The Scarlet Plague by Jack London

So-so sci-fi
In the year 2073, a feeble old man squats beside a campfire and imparts to his grandsons the oral history of their ancestors. They know him only as “Granser,” but in 2013 he was James Howard Smith, professor of literature at the University of California. That was the year the scarlet death swept through the world, nearly wiping humanity off the face of the planet. Only a few survivors remained to eke out a primitive existence and begin the construction of a new civilization.

Though best known for his wilderness adventure stories, Jack London was also one of America’s first great science fiction writers. The future of The Scarlet Plague bears some resemblance to the dystopian vision of London’s great novel The Iron Heel, a work far superior to this one. In both books, America is subjected to the iron rule of an oligarchy of wealthy capitalists. In The Scarlet Plague, disease is the great leveler of class. After the red death wipes away human civilization, what remains is a primeval world where strength triumphs over wealth, brutality over culture, and ignorance over education.

This is a rather short novel; it could have been much more compelling had it been fleshed out a little more. As it stands, the two narratives (2013 and 2073) compete with each other for space so that neither is fully developed. Despite touching on issues of class, the main purpose of The Scarlet Plague is entertainment, not education. Though it’s definitely not what you would call feel-good entertainment, it has the feeling of a modern-day post-apocalyptic sci-fi B-movie. There are evil characters that act in their self-interest, and noble characters that act for the good of humanity. Tearful goodbyes are said to perishing loved ones, and harsh conditions bring love to strange bedfellows. Regrettably, it’s impossible for a 21st century audience who has developed an immunity to such cinematic conventions to fully appreciate how truly shocking and ground breaking this novel must have been to the original audience of 1912. If you enjoy London’s sci-fi writings you’ll find much to like in The Scarlet Plague, but don’t read it unless you’ve already read The Iron Heel.
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Michael Strogoff by Jules Verne

An espionage thriller set in czarist Siberia
Unlike the books for which Jules Verne is famous, Michael Strogoff, first published in 1876, is not a visionary science fiction novel but a classic romantic adventure. The title character is a courier for the Czar of Russia. A Tartar rebellion has arisen in Siberia, cutting off telegraph communication to much of the eastern frontier and leaving the Czar’s brother, the Grand Duke, isolated in the eastern city of Irkutsk. The Czar commissions Michael to travel to Irkutsk to deliver a message of vital importance. The journey of over 2,500 miles will take him through territory occupied by the Tartar hordes, therefore he must conceal his identity by masquerading as a merchant. Soon after his departure he meets a young woman who is traveling alone to Irkutsk to reunite with her father, a political exile. Out of a gentlemanly concern for the young lady, and partly to reinforce his cover, Michael suggests to her that they make the journey together as brother and sister. Together the two travelers, Michael and Nadia, embark on an epic adventure fraught with peril.

The year of the tale is unspecified, yet one can assume it was intended to take place around the time it was written. The Tartar rebellion described in the story is entirely fictional. Nevertheless, Verne puts a great deal of effort into verisimilitude by providing detailed depictions of Russia and Siberia. He minutely describes every region and town along the road—its topography, its citizenry, its soil and vegetation, and its main exports. Far from becoming tedious, this National Geographic-like attention to detail really elevates this adventure above others of its genre by vibrantly bringing this remote and exotic country to life. It seems obvious to the reader that Verne has traveled this road, all the while taking copious notes of the sights and sounds of his journey, yet Wikipedia states that he never actually travelled there, and his information comes entirely from second-hand research.

The setting and the epic tone of the story call to mind the great Polish historical trilogy by Henryk Sienkiewicz, which largely takes place on the Ukrainian steppe. As Michael navigates through enemy territory, the book also reads as a sort of 19th-century James Bond story. In keeping with his times, however, Strogoff is much more of a Boy Scout than Bond. At times the saintliness of Michael and Nadia becomes a bit cloying, and Michael’s relentlessly noble and virtuous nature comes across as too superhuman. The story is a little predictable at first, not in an unsatisfying way, but in the way that most Hollywood adventure stories are predictable. Then, about two-thirds of the way through, something happens that I did not see coming at all. This unexpected event brings a truly original slant to the story and really separates this tale from countless other adventure narratives. At certain points in the book things take place that defy believability, but this is Jules Verne after all; it ain’t Tolstoy. These transgressions are to be forgiven once things are wrapped up in the final chapter, and all is explained to the reader’s satisfaction.

