For opera lovers only
Count Andrea Marcosini, a handsome, young, Milanese nobleman temporarily banished by his home country, strolls the streets of Paris, enjoying the New Year’s festivities of 1831. He spies a young woman of radiant beauty, and though by her shabby dress she appears to be far beneath his social class, he pursues her in hopes of an amorous conquest. She leads him through a red light district to the door of a run-down boarding house inhabited by Italian expatriates. He enters the house under the pretext of dining at its table d’hôte, and sits down to a meal with the tenants. He discovers that the young woman, Marianna, is the wife of Paolo Gambara, an aspiring composer. Andrea and Gambara bond over a love of Beethoven, and the two form a friendship while Andrea attempts to woo the other’s wife. Despite possessing a profound intellect, Gambara is a failure as a composer because his work is far too radically avant garde for the audience of his day. To Andrea’s ears, Gambara’s music is merely a hideous cacophony. Taking the composer under his wing, Andrea ventures to boost Gambara’s career by getting him drunk, in hopes that the alcohol will subdue his intellectual genius and allow his poetic passion to shine through.
Balzac is a superb author, and nine times out of ten I enjoy his work, but getting through this one was a grueling experience. Gambara is a novella, but feels a lot longer. At least half of the text is taken up by Gambara’s blow-by-blow commentary of two operas. One is a fictional masterpiece of his own making; the other is Robert le Diable by Meyerbeer. These lengthy, mind-numbing descriptions, sprinkled with key changes, can only be loved by the most enthusiastic patron of the opera or those possessing a master’s degree in classical music. The sole purpose of the story seems to be to allow Balzac to showcase his ability to express musical concepts in prose. The story that surrounds these passages is not particularly engaging, and the touching epilogue is not moving enough to redeem all the boredom that precedes it. Gambara can be seen as a companion piece to The Hidden Masterpiece, another tragedy of artistic genius by Balzac. The latter story, which focuses on painting instead of music, is far more interesting, more elegantly written, and more accessible to the general reader. All but the most diehard admirers of Balzac should steer clear of Gambara.
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A heaping helping of skillfully crafted pulp fiction
Now known as one of America’s best writers of crime fiction, Elmore Leonard got his start writing western tales for pulp fiction magazines in the 1950s. This retrospective collection of his western work consists of thirty short stories and novellas, presented in chronological order.
If thirty stories sounds like a lot, it is. With that many entries, this collection can’t help but get repetitive. How many stagecoach robberies can fit between the covers of one book? Though none of the characters appear in more than one story, the same types continually pop up under new names. The first seven or eight stories lead the reader to believe Leonard may be a one-trick pony. He confines his subject and setting to the Apache country of Arizona. The protagonist is usually a civilian scout hired to guide a party of soldiers, settlers, or criminals through Indian lands. No matter how much the hero warns his employers about the dangers of such a trip, they stubbornly refuse to listen and plod forward regardless, with dire consequences. Though Leonard has a respectful admiration for the Apaches, his portrayal of them is a stereotype nonetheless. He depicts them as stoic killing machines, keenly intelligent and shrewdly calculating, until a drop of alcohol transforms them into murderous lunatics. Though these early stories are strong individually, when read together they inspire a cumulative Apache fatigue.
Thankfully, after the first quarter of the book Leonard broadens his scope and gets more innovative with his plots and characterization. In “The Big Hunt,” a young buffalo hunter and his companion, an old skinner, amass a bountiful collection of hides, but when the fruit of their labor is stolen from them by some bullies, the boy must set out after the thieves in search of restitution. “Saint with a Six-Gun” tells the tale of a newly appointed deputy marshal assigned to guard a dangerous gunslinger the week before his execution, a mission which may be more than the green lawman can handle. In “The Rancher’s Lady,” a widower goes to meet his new bride, whom he has only known through correspondence. Upon arrival, however, a former acquaintance informs him that she used to be employed at a house of ill repute. Despite its lack of shoot-’em-up action, it’s one of the strongest selections in the book. There are several longer, novella-length pieces which give Leonard the opportunity to establish an ensemble cast of characters and explore the interactions between them. One such entry is “Trouble at Rindo’s Station,” in which a disgruntled Indian affairs agent, his crooked ex-boss, and a couple of stagecoach robbing outlaws find themselves trapped by a violent band of Mescaleros. As the collection progresses, Leonard’s writing goes from good to better to excellent. By the end of the book he has perfected the art of dialogue, and one begins to see the emergence of the wry, rapid-fire banter that characterizes his Chili Palmer or Raylan Givens books. The last two stories in the book, “The Tonto Woman” and “‘Hurrah for Captain Early!’” were included in Leonard’s 2001 short story collection Fire in the Hole, and are both excellent examples of his later, mature style.
