Bates’s case, the popular memoir he wrote of his South American journey is The Naturalist on the River Amazons, published in 1863.

This Amazon expedition started out as a joint undertaking with fellow British naturalist Alfred Russell Wallace, who is now better-known than Bates for having formulated the theory of evolution about the same time as Charles Darwin. Once in Brazil, Wallace and Bates seem to have often split up and conducted their own research, and Wallace returned to England several years before Bates. It’s hard to tell how much time the two spent together. Bates only mentions “Mr. Wallace” a few times in this memoir. That’s not unusual for scientific memoirs of this period, however. There seems to have been a gentleman’s agreement that each explorer would talk about himself and leave his traveling companions to write their own books. Wallace published his account, A Narrative of Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro, in 1889.

Bates’s mode of operation was to travel up the Amazon to a certain city, acquire a house on the outskirts of town, and live there for a few years. From these home bases, he would make hiking or boat trips deeper into the wilderness to explore and gather specimens. In this memoir, Bates’s explorations center around three main locations: Pará, near the Amazon delta (today there is a state named Pará, but the city is named Belém); Santarém, several hundred miles further up the river; and Ega (now called Tefé), a small village on the upper Amazon near the Peruvian border. The Amazon region was already somewhat “civilized” by this time. Bates interacted mostly with Whites (Portuguese) and Mamelucos (people of mixed Portuguese and Indigenous heritage, the Brazilian equivalent of Mexico’s Mestizos), but he did encounter some Native tribes living a relatively untouched existence, as well as Blacks of African descent, both slaves and free. Despite the extent of Portuguese colonization, very few European scientists had explored the Amazon by this time, so new, undescribed species were ripe for the picking. In the book’s introduction, Darwin states that Bates collected specimens of 14,712 species, about 14,000 of them being insects, and about 8000 of those species (not just insects) being previously “unknown to science.”

The problem with a lot of exploration narratives of this era is that despite attempts at accessibility for a popular audience, they end up being too academically scientific. Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle (1839), though still widely read and highly regarded, is a difficult read for the non-scientist, as is Alexander von Humboldt’s Personal Narrative of Travels to the Equinoctial Regions of America (1814). Bates, however, really strikes the perfect balance between travel memoir and scientific text. He really armchair travelers a vivid impression of what the Amazon region was like in these frontier days, but if you’re interested in biology, there’s also plenty of good stuff in here about the bugs, birds, monkeys, reptiles, and plants of Brazil. You also learn a great deal about the people of Brazil—communities of all different races and levels of economic and cultural development. While Bates was certainly not the anti-colonial liberal that Alexander von Humboldt was, he does not display a great deal of expected Victorian-era racism in this memoir. He does have a tendency, however, to judge people by their level of “civilization” and view those living further in the bush as dumb hicks, regardless of race. All in all, the strengths of Bates’s writing add up to an exemplary exploration narrative. For those who envy the lives of these pioneering naturalists—traveling to exotic lands, studying the natural environment, and discovering “new” species—Bates’s book is a dream come to life.

Cubism in Color: The Still Lifes of Juan Gris, edited by Nicole R. Myers and Katherine Rothkopf

The beautiful book his work deserves

The modernist painting style of cubism is generally considered to have been invented jointly by painters Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque around 1907. Most art aficionados, if questioned for a third artist in that movement, would call up the name of Juan Gris. In fact, though Gris followed in the footsteps of Picasso and Braque, some (myself included) consider Gris to have been the one who really took cubism to its creative apex. Gris pushed the stylistic experiments in form, structure, and color farther than his better-known contemporaries, and in the process managed to produce many beautiful paintings. Even those who can’t stand cubism (and that’s probably the majority of the world’s population) might very well enjoy looking at a Juan Gris painting.

