Classic pulp-fiction tales for the 21st-century reader
Adventure Tales is an infrequent periodical published by Wildside Press that reprints forgotten fiction from classic pulp magazines of the early twentieth century. This first issue of the series collects eight short stories and one novella. The subject matter is divided fairly evenly between mystery/crime stories and tales of adventure in exotic locales, from the South Pacific to India to Africa and ocean-going vessels in between. Sprinkled amongst the stories are several poems also taken from the pulps, penned by authors as diverse as Robert E. Howard (of Conan fame) and George Sterling.
In addition to the fiction and poetry, editor John Gregory Betancourt contributes an introduction. This is followed by an essay on Edgar Rice Burroughs by Mike Resnick, and there is even a letters column. This issue also contains an enlightening interview with Hugh B. Cave, author of more than a thousand stories, which provides a really interesting glimpse into the life of a pulp-fiction writer. These nonfiction components are valuable in that they provide today’s reader with a helpful education in the history and lore of the pulp magazines.
Cave is the “featured author” of this first issue, and his pieces are clearly the best. In “The Man Who Couldn't Die,” a luckless drifter, sick with fever, is left for dead on a barren rock called Fortune Island. There he encounters four treasure hunters, who abuse him as if he were a common slave, yet fail to break him. It’s an excellent story, and Cave’s writing calls to mind some of Jack London’s best tales. One more offering from Cave, also set in the South Pacific, is “Island Feud,” which details the confrontation between a young, idealistic doctor and an unethical boat captain. Another fine selection, “Rats Ashore” by James C. Young, may best be described as nautical horror. The captain and first mate of a ship departing South America begin to wonder where all the customary rats have gone. Although the story gives the answer away a little too quickly, once it gets rolling it offers all the suspense and fun of a classic B movie. Renowned pulp veterans H. Bedford-Jones, Harold Lamb, and Henry de Vere Stacpoole are also represented by good contributions.
The weakest stories in the book are two mysteries, “The Evil Eye” by Vincent Starrett, featuring his Chicago detective Jimmie Lavender, and “‘Watson!’” by Captain A.E. Dingle. The latter tells of two yachting playboys who fancy themselves sleuths along the lines of Holmes and Watson, but the storytelling in no way compares to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Faring better in the crime category is the novella “The Spider Strain” by Johnston McCulley, which takes up over a quarter of the volume. Though McCulley is best known as the creator of Zorro, this story features one of his other popular recurring characters, The Spider, a criminal supergenius who, despite being confined to a wheelchair, oversees a complex network of organized crime.
With the exception of “The Man Who Couldn't Die,” I wouldn’t say I was blown away by any of these stories, but they are almost all good solid examples of pulp storytelling. These well-selected pieces, coupled with the editorial content, really give the reader of today a chance to experience what it must have felt like to browse a newsstand during the golden age of the pulps. As of the time of posting this review, Wildside Press has published six installments of Adventure Tales. After enjoying issue one, I am looking forward to exploring this series further.
Stories in this collection:
Skulls by H. Bedford-Jones
Under the Flame Trees by Henry de Vere Stacpoole
Rats Ashore by Charles C. Young
The Evil Eye by Vincent Starrett
“Watson!” by Captain A. E. Dingle
The Make-Weight by Harold Lamb
Island Feud by Hugh B. Cave
The Man Who Couldn’t Die by Hugh B. Cave
The Spider Strain by Johnston McCulley
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A glimpse into the mind of a troubled genius
Because Jack London led such a fascinating life, any autobiographical information he left behind is priceless. Luckily, we have this excellent book, the closest thing he ever wrote to an actual autobiography. John Barleycorn is an unconventional memoir centered around London’s relationship with alcohol, from his first experience with a bucket of beer at the age of 5 to the serial downing of cocktails in his late thirties. Written on the eve of prohibition, London speaks out about the deleterious effects of alcohol in hopes of saving others from an affliction which ultimately led to his death three years later.
Despite the serious message, this memoir is anything but preachy or depressing. Throughout the first half of the book, the reader finds himself wondering why London chose to write about alcohol at all, since he’s primarily telling a series of adventure tales that just happen to involve drinking. By spinning yarns of his days as an oyster pirate in San Francisco Bay, his time spent tramping across the U.S., and his various sailing trips to far points of the globe, London gradually builds his case that for most human beings the need for alcohol is not a biological but a mental need, continually reinforced by alcohol’s ubiquitous use as a social lubricant.
In the latter half of the book, however, London’s drinking becomes more than just social, and despite his frequent assertions to the contrary, we see him spiraling downward into dependency. Alcohol is not merely a topic of the book but a character, anthropomorphized into the figure of John Barleycorn, a trickster henchman of the grim reaper who cons his victims into succumbing to his sweet embrace. London gives us a taste of the “White Logic”—the thought process of the alcoholic—in which John Barleycorn strips away the illusions of the drinker and reveals to him the pointlessness and insignificance of man’s existence in the face of the inevitability of death.