With very few exceptions, these are all well-crafted, entertaining stories. Even if you’re not particularly a fan of the western genre, if you like Leonard’s writing, you will enjoy this book. When originally written, these stories were not intended to be read together, and redundancy is an unfortunate by-product of their juxtaposition. The solution: don’t read them all at once. To fully appreciate this hearty 30-course chuck wagon dinner, take a break between helpings and savor the flavor.
Stories in this collection
Trail of the Apache
Apache Medicine
You Never See Apaches . . .
Red Hell Hits Canyon Diablo
The Colonel’s Lady
Law of the Hunted Ones
Cavalry Boots
Under the Friar’s Ledge
The Rustlers
Three-Ten to Yuma
The Big Hunt
Long Night
The Boy Who Smiled
The Hard Way
The Last Shot
Blood Money
Trouble at Rindo’s Station
Saint with a Six-Gun
The Captives
No Man’s Guns
The Rancher’s Lady
Jugged
Moment of Vengeance
Man with the Iron Arm
The Longest Day of His Life
The Nagual
The Kid
Only Good Ones
The Tonto Woman
“Hurrah for Captain Early!”
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A comprehensive overview of the fascinating saga of Mexico
First published in 1997, Mexico: Biography of Power is a monumental examination of two centuries of modern Mexican history. Historian Enrique Krauze approaches the story of Mexico through a series of biographical chapters on powerful and influential men. The cast of characters is composed mostly of Presidents, along with a few famous revolutionaries. Though the book does have its share of dull stretches and inconsistencies, overall it is astonishingly thorough, immensely educational, and, at times, amazingly entertaining.
Though the subtitle of the book delineates its scope from 1810 to 1996, Krauze does provide five preliminary chapters that summarize Mexican history from ancient times to the beginning of the 19th century. The real meat of the book, however, doesn’t really start until the 1810 War of Independence. Like many contemporary historians, Krauze displays a bias toward the 20th century at the expense of what came before. With the exception of a very good chapter on Santa Ana, Krauze’s treatment of the 19th century feels a bit cursory, as if he wants to get it over with so he can move on to the good stuff. Benito Juárez really gets the short shrift here when compared to the in-depth treatment Krauze bestows upon the 20th-century Presidents.
The book really hits its stride when it gets to the Revolution of 1910. The biographies of Madero, Zapata, Villa, Carranza, Obregón, Calles, and Cárdenas are absolutely fascinating. The passages in which Krauze describes the humble origins of many of these powerful leaders are among the book’s most intriguing, perhaps because they constitute almost the only glimpse the reader gets into the lives of the common people of Mexico. This is very much a political history, and for the most part Krauze leads the reader to believe Mexico is a nation populated entirely by statesmen. At times it reads more like a civics lesson than a national history, but at least it’s an excellent civics lesson. Krauze provides an intricately detailed and keenly insightful view of the Mexican political system that is truly eye-opening for the non-Mexican reader. In the chapter on President Miguel Alemán, Krauze gives a brilliant, in-depth explanation of the development of the PRI, the political party that ruled Mexico unchecked for seven decades, and the dictatorial system of corruption and cronyism that it established. The book climaxes with the 1968 massacre at Tlatelolco, where government forces fired upon student demonstrators. Krauze was involved in the student movement and offers some autobiographical perspective on the tumultuous sixties and their aftermath. The ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s are summarized rather briefly, mostly following the PRI Presidents but also touching upon the Zapatista rebellion in Chiapas. It’s a shame the book was published before the Presidential election of 2000, in which the PRI was defeated, because I’m sure Krauze could have written a provocative final chapter on that event.
Focusing on the lives of individuals in order to elucidate the broader picture of Mexican history is a strategy that pays off well for Krauze. Despite the fact that the narrative is broken up into separate lives, Krauze does an excellent job of illuminating the continuum of Mexican history and drawing parallels between the past and present. The English translation by Hank Heifetz is very well written, but the book is still a difficult read. It is so densely packed with information that it requires intense concentration to get through. There’s about two semesters worth of undergraduate course material crammed into these 800 pages. For the general reader with an enthusiasm for Mexican history and culture, the knowledge gleaned from these pages is well worth the effort. It’s hard to imagine a more comprehensive and authoritative encapsulation of the subject.
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Pulp fiction with a twist
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| Frank Norris |
Moran of the Lady Letty, originally published in 1898, was Frank Norris’s first published novel. Although an avid fan of Norris, having read some of his nautical adventure stories in the collection A Deal in Wheat, I did not approach this work with very high expectations. Soon after diving in, however, I was pleasantly surprised by how well-written and entertaining it is.