The still life, usually an arrangement of objects on a table, was a common subject matter for cubist artists and a particular specialty of Gris’s. Now his work in that area gets its deserved recognition with the beautifully produced coffee table book Cubism in Color: The Still Lifes of Juan Gris, edited by Nicole R. Myers of the Dallas Museum of Art and Katherine Rothkopf of the Baltimore Museum of Art. This book was published in 2021 by Yale University Press to coincide with an exhibition of Gris’s still lifes organized by those two museums.

This book is not intended to be a comprehensive biography or retrospective on Juan Gris. That has already been done at least twice, by Antonio Gaya Nuño in 1986 and by Christopher Green in 1992. This book is meant to focus solely on Gris’s still lifes, but it nevertheless does contain a biological overview and a fair share of scholarly content on Gris’s work. The assortment of essays included, however, is a bit random. Myers delivers a truly excellent essay examining how Gris went about planning and executing his still life paintings. For anyone who paints or draws, this chapter reads like a behind-the-scenes exposé into Gris’s methods and materials. Another essay is a string of brief institutional histories of every Spanish museum that owns a work by Juan Gris. It’s hard to see how that’s useful; wouldn’t a list have sufficed? Another essay explores the influence of Gris on abstract artists in South America. The connection feels only tenuously established, but this chapter did bring to my attention some Latin American artists with whom I was previously unfamiliar.

While the essays are hit-and-miss, the images strike the bullseye time and time again. The text divides Gris’s tragically brief career into five distinct stages. All of those stages are well-represented by selected artworks, and one can clearly see Gris’s progression as an artist over time. The paintings are all beautifully reproduced, most of them appearing at full-page size. The photography of the artworks and the quality of the printing are impeccable. When it comes to art publications, Yale University Press always makes a quality product.

I still think Green and Gaya Nuño’s books are better overall volumes on Gris’s life and career, but Cubism in Color is a great addition to the literature on Gris’s art. I doubt any art lover would ever say, “I’m of fan of Gris, but I don’t like his still lifes.” Still lifes were so integral to his thought and vision as an artist. This book celebrates Gris’s innovative visual experimentation and sublime talent for composition. His still lifes deserve a great showcase in print, and that’s what they’re given here.

Flowers, 1914

The Violin, 1916

Still Life with a Bottle of Bordeaux, 1919

The Open Window, 1921

Cosmos by Carl Sagan

Big universe, big thoughts

The 1980 PBS TV series Cosmos was a landmark in the history of television. The companion book to that series, also published in 1980, was the bestselling science book of all time (until Stephen Hawking beat it a few years later). The Cosmos book has 13 chapters that parallel the 13 episodes of the TV program. Alexander von Humboldt published the original Cosmos book back in 1845 to 1862, and Sagan does mention Humboldt in a footnote. The intent by both authors was to summarize and encapsulate in one volume the state of scientific knowledge on the heavens and the earth. Though Humboldt’s Cosmos was popular in its day, his was a pretty dry scientific text compared to Sagan’s more accessible and inspirational book. The way Sagan combines science writing with philosophy, skepticism, and freethought reminds me of another book from the end of the 19th century: Ernst Haeckel’s The Riddle of the Universe.

As one would expect from an astronomer and planetary scientist, Sagan spends much of Cosmos discussing the planets and other bodies in our solar system, as well as galaxies, the universe as a whole, space travel, the Big Bang, and the search for extraterrestrial life. In addition, however, he discusses particle physics, the origin of life, DNA, evolution, the history of science and astronomy (particularly in ancient Greece), and the human brain. The final chapter of Cosmos is about nuclear war. Although still a threat, Armageddon is not on people’s minds as much as it was in the ‘80s, and disarmament now seems further from reality.

Like any science book of years gone by, the obvious drawback to Cosmos is that it’s outdated. Sagan doesn’t really say anything wrong in this book, but what’s omitted is notable. There’s no mention of quantum physics or dark matter, for example. Sagan wrote Cosmos after Voyager 2 had performed its flyby of Jupiter but before it had reached Saturn. There was no Hubble Space Telescope. The existence of exoplanets was still suspected, not confirmed. The nearly fifty intervening years since publication, however, didn’t really bother me. I consider myself pretty well-versed in astronomical matters for a general reader, but I still learned many interesting scientific facts from Sagan’s Cosmos. Sagan is great at putting things into perspective, both humanity’s insignificance in the universe and the immensity of space and time. (He’s much more eloquent than the “billions and billions” catch phrase for which he’s known.)