London writes about alcoholism and mental illness with eloquence and candor. His style somehow manages to combine the detachment of a scientist with the intimacy of a dear friend. John Barleycorn is an invaluable document of London’s life, a vivid and moving study of human psychology, and an urgent call to arms against a formidable foe.
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The wit, the wisdom, the wonder of Neil
I consider myself a fan of Neil Young’s music, but not a fanatic. When this autobiography came out in 2012, I wasn’t eagerly anticipating it, and it was a Kindle Daily Deal that eventually convinced me to buy it. I am very glad I did, for Waging Heavy Peace really exceeded my expectations.
From the beginning, Young displays an obvious talent for engaging storytelling. He wrote this book without the help of a ghost writer, and at times it seems without the help of an editor. Abandoning any attempt at chronological order, he indiscriminately jumps around from past to present. While this can be disorienting and sometimes leads to redundancy, the benefit is you never know what’s coming in the next chapter. Young’s father was a popular Canadian newspaper columnist, and though this is Neil’s first book it is clear that the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. His writing is unpolished but articulate, with the casual, conversational style of a born blogger. The 68 chapters read like a series of emails from an old friend in response to the question, “What have you been up to for the last 50 years?”
Those expecting a conventional tell-all rock exposé will be disappointed. There’s not a whole lot of rock star gossip included here. Brief mentions are made of Bob and Bruce (Dylan and Springsteen) as old friends who have helped him out of a jam. There’s also some limited discussion of collaborators like Pearl Jam, Devo, and Linda Ronstadt. Mostly, however, he concentrates on his former bandmates Crosby, Stills, Nash, and the guys from Buffalo Springfield and Crazy Horse. One aspect of being a musician that Young covers very well is the artistic and technical processes of recording albums and putting on live shows. Fans who are familiar with his musical catalog will enjoy the details he reveals about how he wrote certain songs, assembled various bands, or recorded particular albums. Yet Young provides a broader vision of the rock star as father figure to a sort of entrepreneurial mini-corporation. He discusses in detail the business aspects of music, and devotes a lot of stories to the large entourage of friends on his payroll: managers, producers, supporting musicians, doctors, lawyers, graphic designers, caregivers for his disabled son, and caretakers of his houses, cars, trains, and guitars. The end result is an unglamorized and unpretentious view of the rock star life.
Young is an avid collector of cars and model trains, both of which he gushes over with a great deal of affection. Often a chapter begins with a story about a car, than takes an unexpected turn into a moving tale of love, music, drug use, or health issues. He devotes a lot of ink to two of his current obsessions. Pono (formerly called PureTone) is a high-resolution format for digital music that Young is attempting to market as an alternative to the low-quality mp3. LincVolt is the project name for a giant 1959 Lincoln Continental that he has transformed into an electric car. At times these techie diversions distract too much from the music history, but they also reveal a lot about the author. Young’s nostalgic reverence for the past and his enthusiasm for cutting-edge technology combine in a singular way to form and inform his music and his life.
Waging Heavy Peace has its faults, but it ultimately succeeds because you really do get to know Neil Young. Of course, the more you like his music, the more you’ll enjoy the book. I liked this book so much that I actually rationed chapters to make it last longer. I hope Neil’s still got a few more books left in him, because I am eagerly awaiting the next one.
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Not quite a swashbuckler, but still a good read
The Corsican Brothers, a short novel by Alexandre Dumas, was originally published in 1844. The narrator of the story is Dumas himself, or at least a famous Parisian author named Alexandre. Visiting the island of Corsica as a tourist in the Spring of 1841, the writer seeks to experience the rustic local color of France’s most remote province. In the small mountain village of Sullacaro, he decides to take advantage of some of the famous Corsican hospitality and requests lodging in the home of a local family. He is welcomed with open arms by the owner of the house, the widow Madame de Franchi, and her son Lucien, a dashing young example of a Corsican country gentleman. The author soon learns that Lucien has a twin brother, Louis, who is a lawyer in Paris. Though the de Franchi brothers are almost identical in appearance, they could not be more different in their lifestyles, habits, and dispositions. The two were in fact born conjoined twins, separated surgically in infancy, and they share an uncommon bond with one another despite the physical distance which separates them.
The first half of the book is spent with Lucien in Corsica, where the author witnesses the unique Corsican custom of the vendetta—a blood feud between families which can be declared over matters as trifling as a dispute over a chicken, yet may result in dozens of murders being committed between the families in question over the course of many generations. The second half of the book is spent with Louis in Paris. Here the author becomes involved in the more civilized pursuits of operas, salons, mistresses, and duels. The latter pastime is explored in great depth, as the reader becomes involved in the complete process of a duel, from the choosing of the seconds to the selection of weapons to the delivery of the fatal bullet.