My previous experience with Jules Verne consists solely of reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Like most readers, I suspect, I had no idea that Verne wrote this kind of romantic historical adventure story. Now that I know, I plan to seek out more of his writings. Michael Strogoff is not a masterpiece, but it is a solid, enjoyable read for enthusiasts of classic adventure fiction.
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Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson

Two-thirds of a masterpiece
First published in 1919, Winesburg, Ohio is a collection of 22 interrelated stories set in a fictional small town in the American Midwest. Though each story can stand alone as an individual work, they are so closely interwoven that some consider the book to be a novel. The protagonist of each story often makes a supporting appearance in the tale of his or her neighbor, relative, friend, or lover, while dozens of other characters are encountered only in brief cameos. George Willard, a young reporter for the local newspaper, appears in almost all the stories and unifies the various tales into a cohesive book. Everyone in town seems to consider him a kindred spirit, and they seek him out, asking him to serve as their confessor, chronicler, and/or psychiatrist.

In deceptively simple prose, Anderson vividly captures the everyday life of this small Ohio town during its period of transition from agrarianism to modern industrialization. The denizens of Winesburg struggle to find their place in this microcosm of modern society. Their sensitive souls are tormented by loneliness, isolation, guilt-ridden pasts, frustrated dreams, and a stifling ability to communicate their feelings and aspirations. Sinclair Lewis’s novel Main Street, published about the same time and also focusing on a Midwestern town, features an ambitious dreamer, Carrie Meeber, who envisions herself a prisoner within a conservative small town full of narrow minded bumpkins. In Winesburg, Ohio, everyone is Carrie Meeber. Everyone is a prisoner to something, and everyone wants out. For many of the characters, the big city represents salvation, as if their problems would just go away if they could escape to Cleveland, Cincinnati, or Chicago. More often than not, that salvation proves false and they return to Winesburg defeated. Having grown up in a small Midwestern town myself, I can say that much of Anderson’s portrayal of small town life rings true. It’s unclear, however, whether he’s proposing that the emotional turmoil and alienation felt by Winesburg’s residents is peculiar to the experience of small town life or merely indicative of the world at large.

Winesburg, Ohio is one of America’s earliest examples of modernist literature. Its influence on later modernist writers is readily apparent, most notably in the works of William Faulkner. While Anderson possesses a brilliant insight into human thought and emotion and expresses his vision in a beautiful narrative voice, most of the stories end all too abruptly and thus feel incomplete. It’s a conceit of modernism to think that it’s enough for the author to merely offer sketches of the way things are, without providing the reader with a satisfying beginning-middle-end plot structure. In most of these stories we’re deprived of an end, and one finishes each tale with the disappointment of having just read two-thirds of a novel, only to find the succeeding pages missing. The characters all finish their stories as if frozen in some tableau vivant. Reading Winesburg, Ohio is much like wandering through a gallery of Edward Hopper paintings. You’ve got a pretty good idea where these people have been, but you don’t have a clue where they’re going.
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Rome by Emile Zola

Too much travelogue, not enough novel
Originally published in 1896, Rome is the second volume in the Three Cities trilogy by French novelist Emile Zola, the first and final volumes being Lourdes and Paris, respectively. In this trilogy Zola delves into the history and politics of the Catholic church.

The protagonist of all three novels is Abbé Pierre Froment. In Lourdes Pierre seemed in danger of losing his faith, but Rome opens with the young priest experiencing a newfound fervor toward his calling. He has spent the last few years working to aid the poor, and has developed an enthusiasm for the concept of Christian socialism. He believes the Catholic church should focus less on acquiring wealth and political influence and concentrate more on alleviating human suffering and fostering brotherhood among mankind. He writes a book on the subject, in which he advocates a reversion by the church to the principles and practices of its primitive apostolic origins. His book is denounced by the Congregation of the Index, a committee of Vatican officials who compile a blacklist of books deemed dangerous to the church. Pierre travels to Rome to defend his book, hoping for an audience with the Pope himself. There he lodges with the Boccanera family, a formerly great and influential house that, like many of Rome’s aristocracy, has recently fallen on hard times. While maneuvering through the Vatican bureaucracy in an attempt to save his beloved book, Pierre becomes involved in the romantic and political dramas of his host family.

The story takes place in the late 19th century, shortly after Italy has gained its independence and absorbed the former Papal States. Zola repeatedly contrasts the former glory of Imperial Rome with the city’s present state of financial ruin and decay. The populace of Rome is split between two factions, the “black” and the “white”—those faithful to the Vatican and those loyal to the new Italian government. The church in turn is divided among those who adamantly cling to time-honored dogma and those who think the church must make concessions and broaden its appeal in order to survive in the modern world. Zola, ever the skeptic, inquires whether religion even has a place in the modern world, given the triumphs of science over superstition.