I’d read much of this information before, but never as succinctly nor as elegantly put as Sagan presents things here. The other famous science book of this era was, of course, Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. Though also aimed at the general reader, Hawking’s book is not easy to understand and his explanations aren’t quite user-friendly for the layman. Sagan, on the other hand, is great at explaining complex scientific phenomena in simple terms that anyone with a high school education can understand, without dumbing down the scientific content or the philosophical implications of the matters discussed.

Sagan stopped short of declaring himself an atheist, but for readers of a freethinking persuasion, he is one of the best areligious writers out there, if not the best. He is a superb rationalist preacher, without the pretensions or cynicism of Richard Dawkins and other “neo-atheists.” Since Sagan’s death, others have tried to assume his role as leading spokesman for science—most recently Neil deGrasse Tyson and Bill Nye—but no one has quite matched his passion, eloquence, and trustworthiness as a public intellectual. Cosmos, although published in the middle of his career, is Sagan’s magnum opus, the distillation of his entire career. His other books may focus in more detail on some of the topics presented here, but no book better encapsulates his thought in its totality as this one. In the 1980s, this book was a must-read, and today it’s still an important and rewarding work for anyone who cares about science.

Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town by Stephen Leacock

Small-town humor from a Canadian Mark Twain

Stephen Leacock was a popular Canadian author who publish many books of fiction, humor, and essays in the early 20th century. Though not much known south of the border, he is a household name in his native Canada. One of his most popular works is Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town, published in 1912. The book is a series of stories set in Mariposa, a small town in Southern Canada, presumably in Ontario (because the Maritime Provinces are mentioned as a separate entity, and no one in Mariposa is French). Mariposa may be based on Leacock’s memories of his own hometown, Orillia, Ontario, but he stressed that the locale is a fictional amalgamation of many small towns in Canada.

Is Sunshine Sketches a collection of short stories or a novel? It’s a little of both, but I think it leans more towards the latter. The stories build on one another, so they should be read in order, and sometimes a story arc will be spread over two or three chapters. In form and structure, it can be easily compared to Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio. Sunshine Sketches is not a modernist work, however. There are no traces of Winesburg’s Freudian themes, nor will you find the cynicism of Sinclair Lewis’s depictions of small-town life. Leacock makes fun of the citizens of Mariposa, but he’s not laughing at them; he’s laughing with them, as if he counts himself among them. He writes in a style of jovial, old-fashioned storytelling along the lines of Bret Harte, with plenty of humor that calls to mind Mark Twain. Leacock, in fact, won a Mark Twain Medal in 1935 (awarded by the International Mark Twain Society). Nowadays, while the United States has a Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, inaugurated in 1998, Canada has a Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humor, first awarded in the 1940s.

Leacock’s stories of Mariposa are indeed funny, sometimes hilarious, and as charming as you would expect from a book with the title of Sunshine Sketches. The tone is very light. Occasionally you’ll find the melancholy mention of a lost loved one, but there are no dark themes here. Even when Leacock dwells on suicide, he manages to find humor in it. The reader quickly becomes enamored with this little town and gets emotionally involved in the characters’ lives. Leacock profiles Mr. Josh Smith, the portly and successful hotel keeper, Jefferson Thorpe, the barber with a shrewd knack for investments, and Reverend Drone, minister of the Anglican Church. Mr. Pupkin, the bank teller, courts Ms. Zena, the judge’s daughter. The Mariposans gather for a boat outing on Lake Wissanotti, engage in a fundraising campaign for the local church, and turn out in droves on election day. In all cases, these events turn out unexpectedly and with humorous consequences.