Ross Wilbur is an educated young member of San Francisco’s upper class. Killing time one afternoon before a society ball, he decides to take a stroll along the waterfront, where he is abducted by a sea captain and forced into service among the crew of a schooner. After an abusive welcome, he is informed by the captain that they will be fishing for sharks along the coast of Mexico for a few weeks, after which time Wilbur will be returned to his home port. After overcoming the initial shock of his capture, Wilbur resigns himself to his fate and actually begins to enjoy life at sea. The shark hunting is interrupted, however, when the crew stumbles upon a drifting, apparently abandoned ship named the “Lady Letty.” Upon investigation they discover one survivor aboard, who, much to Wilbur’s surprise, turns out to be a woman. Far from a damsel in distress, Moran, as the young woman is named, soon proves herself as fiercely independent, coarsely mannered, and physically powerful as any masculine sailor on the high seas.
Norris was a disciple of the naturalistic writing style of French novelist Emile Zola. The best thing about Moran of the Lady Letty is that, despite the pulp fiction absurdity of its subject matter, Norris employs the same naturalistic style he would later utilize in the writing of masterpieces like The Octopus and McTeague. While the events of the narrative at times venture into the extraordinary, Norris’s impeccably drawn characters and settings ground the story within the real world.
The book does have its flaws. The Chinese characters in the book are at times portrayed as unflattering racial stereotypes. There is a “mystery of the sea” that’s neither very mysterious nor satisfactorily resolved. The middle of the book drags a bit, but eventually crescendoes into a thrilling, climactic battle scene. Overall, however, the novel is not so much about adventure as it is about the relationship between Wilbur and Moran. She is unlike any woman he has ever seen before, so how could he help but fall in love with her? Wilbur is no weakling, but an athletic man and veteran of the Yale rowing team. Nevertheless, unlike Moran, who was raised at sea, his killer instinct has been dulled by civilization, and in many ways she is more macho than he. Only by getting in touch with his inner animal can he hope to earn her respect. Not only does Norris take the reader on a thrilling ride, by including this added degree of psychological and philosophical complexity to the story, he lifts it above the level of a typical adventure tale.
The Kindle edition that’s offered for free on Amazon has one major flaw. In chapter one, the hero receives a letter from a friend. In chapter four, a character sings a song. In the Project Gutenberg edition of the book, these two excerpts are set as indented text in a different font. When Amazon took that file and converted it to Kindle format, those two paragraphs were deleted. While these two omissions won’t greatly hinder your understanding of the work, the loss of the letter in chapter one does create an awkward moment of disorientation. It’s not a huge loss, but be forewarned if you download this file you’re only getting 99.99% of the book.
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Not your average boxing story
The Abysmal Brute is a boxing novel by Jack London, originally published in 1913. Over the course of his career, London wrote a handful of very good boxing stories. His gritty, naturalistic writing style is well-suited to the sport, and he always finds a clever way to approach the ring from an unexpected angle, never settling for the typically formulaic, underdog-overcomes-adversity-to-win-the-championship story line.
Young Pat Glendon, the protagonist of The Abysmal Brute, is anything but an underdog. As London describes him, he may very well be the greatest boxer who ever lived. The son of a former champ, Young Pat is a proverbial “babe in the woods” who is brought out of the wilderness to embark on a big-city prizefighting career. This young Hercules of the forest has been blessed with a remarkable physical strength and prodigious natural talents that have been polished to brilliance under the tutelage of his father. A sensitive young man more disposed toward reading poetry than pugilism, Pat shows little enthusiasm for his new vocation. Stubener, the lucky man chosen to manage this ultimate fighter, finds himself charged with the difficult task of finding challenging opponents, while shielding the young man’s innocent eyes from the corruption and graft which pervades the entire system of fight promotion.
In addition to possessing an obviously profound knowledge of his subject, London exhibits a true love for boxing. His enthusiasm is infectious, even to the reader who otherwise cares little for the sport. The detailed, naturalistic descriptions of boxing matches, the people who fight them, and the combat strategy involved really creates the feeling of being in the ring with the contenders. The vivid realism is somewhat counteracted by the fact that London makes his hero into such a superman that his perfection defies believability. On the other hand, with a little updating this book could easily be turned into a Hollywood movie (where defying believability is commonplace).
When compared to London’s other boxing stories, The Abysmal Brute is on a par with London’s other boxing novel, The Game, but not as compelling as his excellent short stories “A Piece of Steak” and “The Mexican,” which are far more dark and serious in tone. Though there’s a sprinkling of London’s pet philosophical themes throughout the story—evolution, nature vs. nurture, the individual vs. the system, rebellion against injustice—overall this novel has a relatively light-hearted feel. The Abysmal Brute is a brief and entertaining read with enough unexpected turns in its plot to qualify it as a pleasant surprise.