This is an ambitious work full of big philosophical ideas, and for that it is to be admired. Yet one wishes there were more of a novel here. Despite a few memorable scenes, there just isn’t enough story. In Rome, Zola is guilty of many of the same sins he committed in Lourdes. The first half the book is primarily a travelogue, with extremely detailed descriptions of the Roman skyline from various vantage points, accompanied by historical commentary. Meanwhile, Pierre makes little progress in his quest for a hearing, and the reader must endure a lengthy succession of fruitless meetings with various Cardinals, priests, and prelates, many of whom are indistinguishable from one another. In the second half the characters actually begin to develop, and the reader is treated to some suspenseful intrigue, but the plot is soon overcome by Pierre’s internal philosophical dialogue, which reads like a series of essays espousing Zola’s views on the church.

The book’s saving grace is that Zola actually has some interesting ideas on the subject. Nevertheless, it takes a particular type of reader to appreciate the Three Cities trilogy. On the one hand, you must have some interest in the history and philosophy of religion. On the other hand, Zola’s perspective is ultimately anti-religious, and will appeal mostly to non-believers. For those willing to walk that tightrope, don’t dive into Rome unless you’ve already tackled Lourdes and found it to your liking.
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Prelude to a Million Years and Song Without Words by Lynd Ward

Two brief, beautiful works by the master of wordless books
Lynd Ward was an artist and book illustrator who is indisputably the American master of the woodcut novel. By combining wood engravings into sequential narratives, he created wordless literary masterpieces—most notably the novels God’s Man, Madman’s Drum, and Wild Pilgrimage—which were influential precursors to today's graphic novels. The two pieces contained in this 2010 edition from Dover Publications, Prelude to a Million Years and Song Without Words, could be considered graphic short stories. The former, originally published in 1933, is comprised of thirty images, and the latter, from 1936, of twenty-one. Though these brief works are less monumental achievements than his lengthier novels, the shorter format proves to have been somewhat liberating for Ward. In these two works he seems less beholden to narrative conventions than usual, and more willing to experiment with abstract, symbolic imagery.

Of the two pieces included here, Prelude to a Million Years has the more concrete narrative structure. It tells the story of an artist who worships beauty, yet nonetheless must deal with the ugly reality of the world in which he lives. When not engaged in the act of artistic creation, he navigates a bleak cityscape, bearing witness to domestic violence, labor unrest, and the rampant jingoism preceding the Second World War. Song Without Words illustrates the fears of an expectant mother as she contemplates giving birth to her child in a world threatened by the spectres of Fascism, Nazism, and imminent war. This piece has less of a straightforward linear narrative than one usually finds in Ward’s wordless novels. It reads more like a portfolio of trippy, dreamlike visions, often employing surrealistic imagery. It contains some of the most shocking and powerful images Ward ever created, some of which rival the creepiest creations of Salvador Dali.

The book features a very good introduction by David A. Beronä, a respected historian of woodcut novels. In addition to some brief interpretation of the works, Beronä offers interesting historical information about the creation and publication of the original editions. Unfortunately, this introduction is only four pages long and leaves the reader wanting more. Dover, a publisher known for their inexpensive reissues of classic works, is to be commended for bringing these works back to life, but the reproduction quality of the illustrations is merely adequate. The book is printed on a smooth matte-coated sheet which allows for the preservation of Ward’s intricate line work, but robs the illustrations of the rich blacks and tonal depth that would have resulted from a softer, uncoated sheet. True fans of Ward’s work should splurge on the Library of America’s two-volume hardcover edition of his complete woodcut novels. Overall the price would probably be cheaper than that of collecting all the individual Dover editions. Those not ready to make such a big commitment to Ward’s work, however, can’t really go wrong by buying this inexpensive edition. These beautiful and moving works are well worth the price.

Works in this collection

Prelude to a Million Years 

Song Without Words 

Left: Lynd Ward, from Prelude to a Million Years, 1933. Right: Lynd Ward, from Song Without Words, 1936.

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The House of Pride and Other Tales of Hawaii by Jack London

Six powerful tales of race, class, and leprosy
The House of Pride, first published in 1912, is a collection of six short stories by Jack London, all of which take place in Hawaii. London traveled to Hawaii on at least three occasions, and it became the predominant setting for the writings of the second half of his career. He loved the climate and the landscape of the islands, and was fascinated by Polynesian history and culture.