If you’ve ever traveled through rural villages in Southern Ontario, it’s easy to imagine a picturesque life similar to what Leacock depicts in Mariposa. Of course, such ideas are partially based on preconceived bucolic and idyllic storybook stereotypes. Leacock plays up to such notions but subverts them with wry and affectionate humor. I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin, and I had no trouble identifying with Leacock’s Canadian characters. I suspect that my hometown, in the time of my grandparents’ generation, was probably a lot like Mariposa. I imagine many Canadian students probably read Sunshine Sketches in school, but there’s no reason why this enjoyable book should be confined to an audience of Leacock’s countrymen. American readers should definitely check it out for a fun and enchanting read.

Black Caesars and Foxy Cleopatras: A History of Blaxploitation Cinema by Odie Henderson

From Harlem to Hollywood, and vice versa

Black Caesars and Foxy Cleopatras: A History of Blaxploitation Cinema was published in 2024. The author is Odie Henderson, film critic for the Boston Globe, who I think is probably right around my age. While I, however, grew up watching Burt Reynolds and Clint Eastwood movies in a small town in Wisconsin, Henderson grew up watching Pam Grier and Fred Williamson movies in Jersey City and Times Square. Henderson brings to this history a nostalgic enthusiasm for the genre but also an extensive knowledge of the film industry. For each movie he discusses, Henderson provides a wealth of behind-the-scenes stories about the making of the picture and the careers of those involved in its production.

In the first chapter, Henderson provides an overview of Black American cinema, pre-Blaxploitation. The bulk of the book then covers the years 1970 to 1978. Henderson considers Cotton Comes to Harlem to be the birth of the Blaxploitation genre (when Hollywood realized they could make money off of Black films) and The Wiz to be the nail in its coffin. In between, he highlights every major Blaxploitation film, as well as some lesser-known obscurities. Along the way, a number of subgenres are examined, such as horror films, westerns, rom-coms, high school dramas, women in prison, and of course, gangster/crime movies, like those starring the aforementioned Grier and Williamson.

I’ve seen at least half of the films discussed here, and after reading this book, I’d like to see the rest. Henderson provides plot summaries of all the movies he covers in the book. His synopses include spoilers, and they do often give away the endings of the films. By the time you get to the end of this information-rich genre survey, however, it’s unlikely you’re going to remember the difference between the conclusions of Uptown Saturday Night versus Let’s Do It Again or Hammer versus Bucktown. There is so much film criticism, film history, and film trivia crammed into this book. Throughout, Henderson’s prose is a joy to read, delivering a wealth of information in an addictively fun narrative, with just enough period slang to keep things cool while maintaining film-critic dignity and avoiding overly ostentatious cleverness. He intersperses the film-talk with a few stories of his youth, how he grew up watching these movies, but this is definitely not a memoir. It’s closer to an encyclopedia of the genre, although arranged chronologically. Henderson also includes a few brief interviews with a movie producer and a couple of fellow film critics.

My interest in Blaxploitation films springs mainly from their soundtracks, an important aspect of any film in this genre. Artists like Isaac Hayes (Shaft), Curtis Mayfield (Super Fly), Marvin Gaye (Trouble Man), James Brown (Black Caesar), Willie Hutch (The Mack), Bobby Womack and J. J. Johnson (Across 110th Street), Roy Ayers (Coffy), the Staples Singers (Let’s Do It Again), and The Impressions (Three the Hard Way) created some of the best soul music of the ‘70s in their scores and soundtracks. Although this is primarily a film book, Henderson does cover the music that accompanies the films he discusses. Perhaps as much as fifteen percent of the text might be concerned with music. There’s an entire chapter on Black concert films, and a sidebar on “The Top Ten Best Blaxploitation Songs.”

As a fan of 1970s cinema, I really enjoyed Black Caesars and Foxy Cleopatras. The only way to make this book better would be to make it bigger by adding more lesser-known films. Henderson has certainly got the biggest and best movies of the era well-covered. Inspired by this fun and fascinating study of the genre, I’ll be hunting down many of these movies on streaming services and YouTube.