The paperback edition from Bison books features an introductory essay by Michael Oriard that puts the book into historical context and gives the reader a good picture of the boxing world of a hundred years ago. Oriard also addresses the issue of whether or not London was a racist, and the role of race in boxing at the turn of the century.
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Lacking in detail and insight
I’ve read a lot of books on the Canadian painters The Group of Seven, but mostly of the coffee table variety. Hoping for some more detailed biographical information on these artists, I turned to this book, which is often cited as a source in the bibliographies of said coffee table books. First published in 1926, when most of the artists in the movement were still alive and active, this biography of the Group was written by F. B. Housser, an art collector, friend of the artists, and, judging by his writing, their biggest booster. Unfortunately, despite its over 200 pages of length, there’s not a great deal of useful information here above and beyond what you find summarized in the brief introductory essays of heavily illustrated volumes.
This book contains no illustrations, which is just fine for a biography. The problem is, due to the lack of pictures, Housser feels the need to fill many pages—entire chapters, in fact—with descriptions of paintings. While this was a common practice in early 20th century art criticism, today’s reader can just type the title of a painting into Google and see what it looks like. There’s little need or desire to read page after page of “orange trees in the foreground, purple mountains in back,” etc. Housser also quotes long excerpts from exhibition reviews, most of them derogatory towards the group. This may be of interest to historians, but not particularly useful to those who are simply admirers of the painters and their work. It’s odd how little biographical information seems to be available on the members of the Group, even basic facts like who was married and who had kids are absent from this account. Most of the biographical information contained here consists of travel itineraries—who went on which painting trips to what geographical locations and when. There are excerpts from letters written by the painters, mostly praising the scenery of the locations they visited. Perhaps the most disappointing aspect of the book is that it really only discusses five artists: Tom Thomson, Lawren Harris, A.Y. Jackson, Arthur Lismer, and J.E.H. MacDonald. There might be one page each on Franklin Carmichael and F. H. Varley; the other artists associated with the Group are barely mentioned, if at all.
Housser repeatedly hammers home the point that these artists were breaking with the traditions of Europe, creating their own uniquely Canadian form of expression. The clear light of the Canadian North, he claims, could not be reproduced by the traditional methods of the Barbizon school, and demanded a new style of painting. He also stresses that these artists were uneducated in academic methods, then contradicts himself when he tells of their trips to Europe to study painting. Housser continually tries to create the illusion that the Group of Seven sprung up in a vacuum, with little ties to the past. It comes across as a disingenuous assertion. Those who truly enjoy the Group of Seven’s work may find a few nuggets of inspiration and enlightenment within this inadequate account of their lives and careers, but it’s too dull and uninformed to hold the attention of most readers. If there is a really good detailed biography of the Group of Seven out there, I haven’t found it yet.
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More than just an epilogue
Doctor Pascal is the final book in Zola’s twenty-novel Rougon-Macquart series. While it serves the purpose of an epilogue, it is also an impressive novel in its own right, and stands alone as a great work of literature. Pascal Rougon is a semi-retired physician who devotes most of his time to the study of evolution. An important asset in his research is the cabinet of files he keeps on his own diverse and dysfunctional family, the Rougons and Macquarts. Through detailed descriptions of these family dossiers, Zola reviews the events of the previous nineteen novels. In doing so, he provides us with a “Where are they now?” synopsis of the characters, and thoroughly explains the theories of heredity that underlie the series.
Evolutionary discourse only comprises a portion of the book, however, as most of the novel is devoted to the relationship between Pascal and his young niece Clotilde. In Pascal, Zola creates a very autobiographical character, and allows us glimpses into his private life. Zola fancied himself a scientist, and his novels his experiments. At the time Zola wrote this book he was falling in love with a young mistress of his own. Throughout the book, Pascal, approaching old age, looks back on his life and contemplates its purpose. Zola uses Pascal as a mouthpiece to ponder aloud philosophical issues, like the conflict between knowledge and faith. Can the two coexist, or must one vanquish the other in order for mankind to truly progress? He debates the definition of a life well-spent: Is it better to devote one’s time on this earth to work, or to the enjoyment of simpler pleasures like love and family? While many men seek immortality through offspring, Pascal has spent his whole life striving for an intellectual legacy of scientific achievement. As he feels the end of his life drawing nearer, he, like Zola, wonders if he has made the right choice.
I would not put this work in the same class as Zola’s four or five masterpieces, but it’s in the better half of the Rougon-Macquart saga. Those who have enjoyed some of Zola’s better-known novels will find much to enjoy in this one as well.
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