London also liked writing about Hawaii because the setting gave him an opportunity to explore his favorite themes of race and class. He saw Hawaii as the ultimate melting pot, a South Pacific crossroads where people from all over the world came to mix, mingle, and interbreed. The white colonization of the islands also created a class struggle between the wealthy white traders, industrialists, and missionaries and the disenfranchised natives which formed their workforce. In the title selection, “The House of Pride,” a wealthy son of missionaries is forced to deal with the newfound discovery that a half-breed he despises is actually his half brother. In “Aloha Oe,” a teenage girl from the mainland falls in love for the first time. When she remembers, however, that her Romeo is of one-quarter native blood, she realizes that they can never be together. “Chun Ah Chun” is the rags-to-riches story of a Chinese peasant who, through relentless industriousness, becomes one of the wealthiest men on the islands. He is unable to find suitable husbands for his dozen daughters, however, because the eligible bachelors of the islands are unwilling to marry the daughter of a Chinese man. London handles the racism of his time matter-of-factly, alternately lamenting and mocking the discriminatory social conventions. Although London has occasionally been guilty of racial insensitivity in his works (see his portrayal of South Sea islanders in The Red One or South Sea Tales, for example), this book is free of such prejudice. He had a genuine admiration and respect for the Hawaiian people, which is quite evident in these stories.

In addition to his obsession with race and class issues, for whatever reason, London was fascinated by leprosy. The disease was present among the Hawaiian population during London’s time. Infected persons were confined to the leper colony on Molokai, which London once visited. In his stories London displays contradictory motives toward leprosy, on the one hand striving to offer an enlightened and educated perspective on the disease, while on the other hand revelling in the depiction of its hideous effects. In “Good-Bye, Jack!,” two wealthy white men debate the virtues of the leper colony, but their detached attitudes are shaken when the disease hits close to home. “Koolau the Leper,” the best story in the book, takes place in the secluded Kalalau Valley on the island of Kauai, where the brave and defiant Koolau leads a band of lepers in rebellion against the police and army bent on capturing them and shipping them off to Molokai. In “The Sheriff of Kona,” another excellent story, the title character, whose job it is to apprehend lepers, begins to show signs of having contracted the disease himself. These three stories all contain profoundly moving moments, as the characters are confronted by the disease or threatened with lifelong confinement. In London’s skillful hands these life and death struggles are rendered as extremely gripping and poignant scenes.

Though I have often considered London’s South Sea stories to be inferior to his Klondike tales, these six strong pieces have proven me wrong. The House of Pride is an excellent collection, on a par with some of this master storyteller’s best work.

Stories in this collection

The House of Pride 

Koolau the Leper 

Good-Bye, Jack! 

Aloha Oe 

Chun Ah Chun 

The Sheriff of Kona 

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Arne: A Sketch of Norwegian Country Life by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

A meandering mix of melancholy and whimsy
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1903, and is considered by Norwegians to be one of their nation’s greatest authors. Arne is one of his earliest works, originally published in 1859. According to the translator’s preface, this novel was instrumental in the formation of a distinctly Norwegian national style of literature.

Arne begins with a surprisingly fantastical opening that features a conversation between talking trees. This serves merely as a prologue, however, and is not indicative of the novel as a whole. Though the subtitle, “A Sketch of Norwegian Country Life” leads the reader to believe they are in for a story of the quaint charms of peasant life, the novel starts out remarkably bleak. Arne is the name of a boy, born of an unwed mother and an alcoholic, philandering father. Tragic events early on, coupled with the tumultuous relationship of his parents, makes for a rough childhood for Arne.

An unlikely protagonist, Arne is a socially inept loner with a sensitive soul. He shuns contact with others, and is more at home alone in the woods. Besides managing his family farm, Arne is a writer of songs. The narrative is interspersed with lyrics, poetry, and folk tales. At times it feels like the sole purpose of the novel is to act as a venue for displaying these poems and fables, as if Bjørnson were more concerned with the poetry than with the primary narrative. The novel has a bit of a schizophrenic feeling. It can’t seem to make up its mind what it wants to be, or find a tone and stick with it. Early on, the story emphasizes the hardship of rural life. Later in the book, however, this gritty realism is betrayed when everything magically falls into place for Arne, without a whole lot of effort on his part. Arne sort of drifts through the book like a leaf on the sea, buffeted by this wave or that, before finally settling on a rock. There is some pleasantness in drifting along with him, but for the most part the reader is left wanting a little more gravity.

This is a short novel of about 150 pages, so it does not constitute a major investment of reading time. Arne is a good book, but not great. It delivers a contented satisfaction, but it won’t rock your world. For a truly moving and memorable look at Norwegian rural life, I would wholeheartedly recommend Knut Hamsun’s masterpiece Growth of the Soil.
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