The Enlightenment: The Pursuit of Happiness, 1680–1790 by Ritchie Robertson

An erudite, pan-European survey of the era

Ritchie Robertson is a British academic who has published several books on German literature. With his most recent book, however, Robertson has broadened his scope to encompass the pan-European movement known as the Age of Enlightenment. Published in 2021, Robertson’s book The Enlightenment is a sweeping synthesis that attempts to, and in my opinion succeeds in, providing a comprehensive summary of the era that encapsulates the intellectual and social landscape of the period.

Not surprisingly, Robertson focuses primarily on France, Britain, and Germany, but he does often reach farther afield into many other European nations, demonstrating that this was a truly continent-wide phenomenon. The United States doesn’t get a great deal of coverage. Jefferson and Franklin are occasionally discussed, and there’s a brief section on the American Revolution. Rather than examining specific nations or specific thinkers in turn, this book is organized thematically by issue or discipline. The result is much rapid jumping around among diverse locations and historical personages, but this approach helps in gaining an understanding of the overall zeitgeist and important debates in Enlightenment thought. Figures like Immanuel Kant, David Hume, or Voltaire are mentioned in almost every subchapter. If you wanted to get an overall picture of Kant’s thought, for example, you’d have to search around for two sentences here and three sentences there, but if you did so, you’d get a very good understanding of what Kant was all about.

The one thread that tied the myriad endeavors of the Enlightenment together was a striving for an improvement in the happiness of the human race, whether it be through technology, philosophy, politics, law, or some other means. That may seem like an obvious and simplistic answer. Hasn’t mankind always striven for happiness? Well, no, not really. For much of the past two thousand years the prevailing view (at least in the Western world) was that life is an ordeal to be endured so that one could be rewarded with happiness in the afterlife. The Enlightenment is often thought of as a period of extreme secularization and rising atheism, and there definitely was some turning away from prior superstitions and religious dogma, but Robertson asserts that the religious landscape of the Enlightenment was far more complex and heterogenous than widely assumed. The trend of the age was not necessarily antireligious but rather an effort to reconcile religion with reason, to question religion and theology in order to clarify them, so that religion is the product of active thought rather than passive acceptance.

Robertson’s study is not only through but also well-balanced. This isn’t just a book about how great certain Enlightenment thinkers were and what important political and scientific advances were made. Robertson also pays attention to the prejudices, superstitions, and ignorances active during this period. He presents the progress of Enlightenment thought as a series of debates, or exercises in trial and error, and gives as much consideration to those in the wrong as those in the right.

I takes a very skilled writer and researcher to encapsulate an era in one volume like this. Robertson’s book is comprehensive enough to serve as a textbook for an undergraduate course, but it doesn’t read like a textbook. The prose is accessible to general readers, and history buffs will find much food for fascination here. Robertson’s breadth of knowledge is impressive. He seems to have read just about everything published between the two dates in the subtitle, as well as the scholarly literature of recent years. For anyone interested in this period, the notes and bibliography are a treasure trove of further readings. Though I thought I had a good idea of what the Enlightenment was all about, Robertson really broadened my understanding and heightened my interest in this pivotal age in history.

The Misty Harbour by Georges Simenon

Maigret on the Waterfront

The Misty Harbour, published in 1932, is the 15th novel in Georges Simenon’s series of Inspector Maigret mystery novels and the 30th book from that series that I have read and reviewed so far. The book’s original French title is Les port des brumes, and it has also been published in English under varying configurations of Death of a Harbor Master. The Maigret books are consistently good but not always excellent. The Misty Harbour is one of the better ones. This mystery grabs you from page one and keeps you gripped until the very end.