Those expecting the swashbuckling fare of The Three Musketeers may be disappointed by The Corsican Brothers. Though several movie adaptations have been made from this story, often featuring the clashing of swords, this is hardly an adventure novel. Atypical of Dumas’s work, its leisurely pace and first-person conversational tone remind one of the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. As is often the case in Conan Doyle’s novels, secrets are revealed slowly over time, action scenes are few and far between, and there is a hint of the supernatural in the proceedings. In this case the reader can see the ending coming a mile away, yet it’s not so much predictable as it is simply inevitable.
Though it may not offer up all the thrills that Dumas is famous for, The Corsican Brothers nevertheless does not fail to satisfy. It may be short on physical action, but it contains enough romance and intrigue to insure there’s no lack of psychological suspense. The well-crafted story, inviting atmosphere, and camaraderie among the characters provides for a pleasant and amusing read. It is a brief work, composed of twenty short chapters, five or six of which can be easily read in one sitting. Due to some of its dark undertones, I wouldn’t call it light reading, but Dumas didn’t attempt to make it particularly deep or meaningful either. It may not be a monumental classic along the lines of The Count of Monte Cristo, but The Corsican Brothers is definitely an entertaining read and a few fun hours well spent.
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Takes forever to get where it’s going
The Mystery of Cloomber is one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s first novels. Though it was not published until 1889, after he had achieved some fame with his first Sherlock Holmes book, this novel was actually written a few years prior to the debut of the famous detective. In this early work one can see the promise of things to come in Conan Doyle’s illustrious career, but it does not stand out among his oeuvre as an exceptional piece of work.
As the title indicates, this is a mystery novel, but unlike the Holmes stories this tale has a rather Gothic feel, complete with supernatural occurrences. The book is narrated by John Fothergill West, a young man who moves with his family from the city of Edinburgh to the country estate of Branksome, a remote outpost on the desolate moors of Scotland. Soon after their arrival, the West family gets some new neighbors when General Heatherstone and his family move into the long-vacant Cloomber Hall, about a mile from Branksome. The General’s behavior, however, is anything but neighborly. He shuts himself and his family up in the tower of Cloomber and refuses to socialize. West eventually learns that the family has some deep, dark secret, and General Heatherstone lives in fear of an inevitable and impending doom. What terrible secret could this mysterious man be hiding?
For most of the book, West’s investigative strategy for solving the mystery consists of pleading with members of the Heatherstone family to reveal their secret, which they adamantly refuse. The mystery seems to be related to the General’s military service in the Afghan War, but Conan Doyle does a poor job of doling out clues. Rather than revealing just enough information to keep the reader in suspense, Conan Doyle gives away only enough to engender boredom. Nothing much happens in the book until chapter 11, at which point it does become more interesting as it ventures into the realm of Eastern mysticism.
Though the idea behind the story is quite good, the execution is disappointing. Conan Doyle’s talent for crafting vivid narration and spirited dialogue are definitely on display here, but the book sorely lacks in its plotting. It becomes clear early on that the author is going to make the reader wait until the second last chapter to reveal General Heatherstone’s wartime back story and then close with an epilogue. All the prior chapters are just filler you have to wade through to get to the meat of the matter. One sees a similar structure in the early Holmes novels as well, but to a less obvious extent. Conan Doyle quickly improved and made great leaps and bounds in the advancement of the mystery genre. Unfortunately, The Mystery of Cloomber is an embryonic stage in that development, and feels clumsy in comparison to the master’s later, greater works. Fans of the Holmes mysteries or Conan Doyle’s writing in general will not hate this book, but it does inspire ambivalence.
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An excellent biography and retrospective of the Da Vinci of comics
It’s hard to imagine a better book on Jack Kirby than this 2008 retrospective by Mark Evanier. Part biography, part coffee-table portfolio of the master’s art, Kirby: King of Comics succeeds immensely on both levels. Kirby is famous primarily for his revolutionary work at Marvel Comics, in particular his creation or co-creation of heroes like the Fantastic Four, the Incredible Hulk, Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, and the X-Men, among many others. While this book gives these golden years their due, Evanier wisely and judiciously takes an in-depth look at Kirby’s entire career, treating each period fairly and giving all his myriad creations their due, from his Golden Age work in westerns, romance, and horror comics; to his partnership with Joe Simon in creating some of the earliest superheroes; to his legendary work at Marvel; his bizarrely fascinating sci-fi tales for DC; his later work in animation; and odds and ends for minor publishers along the way. The result is an intimate glimpse into the mind and the profession of a man who was creativity personified. On the one hand he was a workhorse capable of cranking out thousands of pages at an alarming rate. On the other hand he was a perfectionist who upheld the highest standards for jobs others might have considered hack work, and who pushed the envelope of his medium to take it to places others couldn’t have imagined it would go.