As the title indicates, The Misty Harbour takes place in a fog-bound seaside town: Ouistreham on the coast of Calvados, Normandy. This town serves as the seaport to the city of Caen, to which it is connected via a canal. In Paris, where Maigret serves as the superintendant of the Police Judiciaire, a John Doe is found wandering the streets. He has no memory of his identity, appears to have suffered some brain damage, and has lost the power of speech. The man has a gunshot wound to his cranium that appears to have received some medical attention. The Paris police send out newspaper articles to help ascertain the mystery man’s identity. His housekeeper responds, identifying him as Yves Joris, the harbor master at Ouistreham. She has no idea what happened to him or why he’s in Paris. Maigret accompanies Joris and the housekeeper on the train back to Ouistreham to investigate the cause of the harbor master’s injury. Shortly after arriving in the coastal town, Joris drops dead, apparently murdered by poison.

In Ouistreham, social life revolves around the waterfront tavern la Buvette de la Marine. Maigret makes several visits to the establishment to toss back a few beers with the local inhabitants and find out what they know, but nobody’s talking. The population of the town consists mostly of sailors and other working men who make their living from the sea. Many of them speak the Breton language. These men make frequent trips to England, the Netherlands, or Norway to ship goods to and from Caen. A few upper-class inhabitants, who have made their fortunes in the shipping industry, also have homes in Ouistreham. Among these is the town’s mayor, Monsieur Grandmaison, a particularly prickly character who seems to have something to hide. He repeatedly butts heads with Maigret and challenges the inspector’s authority.

Having read so many Maigret novels, I’ve gotten to the point where I can sometimes foresee where Simenon’s mystery plots are going, but this case was sufficiently perplexing that I couldn’t figure out what was going on until all is revealed in the final chapter. Atypical of Maigret novels, this one sports a few action scenes, violence included, in which Maigret gives and takes blows with the rough and tumble sailors of Ouistreham. Sailors and bargemen are frequently featured in Maigret novels. Simenon clearly has an affinity for those who live and work at sea or on the canals of France, as seen in such novels as Lock 14, The Grand Banks Café, The Flemish House, Maigret and the Headless Corpse, and Maigret and the Bum. One of the joys of reading the Maigret books is learning about different aspects of life in France, and The Misty Harbour provides a vivid glimpse into the maritime lifestyle on the Norman coast in the 1930s. In all respects, The Misty Harbour is an exceptional example of Simenon’s and Maigret’s work, one well worth reading for fans or newcomers to the series.

Dr. Adriaan by Louis Couperus

Full house in Holland

Dr. Adriaan, published in 1903, is the fourth and final novel in the Books of the Small Souls series by Dutch author Louis Couperus, having been preceded by 1) Small Souls, 2) The Later Life, and 3) The Twilight of the Souls. This fourth installment takes place ten years after The Twilight of the Souls. Adriaan (Addie) van der Welcke, now 26, has realized his dream of becoming a physician. He is a general practitioner, which at the time included the treatment of various nervous disorders which are now under the domain of psychiatrists. In such cases, Addie has become known for his adept use of hypnotism as a treatment technique. He now has a wife, Mathilde, and two toddler children.

Addie and his family reside with his parents, Baron Henri van der Welcke and Constance (née van Lowe), who have inherited the Van der Welcke estate in Driebergen, a country town outside of the Hague. In the previous novel, Constance’s brother Gerrit van Lowe died, leaving behind a wife and nine children. Addie, who has always been mature beyond his years, has assumed the guardianship of this family, even though he is only six years older than the eldest of Gerrit’s children. They all live in the Driebergen mansion, as do elderly Mama van Lowe and a few cousins with various ailments whom Addie is treating for free. At one point in the book, I counted 19 residents in the Driebergen house, not counting servants, plus a few other relatives living nearby who show up for dinner almost every night. Addie’s wife Mathilde does not fit in with the Van Lowe family and resents the fact that she has to share her husband with his numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins. This causes problems in their marriage. Addie is happy living in Driebergen, generously offering his medical skills to the country poor, but Mathilde would prefer they move back to the Hague, where Addie can become a fashionable big-city doctor and grow a prosperous practice serving the urban wealthy.

The closest literary analogy I can make to Couperus’s Small Souls series is the Jalna novels by Canadian author Mazo de la Roche. Both feature a large family of distinct personalities whose lives revolve almost entirely around each other and their family dinners at Grandma’s house. The Jalna novels are a little prone to soap-opera melodrama, however, while the Small Souls books read more like real life. Dr. Adriaan doesn’t have many of the momentous or scandalous events one can frequently count on in family sagas: love affairs, deaths, crimes, divorces, etc. Instead, these small souls tend to live small quiet lives like most of us do. Couples question their relationships. Siblings quarrel. Young people try to find their direction in life. Aging people come to terms with old regrets and resign themselves to contentment. Some deal with pesky, non-fatal illnesses, both physical and mental. If this were the first novel in the series, such prosaic happenings might be too boring to be justified. Couperus, however, has developed these characters over the course of four volumes, so that the reader has come to know them, identify with them, feel for them, and become invested in their lives and struggles. Anyone who’s read the first three Small Souls novels will be thoroughly engaged from the first page of Dr. Adriaan.

Although Couperus could have kept this series going for at least another novel or two, he does conclude Dr. Adriaan with a touch of finality, and he never returned to the Van Lowe family. A naturalist in a similar mode as Emile Zola or Theodore Dreiser, Couperus enjoyed some popularity in English translation in the early 20th century, but I think it’s fair to say he has since largely been forgotten by American readers. That’s a shame, because he really is a very talented and accomplished novelist who deserves worldwide recognition, as evidenced by his compelling Books of the Small Souls.

Of Love and Dust by Ernest J. Gaines

African-American novel of Southern racial realism

Ernest J. Gaines is an African-American writer known for his novels The Autobiography of Jane Pittman and the Oprah’s Book Club selection A Lesson Before Dying, both of which were made into Emmy-winning TV movies. Gaines, the recipient of many literary awards and honorary doctorates, was born to a sharecropping family on a Louisiana plantation. His 1967 novel Of Love and Dust, is set on a plantation outside Baton Rouge in the 1940s.

Though slavery in the American South officially ended roughly four score years prior to the time of this story, the Hebert Plantation employs many Black laborers through debt bondage, a system of indentured servitude very similar to slavery. Marshall Hebert, the current owner, also acquires workers from the local prisons. A young Black man named Marcus Payne is sent to jail for murdering another young Black man in a barfight. Marshall buys Marcus’s bond, releasing him from incarceration. In exchange, Marshall gets five years of plantation labor out of Marcus. Marcus is a proud man with a chip on his shoulder who refuses to bow down to White men in power. He insists it’s only a matter of time before he escapes the plantation and runs to freedom. As a result of his cockiness and insubordination, Marcus draws the ire of the Cajun overseer, Sydney Bonbon, who works Marcus harder than the other workers in an attempt to break his spirit. The novel is narrated by James Kelly, a Black man and veteran worker on the Hebert Plantation who “onboards” Marcus into the plantation workforce, acts as his supervisor during the farm work, and looks after him in off hours. Kelly and Marcus develop a relationship that’s part friendly and part adversarial.

There ends up being more love than dust in this novel. That is to say, it starts out as a muckraking exposé about the exploitation of agricultural laborers, but it soon turns into a story more about the racial politics of love and sex. In 1940s Louisiana, White man and Black woman is OK, as long as nobody talks about it. Black man and White woman, however, is not only frowned upon but also possibly a capital offense for the Black man involved.

Gaines has written Of Love and Dust in a very down-to-earth realist style, with little modernist experimentation. Much like the writing of John Steinbeck, it is modern in the sense that it deals with the modern world, modern themes, and modern psychology, but the prose is straightforward and not in any way linguistically opaque like William Faulkner’s depictions of the South. This is not a simple black-and-white tale of violence and oppression between overseers and enslaved. There are complex motivations here and some sly scheming going on as characters, both Black and White, jockey for an advantage in this power struggle. At times the plot twists, as well as the cleverly written but period-realistic dialogue, reminded me of an Elmore Leonard novel.