There is an undercurrent of tragedy to Kirby’s story. While he was a brilliant artist, he was a lousy businessman. Despite being at the top of his craft, he spent most of his life struggling to make ends meet. He was exploited and abused by many of the publishers who employed him, and never given due recognition for his creations, particularly at Marvel. Evanier is clearly on Kirby’s side when it comes to discussions of his various legal disputes. He doesn’t shy away, however, from pointing out when Kirby made a stupid business decision or even when he made a bad comic. Evanier tries to be objective and impartial when detailing the raw deals that Kirby was subjected to. He never really goes after Marvel Comics’ celebrity ringleader Stan Lee, for example, yet he never really tells Stan’s side of the story either. I suspect this is due not to bias on Evanier’s part, but rather to the fact that Stan the Man probably wouldn’t talk to him about it. Evanier once worked as an assistant to Kirby and shared a personal friendship with the man, which isn’t really made clear until the book’s Afterword. At times Evanier’s tone can be a bit casual, as if he can’t make up his mind whether he’s writing a definitive biography or just a personal memoir. Overall, however, the biography takes precedence over the personal reflections.
The collection of art here is absolutely fabulous, and the variety is astounding. As mentioned before, the book covers all aspects and subject matter of Kirby’s career. The art selected also represents different stages in the production process. Included are pencil drawings, inked pages, scans of original art showing paste-ups and deletions, and full-color printed comic book pages. The selections take the various forms of lettered panels, wordless presentation drawings, animation storyboards, or entire short stories. In all cases, every piece of art in the book is beautifully reproduced in brilliant color and clarity. This book is a must-have for any Kirby fan or anyone who appreciates the history of comic art. It’s also a perfect memorial to a genius who never got his due. With this book, there can be no doubt that Kirby was indeed the King of Comics.
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A dreary dialogue between romance and reason
The Kempton-Wace Letters, originally published in 1903, is an epistolary novel, meaning it is written entirely in the form of letters between fictional persons. The book is a collaborative work by Jack London and Anna Strunsky, who each write in the guise of one of the two titular characters. Strunsky takes the part of Dane Kempton, an elder poet and man of letters residing in London. The words of Herbert Wace, a young sociologist in Berkeley, California, are penned by Jack London. When Wace informs his mentor that he is going to be married, Kempton expresses dismay that the young man has not waxed more rhapsodically over the merits of his future wife. Kempton feels that marriage should be founded on an all-consuming romantic fervor, while Wace holds the more practical view that marriage should only be undertaken with a well-chosen, compatible mate who will make a good life companion and mother for his children. The book consists of the dialogue between these two gentlemen, Kempton championing romantic love while Wace advocates the importance of reason in forming a successful relationship. Their debate could easily be summed up in a few paragraphs, but London and Strunsky stretch the conversation out to book length for the sole purpose of indulging themselves in flowery language and literary allusion. This exercise in pointless verbosity results in a book only a hundred-year-old poet could love.
Habitual readers of London will recognize some of the familiar Darwinian themes that often show up in his works. Some of his more scientific passages, in which Wace explains love as the end result of millions of years of behavioral evolution, are really quite well-argued. He takes his rampant rationalism too far, however, when he suggests concepts that come uncomfortably close to eugenics, like “when we [mankind] come scientifically to breed the human.” Though at times London’s letters contain a kernel of scientific insight, the contributions of Strunsky are almost unintelligible. Kempton’s arguments for romantic love could charitably be called philosophical, but for the most part are merely sentimental. Kempton responds to Wace’s evolutionary theories with poetic paeans to the love-muse. The two aren’t even speaking the same language, resulting in bewilderment and boredom for the reader.
The two correspondents spend so much time referencing philosophers and poets that only a few fuzzy details are given regarding their personal lives, which makes it even more difficult to care about them or what they have to say. Kempton is described as a father figure to Wace, a former friend of his parents, and possibly his former professor. Wace has a sister, Barbara, who apparently lives in London with Kempton. She is married to a man named Earl, who is so briefly mentioned it’s as if the reader is expected to have prior knowledge of his existence. It’s frustrating for the reader to try to ascertain the ambiguous relationships between the characters based on the sparse, tiny crumbs of information occasionally tossed out by the authors.
In real life, London was in love with Strunsky and proposed marriage to her, though she turned him down. Whether or not a marital collaboration between the two would have been successful is debatable, but the book they coauthored can definitely be declared a failure. Even the most enthusiastic followers of London and his literature will find no pleasure in this tedious book.
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