Of Love and Dust has a problem with its pacing. The middle portion of the novel is rather drawn-out and repetitive, to the point where the reader is ready to say, “OK, I get it. Let’s move on.” The ending, however, feels rushed and crammed into the last ten pages. Suspense builds to the point where the reader has a right to expect an epic confrontation, but what’s delivered doesn’t quite live up to expectations. But that’s realism. A more thrilling conclusion might have put this novel into the realm of a potboiler or adventure story when it really belongs more in the domain of tragedy. The slice of history depicted here deserves more than a formulaic story of villains and victims, and Gaines commendably delivers something much more nuanced, complex, and authentic.

The Twilight of the Souls by Louis Couperus

Neuroses of the Dutch

Louis Couperus (1863–1923) is one of the most prominent authors in modern Dutch literature, and many of his works have been published in English translation. His novel The Twilight of the Souls, published in 1902, is the third book in a series of four novels known as The Books of Small Souls, the first two volumes being Small Souls and The Later Life. These novels chronicle the lives of the fictional Van Lowe family. The eight Van Lowe siblings grew up on the East Indian island of Java, where their father was Dutch governor general. When the first novel begins, the father is deceased, the siblings are now in their thirties, forties, and fifties and residing in The Hague, most with children of their own. Collectively, the prestige and fortunes of the Van Lowes have taken a gradual downward turn since Papa’s glory days in the diplomatic service.

The first two novels concentrated primarily on Constance van der Welcke (née van Lowe) and her immediate family. The Twilight of the Souls broadens its focus to other members of the Van Lowe clan, allowing the reader to learn more about siblings who were barely mentioned in the two previous volumes. The family gathers weekly at elderly Mama van Lowe’s house for Sunday dinner and card games. Her children do their best to keep Mama unaware of the family’s problems, but some scandals and tragedies are too big to sweep under the rug. In the opening chapter of The Twilight of the Souls, we find that Ernst van Lowe is going mad. A bachelor who leads a largely solitary life, Ernst is hearing voices and experiencing hallucinations. He envisions scores of “souls” chained to him, wailing in pain, whom he must guard and protect. The rest of the family comes to Ernst’s aid in finding him psychiatric help. He is not the only Van Lowe, however, experiencing mental problems in this novel.

At times in this novel, Couperus gives a somewhat romanticized depiction of mental illness, in that the hallucinations described are almost operatically dramatic. There’s nothing here beyond the realm of realism, however; Couperus almost invariably draws his characters with an authentic psychological verisimilitude. The reader has no trouble believing or relating to the psychological maladies of the characters—Gerrit’s depression, Paul’s OCD and germaphobia, Mama’s forebodings of death. In the Van Lowe family, Couperus has created an ensemble cast with whom the reader can identify and become emotionally invested. While The Twilight of the Souls is a very fine novel in its own right, its merits are compounded by the foundation that Couperus built in the first two novels, upon which this third installment productively builds.

The whole idea behind the concept of “small souls” is that these characters are shaped and controlled by rather petty concerns—social climbing, family squabbles, keeping up appearances, and so on. This never feels shallow or inconsequential, however, because it is a reflection of real life, or most of our real lives, anyway. In each novel, certain characters strive to rise above the “smallness” of their lives to find a deeper meaning and a more fulfilling existence. Most readers can identify with such endeavors, especially when revealed with the sensitivity and insight that Couperus brings to these books. In the saga of the Van Lowes, one is sure to find some engaging parallels to their own personal and family dramas.

Another plot thread taken up in this book is that Adriaan van der Welcke, now 16 or 17 years of age, has decided that he does not wish to pursue a career in the diplomatic service and instead wants to become a physician. This leads us to volume four in the series, entitled Dr. Adriaan.